Treasured Vows (13 page)

Jim was turning the team and coach on the road, a maneuver that caused the post chaise to sway and jerk. Mr. Morgan hissed slightly in pain, a response to the jarring his body received.

She reached up and placed her arms around him. “Lie back against me, Mr. Morgan.” He didn’t fight her but slowly slumped against her, his body rolling with the movement of the coach, Phadra closed her eyes for a second, sending a silent blessing to Jim for
moving them toward their destination with all possible haste.

At first she held her hands in the air as if afraid to touch him, but then she gingerly lowered her arms, feeling his body beneath her hands. She readjusted her cloak, tucking it closer around him. He didn’t move, even when she let her fingers touch his wet curls and push them back from his brow. She knew he needed to rest. The less he moved, the better.

His slow, drowsy voice startled her. “Did you realize that you used my Christian name, Miss Abbott?”

“I beg you pardon?”

“My name,” he said in a voice so low, she had to bend to catch the words. “You called me Grant.”

The news surprised Phadra until she realized she had shouted his name once when the fighting had been its heaviest and again later when he’d been wounded. At the time, it had seemed perfectly right and natural.

She sat back, one hand resting against his brow, another wrapped protectively around his shoulders. “So I did, Mr. Morgan,” she replied quietly, certain that he had lapsed into unconsciousness and could no longer hear her. “So I did.”

The barking of dogs signaled to her that they were at the inn. Jim yelled for help and then set the brake and ran up to the inn door, pounding on it madly. Soon Phadra heard the voice of the innkeeper. He threw open the coach door and took Mr. Morgan from her arms with the help of another servant.

Phadra followed behind them anxiously.

Inside the inn, the innkeeper had Mr. Morgan laid
out on the same trestle table he’d used to serve the coach passengers cheese and bread. Ordering Jim to hold the lamp high so he’d have enough light to see, he cut off the bandages with a good-sized knife. While his master probed the wound, Jim told the story of the mail coach guard’s duplicity and how Mr. Morgan had fought off four highwaymen.

Mr. Morgan came to his senses with a hiss when the innkeeper poked the wound. He insisted on sitting up. For a brief moment his silver-gray eyes, dazed with pain, met Phadra’s gaze.

The innkeeper looked over his shoulder and didn’t hide his look of disgust at seeing the “errant wife.” Phadra felt her cheeks flame.

“What is going on here, Mr. Allen?” the innkeeper’s wife called out. She came down the stairs in her mob-cap, dressing gown, and shawl.

“The lad, the one from earlier, has a pistol shot in him from a run-in with highwaymen.”

She gasped. “Never, you say!” She quickly came down the stair and crossed over to Mr. Morgan, pausing for a moment to give Phadra a disapproving stare.

“You can feel the ball?” Mr. Allen asked his patient.

Mr. Morgan nodded, sweat beading his forehead. “It must be near the bone. Otherwise it would have gone through.”

“Well, you’re lucky the blighter wasn’t a better shot,” Mr. Allen said.

“I would have been luckier if he hadn’t shot at all,” Mr. Morgan said dryly.

The innkeeper gave him a grave smile. “You still have your sense of humor. Keep it. We’ll have to cauterize
the wound after we get the ball out. It’s never good to take chances. Jim, go get my whisky. Mind you, not the good bottle but the rotgut. It cleans better and works faster,” he explained to Mr. Morgan. “When we get done, I’ll let you have a swig from the good bottle—not that you’ll be able to taste the difference at that point.”

Phadra didn’t understand what he meant, but Mr. Morgan nodded. Mrs. Allen brought a bowl over as well as a wicked-looking set of sharp tongs. Taking the bottle from Jim, her husband poured a good portion of the whiskey over the tongs and ordered Jim to build the fire a bit higher and place an iron rod in it. Mrs. Allen swirled a clean cloth through the whiskey in the bowl and made a pad of the cloth.

The innkeeper looked over his shoulder at Phadra. “Get over here, lass, and do your share. It will take every one of us to hold him down.”

“It’s not necessary to include her in this,” Mr. Morgan protested.

“I want to help,” Phadra said, coming to his side. Mrs. Allen looked down her nose at Phadra, obviously unwelcoming.

Mr. Allen held the bottle out to Mr. Morgan. “Better take a swig, lad. If the ball is lost in the flesh or touching the bone, you’ll go wild with pain. I’ll not be fighting you to get it out.”

“He doesn’t drink,” Phadra said, feeling a need to explain.

“He will now,” Mr. Allen answered. “We’ve nothing else for the pain.”

Mr. Morgan took a healthy drink. He rocked back, wheezing and sputtering.

“Aye, it’s raw stuff,” the innkeeper commiserated,
“but like I said, it works fast.” He began probing the wound with his fingers, and Mr. Morgan needed no further encouragement to drink the liquor.

“The ball ripped into you,” Mr. Allen said. “But once we fix you up, a big man like you will be up and about in no time.”

Mr. Morgan took another draw on the bottle. His gaze started to lose its keen edge, although the lines of pain were still etched plainly around the corners of his mouth. Phadra reached for his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. He clasped hers in response and tilted the bottle up once more.

Phadra tried to smile, but it was difficult. The sight of him acting with anything less than his usual steely control frightened her. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against her shoulder.

“You’re about ready, aren’t you, lad?” Mr. Allen asked. He didn’t wait for an answer but nodded to Jim and the other servant. They quietly moved him around on the table and stretched him out flat.

“The table’s cold,” Mr. Morgan complained before laying his cheek against it. He still held her hand.

Phadra looked up at Mr. Allen, who was in the act of removing the whiskey-cleaned tongs. “Is there something you want me to do?” she asked.

“No, lass. You’re doing the best thing you can for him by holding his hand. But mind you, in a second it will seem like the hardest job of all.” With those words, he didn’t waste another motion but plunged the pressed-together tongs into the wound and started searching for the ball.

Phadra knew at what moment Mr. Morgan felt the tongs, because his strong, long fingers almost crushed hers. The fingers of his other hand bent around the
edge of the table until the knuckles turned white. Mrs. Allen stood over him, using the whiskey-soaked cloth in her hand to wipe away the blood and keep the wound clean. At the first douse of whiskey into the wound, Mr. Morgan reached out with his free hand and wrapped it around the hand Phadra already held. Phadra squeezed back, offering him what little comfort she could.

They worked over him for several minutes more in the yellow lamplight. The servants held down his arms and legs. The pain was more than Grant had anticipated, even with the edge of it dulled by the whiskey coursing through his system. He could feel the ball hit bone when the tongs found it but missed grabbing it. The innkeeper swore and then pressed in again, determined to remove the lead.

Grant tasted his own blood as he bit down on his bottom lip, and the taste mingled with the smell of his fear and blood. Why hadn’t they given him a piece of leather or something for him to bite down on so that he didn’t unman himself and scream from the pain of it?

The only thing that saved him from losing control was Miss Abbott’s hands wrapped around his and the fear in her large blue eyes. They looked large and frightened, and her hair curled everywhere without a care for pins or convention.

He wanted to tell her that it would be all right, that he would recover. But as he opened his mouth to speak, pain shot through him as the red-hot poker gouged into the deepest part of the wound. His breath came out in a hiss, and his vision clouded.

She gripped his hands harder and laid her cool, smooth cheek against his forehead. Before his world
turned to black, he felt a wetness that could only be her tears, and he heard her soft, husky voice whispering over and over, “I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

“Has he passed out?” Mr. Allen asked.

Phadra nodded mutely.

“They always do when they feel the rod.” He set the heated rod he’d used to cleanse and cauterize the wound back on the brick before the hearth, lifted the whiskey bottle, and took a drink himself. “It’s never easy.”

Mrs. Allen set the bowl aside, poured some more whiskey on a clean pad of cloth, and placed it on the wound. She then started to wrap a bandage around his chest and back, with Jim and the other servant lifting Mr. Morgan to help her get the bandage around him.

“We’ll take him upstairs to one of the empty rooms and get him out of the rest of these wet clothes,” Mrs. Allen said while she worked. “He’s going to have fever shortly. He’s lost a good measure of blood. But he needs fever before he can get better. I’ve found that always to be the case, haven’t you, Mr. Allen?”

Her husband grunted his agreement and took another long pull on the whiskey bottle. The nails of his hands were stained with Mr. Morgan’s blood.

Mrs. Allen continued, her hands busy tying the bandage off into a tight knot, “Someone will have to keep bathing him so we can keep the fever under control.”

“I’ll do it,” Phadra answered. Mr. Morgan’s hands no longer clenched hers tightly but lay relaxed in her palms, his fingers slack.

Mrs. Allen let her eyes drift from Phadra’s face
down to where her hands held his. Her gaze met Phadra’s. “So,” she said softly, “have you decided to be a wife to him after all?”

Phadra rose slowly, her conviction firm. “Yes.”

M
rs. Allen gave a nod of approval. Phadra sighed inwardly with relief.

“Take the other candle and follow us,” the older woman ordered, lifting up the lantern from the table.

Mr. Allen and the servants hoisted Mr. Morgan up, none too gently, and followed her through the common room and down a back hallway. Phadra picked up the candle and hurried to follow. Almost out the door, she remembered her cloak—with the five hundred pounds. She retrieved it and practically had to run to catch up with them.

They’d already started up the narrow back staircase when Jim held them up for a moment so that he could shift his hold on Mr. Morgan’s thigh and stomach. Mr. Morgan moaned.

“You don’t think we’re hurting him?” Phadra asked anxiously.

“Poo!” Mrs. Allen said, opening the door to a room located near the top of the stairs. “A strong, healthy
man like him should recover with only a scar to remind him of this night. Though it’s too bad that we don’t have a bit of laudanum. He’ll have a restless night.” She held the door open for the men carrying him.

The room was small, with only enough space for the bed, a small chair, and a chest with a washbasin sitting on top. Mrs. Allen pulled down the covers, and the men dumped Mr. Morgan onto the mattress as if glad to be relieved of their load. Phadra waited for Jim and Mr. Allen, who muttered something in passing about needing his sleep, to leave the room before she entered.

“Toby,” Mrs. Allen said to the other young servant, “go fetch us a bucket of fresh water,” Before the lad ran to do her bidding, she added, “From the rain barrel, mind you.” She turned to Phadra. “It’ll be fresher that way, and cooler.”

Phadra’s attention was completely focused on the half-naked man who seemed to fill the bed. He lay face down on the pillow. The golden wash of lamplight highlighted the planes of his back and shoulders and the curve of his buttocks in his fashionably snug doeskin trousers. The bandage cut like a sash across his back and shoulder. His outstretched arms and large hands with long, tapered fingers—swordsman’s hands—hung over the sides.

“Are you all right?” Mrs. Allen asked, cocking her head and giving Phadra a hard stare.

“What?” Phadra came to her senses. “Yes, yes. Oh, yes,” she repeated, feeling foolish. She’d been ogling. The man lay half-dead on the bed because of her and, with God as her witness, she’d been staring at him like a Haymarket Theatre doxy! Her face flamed with color.

Mrs. Allen stepped forward and put the back of her palm against Phadra’s cheek. “You may be a little warm yourself.” She tilted Phadra’s chin up toward the lamp hanging on a peg on the wall. “We need to get you out of your wet clothes.”

“I’m fine,” Phadra protested.

Mrs. Allen didn’t look convinced but changed the subject. “With all the commotion and nonsense, I didn’t catch your name, lass.”

“Phadra Abbott.”

She’d responded without thinking and realized her error when Mrs. Allen said, “So, you and Mr. Abbott have had quite a change in plans. I hope someone is there for the children.”

Mr. Abbott! Phadra prayed she didn’t make another blunder. “Uh…we have a companion who watches them.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Allen said. The knowledge that they had a companion for their child seemed to raise their standing in her eyes. “Well, that’s good.” She seemed about to ask more questions, but the servant claimed her attention when he returned with the bucket of water. “Toby, put the bucket next to the chest and then off to bed with you. Dawn will come early.”

The lad did as he was told, pulling his forelock as he backed out the door. It was only then, when they were alone, that Phadra confessed, “I have no clothes.”

“No clothes?” Mrs. Allen frowned.

“My portmanteau went off with the mail coach. I just remembered I lost it.”

Mrs. Allen waved a dismissive hand. “I probably have something you can use for tonight. And I’ll get some cloths for you to bathe him with.” She nodded toward Mr. Morgan.

“Bathe him?” Phadra choked over the words.

“In case the fever comes, you’ll need some way to bring it down. Trust me, more men have died from the fever than the wound,” Mrs. Allen responded matter-of-factly. “I’ll go get the cloths now while you get him out of those wet clothes.” With that, she turned on her heel and bustled out of the room, pulling the door shut firmly behind her.

Phadra stared open-mouthed at the closed door. Slowly she turned to look at Mr. Morgan, still unconscious on the bed. She shut her mouth and drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

This wasn’t actually what she’d bargained for, but she was certain Mrs. Allen was right. The night air and their wet clothes were not a healthy combination. “Approach this scientifically,” she muttered under her breath. “Like a study of a plant or animal.”

The first
scientific
step she took was to pull off his boots. She thought it would be a safe move, except they didn’t come off easily and required her to straddle each of his legs and use her whole body as leverage to remove them.

Removing boots was child’s play compared to taking off his stockings. Phadra had never thought of feet as being particularly intimate…until her fingers brushed against the bottom of his bare foot and he reacted, his toes curling ticklishly. When she rolled the other stocking down his ankle and over his heel, he pushed her off the bed with his other foot.

Suspicious that he had done it on purpose, Phadra popped her head up over the edge of the bed and glared at him, expecting to find him grinning at her. Instead he slept on. The white pillow emphasized the
dark shadow of his beard line and his strong, masculine features.

He truly was a beautiful man, she thought as she pushed herself up from the floor and rose to her feet. Beautiful from his dark curly hair to his well-formed legs…and then she realized that it was her job now to take the trousers off those legs. The room suddenly seemed unbearably hot.

“You’re allowing your sensibilities to run wild,” she reasoned out loud. “The man has passed out.” She ran her fingers through her unruly curls and pulled them back from her face. The pins had long since disappeared. “Keep this scientific,” she muttered.

So. The scientific question: How did men remove their pants?

Nothing in her experience had taught her about the intricacies of male clothing. Phadra closed her eyes for modesty’s sake and slipped a hand around each side of his waist, feeling the waistband. Buttons!

She started unbuttoning the buttons that formed a row on either side of his hip, unconsciously holding her breath all the while. That task done, she started to pull down the wet trousers at the waist but discovered that she had to open her eyes. The sight of a new expanse of bare skin stopped her actions.

He didn’t wear undergarments. The discovery was a revelation. She’d never imagined a banker without undergarments.

Phadra stood up. She didn’t know if she could go through with it…and then Mrs. Allen would come back and see Mr. Morgan still dressed and Phadra close to tears…

An idea came to her.

Quickly Phadra pulled and tugged the quilt from beneath his body. With a flick of her wrists, she threw the quilt over him and then, her hands under the quilt, pulled down his trousers. The tricky part was maneuvering them down his legs. She found she needed to use both her hands to move the soft, wet leather over his knees and down his calves. Even keeping her movements as economical and practical as possible, she couldn’t escape the feel of his warm skin under her hand. Heavens, the man had more curve to his calves than she had to hers! Frustrated, she finally lifted the quilt up and over her head to see into the murky darkness and get the job done.

“Mrs. Abbott! What are you doing?”

Phadra pulled her head out from under the quilt sharply. Mrs. Allen stood in the doorway, holding cloths, a nightgown, a cup, and a brandy bottle in her arms. She seemed taken aback by the sight of Phadra climbing around on top of Mr. Morgan under the covers. Phadra could feel her face flood with hot color.

“I had to—uh, get these off.” She’d worked the trousers down and over his feet, and now she pulled them out from under the quilt.

Mrs. Allen raised her eyebrows in patent disbelief.

Phadra made a great show of shaking the trousers out. “They are more wet than I thought. I, uh, hope they don’t shrink.” She forced herself to look at Mrs. Allen.

The innkeeper’s lady didn’t answer immediately but crossed over to the bed. She eyed the wet leather. “You never can tell.”

“That’s what I thought,” Phadra answered, desperate to make conversation and cover the terrible
awkwardness she felt. “You never can tell,” she echoed, and attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace.

Then, to her horror, Mrs. Allen placed the cloths on the chair at his bedside and, lifting an edge of the quilt, threw it off Mr. Morgan, who stirred as the air hit him.

Phadra raised her eyes to the corner of the ceiling.

“Why, Mrs. Abbott, your face is as red as a beet. Are you sure you are feeling well?”

“I’m just very modest,” Phadra managed to answer, her fingers still tingling from where they’d brushed down the line of his body.

Mrs. Allen opened her eyes wide with surprise. “Modest?” she said. She looked at Phadra and then at the nude Mr. Morgan. The surprise turned to revelation. “Oh!” She reached over to give Phadra’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “There’s no reason to be embarrassed on my account, lass. I’ve seen what he has many a time before. It’s an innkeeper’s life and part of providing people with lodging.” Suddenly her eyes took on a twinkle. “ ’Course, I admit that what he has is better than most. He’s a fine-looking man. Your sailor
must
really be something if you would run away from what’s stretched out on the bed there.”

Phadra didn’t know how to react and felt herself blushing even more furiously.

“Oh now, see, I’ve made matters worse,” Mrs. Allen said. “It’s my country ways.” She heaved a sigh. “Here, let me help you out of those wet clothes.” She practically turned Phadra around and began unbuttoning her dress. “Maybe what you two need is another baby.”

“Why would we need that?” Phadra started to
turn, but Mrs. Allen was already helping her pull her dress down off her shoulders.

“Children help a marriage, make it grow a bit.”

Phadra thought of her mother and father and rejected the woman’s theory. “I wouldn’t consider it a solution.” Her dress fell to her feet. She stepped out of it and reached down to pick it up. A moment later she was out of what was left of her damp undergarments and in a voluminous cotton nightgown.

“This is one of my old ones. It’s seen better days, but it will get you through the night,” Mrs. Allen said. She pushed back Phadra’s curls, a motherly gesture. “I know it’s none of my affair, but sometimes after a couple has been married awhile, things don’t look as good as they did before they posted the banns. It’s not my place to speak, and Mr. Allen would be the first to tell me so. He always says that an innkeeper should keep his nose out of the guests’ way. But I watched your face as we pulled the piece of lead out of him. You care for this man.”

Her last simple sentence went straight to Phadra’s heart. Did she care for Grant Morgan? “Mrs. Allen, you don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand more than a little. Sometimes things are hard between a man and a woman. We don’t see things as clearly as we should, and it takes another person, on the outside, to help us see.”

Phadra had an insane urge to laugh and cry at the same time. She covered her lips with her fingers and with her other hand gave the innkeeper’s wife a half hug.

“And I’ll tell you something else,” Mrs. Allen whispered in her ear. “That man cares for you, too. Oh, I can tell he’s a bit gruff and high-handed, but he cares.”

Phadra didn’t know what to say. In the morning she’d probably tell Mr. Morgan what Mrs. Allen had said and they would laugh. But tonight…tonight, the woman’s conclusions were very comforting.

They parted company on the best of terms. Before she left with the wet clothes to be dried for the morrow, Mrs. Allen told Phadra to pour a little of the brandy in a cup and mix it with some water. “Give this to him every once in a while to help him sleep. I don’t know if it does much good, but then, it’s never harmed anyone.”

Phadra smiled at her country wisdom and wished her a good night. At last she and Mr. Morgan were alone. Outside the room’s shuttered window, the soft rain hit the tile roof and ran down the eaves.

Phadra stifled a yawn and reached to feel his brow. Warm, but not hot.

She pulled the chair over beside the bed, poured water from the bucket into the basin, and dipped a cloth into it. The cool water felt good against her hand. She pressed it against the back of his neck and the side of his face, as Mrs. Allen had demonstrated.

He didn’t react but instead slept peacefully, his body rising and falling with his breathing. Again Phadra soaked the cloth and stroked it across his brow.

She did it not so much for him but for herself: a penance of sorts and a balm for her guilt-laden mind.

Grant shifted, searching for a better position on the bed. He never slept on his stomach, but when he turned on one side, the pain in his shoulder roused him.

He frowned, but it took him a minute or two to remember
what was wrong with his arm. The room was dark except for the light from a candle in a lamp hanging from a peg on the wall.

His mouth tasted of whiskey and something else…brandy. He’d never had a head for liquor. When he raised his head, the world spun slightly.

He dropped his head back to the pillow, too tired to fight the dizziness. He was about to drift off to sleep when his senses told him something was not completely correct about the room. He looked around. The glow of the single candle shone on a mass of flaxen curls lying on the mattress not more than a hand’s width from his face.

Miss Abbott.

In spite of the pain in his shoulder, Grant rolled to his right side and slowly, almost reverently, lifted his left hand to bury his fingers in the wild mass of curls.