Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (6 page)

Still a little muddled, Euphemia was about to tell him she was
not acquainted with a Mrs. Henderson when the woman answered, "Because
she is preparing bandages and medical supplies and heating water."

"Good God! One might suppose I have not a maid or lackey left!"

"They are—"

"Never mind." He started up the stairs, paused, and,
half-turning, drawled, "Is Colley here yet?"

For the first time, Euphemia had a clear view of the lady who
followed them. Of middle age and with black, neatly banded hair under a
beautiful lace cap, she wore a mulberry wool gown trimmed with black
velvet. She was excessively thin, the skin of the fine-boned face
having an almost stretched look. Her eyes were dark and lustrous, but
just now filled with resentment, as she looked at the man above her and
said with a defiant lift of her chin, "He is expected."

"So is the Messiah," he snorted and continued on his way.

Euphemia fixed him with her most daunting frown. "I do not
wish to be laid down upon a bed. I wish to see my brother and Kent. Are
they all right?"

"Your brother is being carried here." Mr. Garret paused again
on the curve of the stairs and leaned against the railing for an
instant. "Gad, you are no lightweight, ma'am!"

Ignoring this unkind observation, she gasped, "Carried? He is
not—"

"Knocked out of time. Nothing worse than that shoulder, I
think, so do not fret. But he insisted upon remaining staunchly beside
you until he folded up like a dropped marionette." The grim smile he
flashed at her held none of the warmth or kindness she had found in it
at the landslide and, with a sudden chill of apprehension, she said, "I
have not… introduced myself. I am—"

"I know who you are. And now you've exactly the same look as
your bacon-brained brother."

"My brother, sir," frowned Euphemia, as he again strode
upward, "is—"

"Is quite convinced I have carried you here so as to lock you
in the nearest bedchamber and rape you."

She gave a gasp and, hearing a shocked cry ring out from
below, knew at last who carried her. "You…" she stammered, filled with
an illogical sense of crushing disappointment, "you are—"

"Garret Thorndyke Hawkhurst," he announced, his chin lifting
and the thin nostrils flaring a little. He glanced down when she made
no comment, his heavy lids drooping over the grey eyes in an expression
of mocking hauteur she was soon to identify with him. "What—ain't you
going to swoon?"

"Miss Buchanan," intervened the lady he had referred to as
"Aunt Carlotta."

"I most humbly apologize for my nephew's unforgivable
language. His sense of humour is atrocious!"

He uttered a subdued grunt, and at that moment they reached
the first floor. A door flew open, and a man called, "In here, sir. We
have all in readiness."

Hawkhurst strode into a magnificent bedchamber, boasting a
great luxurious bed with the silken sheets turned down and rich
curtains tied back at the posts. He bent to set his burden very gently
on the bed, but for an instant seemed to lose his balance, and braced
himself with one hand on the velvet coverlet.

Euphemia realized belatedly that he looked pale and, glancing
from that scratched hand to the bloodied forehead, said, "I fear you
were hurt when the rope dropped so fast."

He made no response, still leaning over her, his eyes fixed on
her face in a searching intensity. She thought, This man murdered his
wife and child and threw acid in the face of his friend… And
instinctively, recoiled. At once his expression changed, his lip
curled, and the scorn returned to his eyes, full measure.

"Are you all right, Mr. Garret?" An impressive gentleman with
thinning brown hair and a thickening waistline, presumably the butler,
took Hawkhurst's arm and peered at him anxiously.

"Of course, I am all right." He straightened. "Have they
brought Buchanan in yet? Or the child?"

His aunt, who was instructing one maid to pour hot water into
the bathtub before the fire, and another to "bring the posset now,"
spun around and stared in horror. "A
child"
? In
this
house?"

The faintest flush appeared on Hawkhurst's cheeks.
"Unfortunately. But we'll see our guests on their way at first light."
A gleam lit his eyes, and he added, "Sooner, does Buchanan have his
way."

"They are both here, sir," the butler murmured. "Mrs.
Henderson is with the little boy."

Euphemia restrained the comely maid who bent to speak to her,
and asked anxiously, "Is my brother badly hurt?"

The butler darted a look at his master. "My staff have their
limitations, ma'am," drawled that gentleman. "Among 'em, my butler is
not a physician. But we've a splendid fellow in Down Buttery. He will
be far better equipped to answer your questions." He lifted one
autocratic hand as her lips parted, and went on, his boredom very
apparent, "Meanwhile, whatever else I may be, I have not lately
murdered the child of a guest. So by all means set your mind at rest
and allow my servants to restore you." He bowed, started away, then
turned back again, frowning, "Devil take me, I've lived in this
wilderness too long! My aunt, Lady Carlotta Bryce, Miss Euphemia
Buchanan." And he added with an amused grin, "Colonel Sir Army Buck's
daughter."

Surprised both by his knowledge of Armstrong Buchanan's
nickname and by Lady Bryce's obvious astonishment, Euphemia shook the
dainty hand that was extended and, as Hawkhurst prepared to leave,
called, "One moment, if you please, sir."

He swung back, one dark brow lifting in haughty condescension.

"Whatever else I may be," she said gravely, "I've not lately
neglected to thank a very brave gentleman who saved my life, and nigh
lost his own, rescuing my page."

She saw surprise come into his eyes and knew he had assumed
Kent to be a relation. Then he grinned and bowed theatrically.

"Mia! Are you all right?" Buchanan stood clinging to the
doorjamb, a dramatic figure with his white, bloodstreaked face and eyes
desperate with fear as they flashed from Euphemia to their reluctant
host.

" 'Course she ain't," mocked Hawkhurst rudely. "In
my
lair? Come now, Buchanan, you know better than that!"

"Most ridiculous damned-nonsense I ever heard of!" The stocky,
grey-haired physician who had been peremptorily summoned from Down
Buttery glared at Sir Simon, sprawled on a blue and white striped sofa
in this elegant small salon, and demanded, "Why in the devil could you
not be laid down upon a bed like any normal, rational gentleman?"

It was the last straw. Frustrated because he had been forced
to permit Mia being carried into this evil house, fretted by the
knowledge that his hurt was exacerbated and his recovery thereby
further delayed, humiliated by the awareness that he was under
considerable obligation to a man he despised, and in a good deal of
pain, Buchanan was in a foul temper and answered with a rudeness
normally foreign to him. "Because no 'normal, rational gentleman' would
be seen dead in this house, Dr. Archer! Besides which, my unwed sister
is in my charge, and were I to lie down upon a bed, I might be so
ill-advised as to fall asleep and thus leave her defenceless!"

Archer stiffened. His bushy eyebrows drew together, and the
deep-set brown eyes below them fairly shot sparks. He hauled over a
small table and slammed his leather bag onto it "Positively overset
with gratitude, ain't you?"

Buchanan reddened and, wishing he might retract his remarks,
said wearily, "I intend to properly thank Mr. Hawkhurst. I am aware I
stand indebted to the man."

"Charmingly said. Your manners, I presume, grow on one."
Archer flung open his bag.

"Pray do not put yourself to any great effort in my behalf,"
said Buchanan. "I mean to leave here just as soon as my sister is
recovered."

The shirt beneath the injured man's cravat was wet and crimson
and, unbuttoning it, the doctor smiled grimly. "Do you? I wish I may
see it."

"And I wish I may see the last of you, sir!" Buchanan wrenched
himself upward, sank his teeth into his underlip, and sagged back again.

Archer heard the faint gasp and saw sweat start on the pallid
brow. The boy was in no state to be rational, and, irritated for having
allowed himself to become so angry, he at once became angrier, and
roared, "Hawk! Parsley! Mrs.
Hen
… der-son… !" No
response being forthcoming, he returned his attention to his unhappy
patient and growled, "So you intend to repay your rescuer by forcing me
to work on you in here, and likely ruin his pretty sofa."

"To the… contrary, sir. I have not the least desire to… impose
upon your time," quoth Buchanan, indomitable but very white of lip.
"All I ask is that you… tie it up and let me reimburse you… and be on
my way."

Archer ignored him and cut away the sodden dressing, and after
a brief but unpleasant interval announced that a bone chip was coming
out. "Just as well. Ain't healing properly. What you get when you
consult those puffed-up fools in London. Sooner go to a native
witchdoctor! Have to open it."

Buchanan's feeble protestations were brushed aside. Another
series of roars for assistance made him jump, and the physician marched
to tug fruitlessly on the bellrope, then returned, muttering, "Whole
blasted army of servants hovering about 'til you need one! Weather's
awful. You want to go by yourself, that's your bread and butter. But
the child certainly cannot travel."

"Kent? Was he hurt then? I had thought—"

'That he would be dead were it not for your despised host? Had
you? Hmnnn. I'd not have guessed it." Archer met the blaze of those
blue eyes levelly, then rummaged in his bag and brought forth a small
but vicious-looking knife and several bottles.

Incensed beyond endurance, Buchanan hauled himself upward.
Archer pushed him back and observed with a marked lack of sympathy that
he'd thought, "our gallant military heroes feared nothing."

"Not an ill-mannered… country doctor at all… events!" flared
Buchanan.

"I am most dreadfully sorry Dr. Hal," called a soft voice from
the doorway. "But I fear we are rather short of maids this afternoon.
They are gone to help decorate the Church, you see, and the two we have
left are preparing guest rooms and assisting Mrs. Henderson. Hawk has
taken most of the men to help with his team and see if they can clear
the road."

"Stephanie? Come in, my dear." The doctor's gruff bark was
suddenly gentled, and he bent lower to hiss at the still fuming
Buchanan. "Hawkhurst's sister, and she loves him, so I'll thank you to
keep a civil tongue in your head!" He ignored the spluttering wrath
this adjuration provoked, laid a pad over the wound, and turned to
smile at the girl who moved towards them. "Will you be so kind,
Stephie, as to give me your assistance here? Oh, for God's sake, man!
Miss Hawkhurst's seen a male chest before! She's a splendid nurse.
Helped me at the village last winter when the wind took the roof off
the Parish Hall and two of the walls collapsed. I'll need a glass of
water too, m'dear. A fine set-to that was, with better than thirty men,
women, and children hurt, ladies fainting in all directions, and our
brave girl here, working like a da—er, like a ministering angel. Some
hot water now if you please. Oh, by the bye, Miss Hawkhurst, this
gallant is Lieutenant Sir Simon Buchanan, come home with a mangled
shoulder from that fool Wellington's caperings. Well, do not gobble,
sir! You have just been introduced to a lady."

His ferocious glare challenged the seething Buchanan, who
somehow overcame his fury at this maligning of the superb Wellington
and uttered a polite, if uneven, response. Beyond his first horrified
glance, he had tried not to look at the female who quietly assisted the
volatile doctor in laying out the horrendous articles of torture with
which he was all too well acquainted. During Archer's monologue,
however, he had slanted a shy glance at her and discovered a slight,
young woman of average height, with light-brown hair fashioned into fat
braided coils behind her ears. Her fair complexion was just now rather
pink, doubtless from maidenly embarrassment, but he thought clinically
that she had little to recommend her in the way of looks, seeming
utterly colourless in her plain, dove-grey gown. Her hands, however,
were slender and beautifully shaped, with long tapering fingers, and
she moved them with smooth grace as she pursued her tasks. He was
watching them when she glanced up. Her hazel eyes were large and
well-opened, holding a calm, gentle expression, but encountering his,
the pale lashes fluttered down at once, and the colour in her cheeks
deepened.

Archer, meanwhile, had finished his preparations and was
stripping off his jacket. "You'd best find an old sheet, Stephie," he
said. "Hawk will take a dim view of my spoiling his sofa, and Sir
Lancelot here refuses a bed in this nefarious pile."

Miss Hawkhurst slanted a faintly reproachful glance at
Buchanan's scarlet countenance, and left them, walking with smooth,
unaffected gait, to the door.

"B-by God!" Buchanan burst out when she was gone. "
Had
you to say that?"

Measuring pale liquid into a glass, Archer muttered, "She is a
gracious girl, and I sought to spare her the mortification of having an
offer of hospitality flung back in her teeth."

"Flung… back— Now, damn your eyes, sir! What d'ye take me for?"

Archer thrust the glass at him. "I take you, sir, for a
self-righteous, stubborn young ass. But—I could be wrong. Drink it all
down."

Buchanan forgot his rage as he peered uneasily into the glass.
"What is it—laudanum?"

"Would you believe me did I tell you it was?" Archer's lip
curled. He bent closer and hissed dramatically. "It is really oil of
vitriol! We also arrange landslides every Tuesday morning and have a
secret and well-filled cemetery in the basement!"