Smuggler's Lady (21 page)

“Dear God!” he muttered fiercely, lifting the soaked, shivering little body into his arms. “Damnation, Meredith! You are half-drowned!”

“I had to swim.” She sounded a little stronger. “To break the trail, you understand.”

“I understand nothing!” He strode with her into the house, feeling the stickiness of blood beneath his hand.

“What's amiss, Colonel?” Walter appeared at the head of the stairs, tucking his shirt into his britches.

“Check there's no blood leading to the door, Walter, then lock and bolt it. We'll be having visitors soon. They must find the house asleep,” Rutherford commanded with clear-cut decision.

The soldier, as always, obeyed his commander's orders without question. The body in the colonel's arms was quite unrecognizable to Walter, and the instructions unfathomable, but clearly his lordship had his reasons.

Damian carried Merrie to his own chamber, kicking the door shut behind him. “How long do we have?” he asked, depositing his bundle on the wooden window seat where water, mud, and blood could be easily removed.

“Five, maybe ten, minutes,” she whispered clutching her thigh.

“I can do little for you in that time,” Rutherford gritted, pulling a towel from the polished wooden rail beneath the dresser. “Move your hand.” He bound the towel tightly around her bloody thigh. “That will help to staunch the blood for the moment. We will deal with it properly anon.” He tugged off her boots, dragged three blankets from the bed, and swaddled her shivering frame before putting her on the bed, piling the remaining covers over her. “It's to be hoped the damp of your clothes will not seep through those blankets and soak the mattress. I've no desire to sleep in a wet bed,” he remarked as if such a pragmatic consideration were all important in this matter of life and death. That it was a matter of such grave import, neither of them were in any doubt. If Merrie were discovered, there would be no alibi for her condition, and Lord Rutherford would stand convicted of harboring a fugitive from the law.

He blew out the tapers on the mantel and went to the window, listening. The sounds were faint but unmistakably drawing closer. Mallory House was now dark and quiet, however. Walter had returned to his own room, and Damian hastily took off his robe that bore streaks of mud and blood amidst the wet patches where he had held Merrie against him. Bundling up the garment, he tossed it to the back of the wardrobe, commenting with a resigned sigh that it had always been one of his favorite robes and, he assumed, that it was now quite ruined.

Meredith said nothing, but her shivering had ceased, and the tightness of the towel bandage around her wound was strangely comforting as if it held back the pumping blood. Damian's prosaic concerns about damp mattresses and ruined dressing gowns had the effect of returning perspective to the nightmare of the last hour. More than anything, with the need to make decisions removed, she felt safe. There was little reason to do so except that she trusted this man, who had taken command without once faltering in his stride, to pull the irons out of this fire of her stoking.

The voices were now close by. To Meredith they sounded like the baying of hounds. There was a grim excitement about them. “Damian,” she whispered as a stab of cold fear shot through her. “I am certain I wounded the lieutenant. I do not know how badly, but I drew blood. They will be all the more determined ...”

“Doubtless,” he returned evenly, shrugging into another dressing gown. “It is to be hoped you stopped short of murder. I've no desire to swing beside you.”

“It finishes here,” a voice called from the lawn. “He's around here somewhere. He's been bleeding like a stuck pig; 'tis not far he'll get.”

“What the devil is going on?” Damian bellowed suddenly through the open window. “Is a man to be granted no peace in his own house?”

“Lord Rutherford?” It was the lieutenant in strong voice, and Meredith heaved a sigh of relief. His wound was clearly not even disabling. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I need to search your property.”

“What?” his lordship exclaimed. “What the deuce are you talking about, man?”

The lieutenant peered up at the window. He could hardly blame Lord Rutherford for his irascibility at being hauled from his bed at this ungodly hour, but the forces of law and order had to be served. “Could I have speech with you, m'lord?”

“I was under the impression you were,” said his lordship irritably.

Meredith, to her amazement, heard herself give a choked giggle. An imperative gesture from Rutherford silenced her.

“Would you come down, sir?” the lieutenant requested, struggling to hide his impatience. While he bandied words with Lord Rutherford, the smuggler could be increasing the distance between them, but he had no warrant to search the property and could not do so without permission. If he offended his lordship, it would not be granted, and, by the time they'd woken a justice and obtained the necessary authorization, the fugitive would either have bled to death or holed up somewhere.

“Just a minute,” Rutherford said grudgingly. Shutting the casement, he left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

“You need me, Colonel?” Walter reappeared.

“Not for the moment. I shall when I have rid us of our visitors.” Rutherford strode to the door and for the second time that night drew back the bolts.

Lieutenant Oliver saw a sleepy, disheveled man, clearly just dragged from his bed, tying the girdle of a brocade dressing gown. “You've an explanation for this, I hope,” Rutherford demanded, peering blearily at the circle of faces behind the lieutenant.

“Smugglers, sir,” the soldier said briskly. “We surprised them on the beach, but they eluded us, all but one. He's sorely wounded, my lord, and we have followed his trail to that bush.” A hand gestured dramatically to the shrubbery.

“Then it's to be assumed this desperado is hidden beneath it.” Rutherford yawned. “Have you looked?”

The lieutenant ground his teeth. “There is no sign of him, my lord, but he could not have been more than five minutes in front of us. Bleeding as he is, he cannot make much speed. I would like your permission to search the grounds.”

“Have you a warrant?” Lord Rutherford covered his mouth to hide a second, prodigious yawn. “It is customary in these cases, is it not?”

“Yes, my lord,” the lieutenant said unhappily. “But in the circumstances, I was hoping ...”

“Oh, very well.” Rutherford cut him off with a careless gesture. “Go where you wish but have a care for my horse in the stables. He is of nervous disposition and no more fond than I of having his rest disturbed.”

Lieutenant Oliver hardly waited to express his gratitude before issuing sharp orders to his men. Rutherford watched through eyes carefully hooded to hide their sharpness. The soldier's tunic was ripped from arm to waist, and he wore his sash, bloodstained and twisted, around his midriff.

“You appear to be wounded, lieutenant.”

The soldier shrugged. “Just a graze, sir, but I'll have my revenge for it.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” his lordship murmured, turning within doors.

Upstairs, he changed into britches and shirt, remarking to the shrouded figure on the bed that he would later give her some instruction in the use of the small sword since merely pinking one's opponent did little but arouse ire and a desire for vengeance.

“It was a little difficult,” she said apologetically. “I could not take them all on single-handed, so could not tarry to employ proper science.”

“Excuses,” he declared, making for the door. “I've a mind to join the search for this desperate smuggler.”

Merrie lay alone, listening to the quiet. The closed casement muffled the sounds from outside, and the house was as silent as the grave. The earlier numbness in her leg had been replaced by a savage, fiery pain. But the pain was welcome; at least she knew she was still alive, still in possession of her leg. In spite of her wet clothes, she was now quite warm, so well wrapped was she beneath the nesting covers. There was nothing to be done but wait until the hue and cry took off again.

“Found anything, yet?” Rutherford inquired of the lieutenant with an expression of polite interest. The soldier's men appeared to be taking the barn apart.

“Only rats,” Oliver replied disgustedly. “He's here somewhere, my lord, I can feel it.”

“Well, you must leave no stone unturned,” said his lordship. “I do not want some wild and desperate creature on my land, but I am convinced that such a large and active force cannot help but prevail against one wounded smuggler.” His smile somehow did not allay the lieutenant's suspicions that he was in some way being made mock of. He marched angrily into the barn, bellowing at his men scurrying around amidst the hay bales.

The stables and outhouses yielded nothing. No further spots of blood were to be found, and the orchard and herb garden offered only their produce. “Perhaps he contrived to find a way into the house,” Rutherford suggested to the frustrated lieutenant.

“How could he have done so?” Oliver stared at his lordship, who shrugged easily.

“I have no idea, my dear fellow, but, since you remain convinced he is here somewhere and he is not to be found outside, it seems the only alternative.”

The soldier chewed his lip, “Through a scullery window, perhaps?”

“Most certainly,” concurred his lordship. “I suggest you take your search within doors.”

“You are most helpful, my lord.” The lieutenant, though, could not reject the unworthy suspicion that there was a catch in this unlooked-for cooperation.

“Far be it from me to impede the law,” Rutherford replied smoothly. “Besides, I'll sleep easier knowing there is no desperado, with a cutlass between his teeth, hiding beneath my bed.”

Looking at the speaker's powerful frame where the muscles rippled beneath the thin cambric shirt, Lieutenant Oliver could not take this statement seriously. However, at the repeat of the invitation, he called over a group of his men and followed Lord Rutherford into the house.

They were escorted solemnly from room to room on the ground floor; pantries and sculleries were examined, yet none revealed an open window. The lieutenant began to feel rather uncomfortable and ran his fingers around the inexplicably constricting neck of his tunic. The aristocratic owner of Mallory House appeared to be all consideration, opening doors, peering behind curtains, moving screens. There was nothing in his demeanor to indicate anything but a desire to be helpful. When he moved to the stairs, Oliver muttered that perhaps it wasn't necessary to disturb his lordship further.

“Nonsense, dear boy,” Rutherford expostulated. “Having come so far, it were foolish not to complete the task.” He preceded Oliver and his men up the stairs. “There'll be no need to disturb the servants. We would have heard from them by now, had there been an intruder in their quarters.”

“Yes, indeed, my lord,” the lieutenant made haste to agree and accorded the succession of bedrooms opened for his scrutiny only the barest glance.

Outside his own door, Lord Rutherford paused, turned the knob, opening the door a crack. “My chamber,” he said with a pleasant smile. “By all means feel free to inspect it although I suspect I would have noticed if—”

“Lawks-a-mercy, me lord! Don't let no one come in 'ere!” From behind the door interrupted the shrill accents of a village girl. Rutherford's lips tightened at this indication that Meredith had decided to take a totally unnecessary hand in the business.

The lieutenant coughed, shuffling his feet. His men tried with lamentable lack of success to hide their grins.

“Well, thank you very much, my lord. Sorry to have disturbed you.” Oliver turned back to the stairs, glaring at his smirking men.

Lord Rutherford, appearing not a whit discomposed, accompanied them to the front door, offering his condolences on the unsuccessful search and expressing his hopes for a happier outcome on the next occasion.

Upstairs, Merrie struggled free of her wrappings and sat on the edge of the bed. The towel around her thigh was stained red, but the stain appeared not to be spreading. She found her boots beneath the bed and was in the process of dragging them over her sodden stockings when the door opened and Rutherford appeared.

“What in the devil's name do you think you're doing?” He had been torn between amusement and annoyance at her unlooked-for intervention, but all amusement left him now.

“They have gone,” said Merrie through teeth clenched against pain and exhaustion. “They will not search further tonight. I can be back at Pendennis in an hour even if I must crawl—”

“Get back on that bed this instant! ” He pushed her backward onto the heap of discarded blankets, lifting her legs into a horizontal position once again. “Now, you will listen to me, my girl, because I am going to give you a warning that may not come amiss.” As she lay, for the moment silenced by this sudden harshness, he dipped a cloth into the ewer, took her face between his hands, and began to scrub it clean of the streaks of burnt cork.

“When you came here tonight asking for my help, you put the reins in my hands,” he went on with clipped determination. “I still hold those reins, and, while I continue to do so, ma'am, you will run as I choose.”

The meekness with which she received this uncompromising statement should have gratified his lordship, but instead it furnished him with some alarm. The face revealed under the blacking was milk white, the purple eyes huge and overbright.

There came a knock at the door. At Rutherford's invitation, Walter entered, bearing a jug of hot water, rolls of gauze and linen, and a box containing various salves and ointments.