Page 62 of The Major's Mistake
“No, go on,” she said when he stopped, a expression of concern etched on his face. “I want to know.”
He regarded her intently, then finished without further pause.
“And the saber scars he bears on his chest and arms? How did that happen?”
Sykes pursed his lips. “I’m … I’m not sure the guv would want me to be upsetting you with such?—”
“Please, Mr. Sykes! Tell me about how he was hurt, how the two of you lived, how—oh, everything!”
There was such a look of poignant need in her eyes that he heaved a sigh and shrugged in reluctant surrender. “No doubt he really will pin back my ears for this,” he muttered, but went ahead anyway. Telling of the arduous campaigns, the boredom of camp life, the factions within Wellington’s staff—leaving out mention, however, of the several dark-haired Spanish beauties who had come and gone in the marquess’s life.
The sky was just beginning to show a graze of color at the horizon when Miranda had finally exhausted all her questions. And in truth, by now she was so weary that she could barely put one foot in front of the other, let alone carry on a coherent conversation.
Sykes, sensing how close she was to the limits of her endurance, kept a gentle grip on her elbow and fell in with thecompanionable silence. The faint trail had left the harsh terrain of the steep moor, leveling into a more discernable path through a woodland of live oak and beech. An occasional cart rut gave hint that they were nearly out of the wilds.
Sure enough, the trees soon gave way to a pasture hemmed in by a thick stone wall. Up ahead, several carriages along with an assortment of carts were drawn to a halt on the edge of a road and a number of well-armed men milled around in obvious impatience. A shout went up as someone caught sight of the ragged band emerging from the swirling mists. Fresh hands came up to relieve the ones rubbed raw and bloody from the rough journey. While several of the local squires formed a belated escort around the marquess’s litter, a doctor edged his way to Julian’s side and regarded his ashen face with a cluck of concern.
“Put His Lordship into Lord Everleigh’s carriage immediately,” he shouted. “We must get him to Highcroft Manor as soon as possible.” He looked around at the cluster of tired faces. “Can any of you men tell me what sort of injuries he has sustained?”
Sykes made his way to the front of the group. “Aye. It’s his leg. He’s taken a severe blow to an old war injury and the fragments of shrapnel have torn it up something terrible. Mrs. Ransford.…” He looked around for Miranda but she had chosen to hang back. “… Mrs. Ransford has tended to it?—”
The doctor glanced at her, then pulled a face to show what good he thought that would amount to. “Good Lord man, let’s not waste time in long-winded explanations. Are you part of His Lordship’s household?”
“His valet.”
“Come with me then.” He took Sykes by the arm, then motioned for the men to load the litter into the head carriage.
Baron Ansley and Lord Eversleigh began bellowing orders to the others who had been mustered in response to the alarm. Not to be outdone, the local magistrate piped in with his own demands to hear a full account of things.
In all the jostling and shouting, Miranda was pushed even farther out of the way, a forlorn picture with her bedraggled hair, smudged face and tattered gown. It was Angus who ploughed through the knot of men and slipped his brawny arm around her shoulders. “Come, milady. Let me take you home.”
Her eyes followed the litter until it disappeared into the elegant carriage. As Sykes climbed in after it, he managed a backwards glance at her and gave a quick nod, as if to assure her that all would be well. Then he was gone too.
She made no protest as Angus led her towards the other carriages and carts gathered along the verge. “Mrs. Ransford needs a ride home as well. To Lady Thornton’s,” he demanded in a deep voice, straightening up to his full height. “The Marquess’s aunt,” he reminded those close by to add even more weight to his words.
“Ah, yes, of course.” Baron Ansley cleared his throat. It was evident he had given not the slightest thought to her. His brow furrowed in impatience as he chewed on a corner of his lip. As a figure moved past them, he brightened and pointed to a modest curricle towards the back of the line. “You, Willsley! Be so kind as to drive Mrs. Ransford home.” He gave a curt bow to her and hurried off to deal with the question of the prisoners.
Miranda let out a low sigh. “Yes, Angus. Let’s go home.”
Fifteen
“My dear, thank the Lord you are safe!” Lady Thornton crushed Miranda to her frail chest, not bothering in the least to stem the tears of relief that flowed down her cheeks. “And Julian?”
“He’s been hurt. His leg …” Miranda took a ragged breath and blinked away her own tears. “I saw to him as best I could but …” Her lips began to quiver. “A physician is with him now.”
Sensing that Miranda was perilously close to collapse, Lady Thornton collected herself and sprung into action. Hot water was ordered for a bath, along with a large glass of brandy.
“Drink it,” she ordered, thrusting it into Miranda’s trembling hands. “Every drop. And Wells, see that Angus has a tot as well.” She flashed a warm smile at the big groom, still hovering protectively in the doorway. “As many as he wants.”
Miranda was forced to choke down the contents of the glass.
Lady Thornton gave a nod of satisfaction on seeing the spirits bring a hint of color back to her pale-as-death cheeks. Ignoring the feeble protests, made even weaker by the effects of the brandy, she took hold of Miranda’s arm and marched her to her bedchamber. Every stitch of torn and muddied clothing wasstripped away and her aching body eased beneath the steaming water.
Miranda’s eyes drooped shut as she sunk up to her chin in the fragrant suds. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but the soothing heat of both the bath and the brandy seemed to have melted away the last bit of resistance against the enveloping exhaustion. No words came out, just an odd sound somewhere between a croak and a sob.
“Julian has no doubt weathered far worse in Spain, my dear,” whispered Lady Thornton. “He’ll come through with flying colors. It is you I am concerned with right now. You must rest. We’ll talk later.”
Miranda was scarcely aware of being toweled off, of her nightrail being tugged over her head, of being tucked between the sheets of her own bed.
