Page 41 of A Whisper Of Desire (The Disgraced Lords #4)

Isobel’s cries could only just be heard over the sound of the crashing and banging carriage and the squealing horses.

The carriage was at last beginning to slow, and Marisa slowly let out the breath she’d been holding. She was being thrown around, smashing her shoulder into the side of the wall where the squab was attached to the carriage floor.

She could hear Isobel on the squab above, cursing and gripping the back of the squab as tightly as she could.

“I think we’ll be fine, as the carriage is sl?—”

Soon as she said the words, a horse’s terror-filled scream rented the air and they slammed into something solid.

Her head hit the floor hard, pain rendering her speechless.

The last thing she saw was Isobel’s hand reaching for her as she was flung from the carriage as it began breaking apart around them.

The men learned they were close. The lone rider they passed a mile back said the carriage had sped by only a few minutes ago.

They were lucky it had rained all during the day. The ground was soft, making it heavy going for the coach.

The night was making way for dawn, thank goodness, as it was dangerous traveling over open ground where you could not see ditches, undulations, et cetera. It was mostly luck that no horse had stumbled into a hole or bruised the sole of its hoof on a sharp stone.

Maitland had just finished thinking such a thought when a horse’s shrill cry filled the dawn.

It was the cry he imagined men heard on the field from dying steeds as they fell in battle.

He heard Arend’s curse and spurred Astraea to run faster.

The mare was already lathered with sweat, but she sensed her master’s urgency.

Astraea stumbled as they began to climb a small rise, and it was only because the sun peeked over the horizon that Hadley’s steed didn’t break its hock in a large hole. Thankfully, Hadley’s good hands gathered the reins and kicked the stallion to surge high into the air and sail over it.

Concentrating on ensuring that Hadley remained seated, Maitland did not at first see the carriage. It was only Arend’s cry as they pounded down the other side of the rise that drew his attention to the wreckage lying off the road in a ditch partially filled with water.

No one is moving was the thought that slammed into him as he viewed the wreckage. At the same time, he realized with sickening certainty that this was the carriage that contained his wife.

He drove his heels into his horse’s side and raced toward the upturned carriage with rage in his heart. If Marisa was hurt, their enemy could go to the ends of the earth and try to hide, but he’d find her and make her pay.

When he reached the carriage, he slid off his mare before she’d had a chance to come to a halt, and raced for the gap where a carriage door should be hanging. It was ripped off, a gaping hole in its place with splinters of wood everywhere.

The sun was delivering warmth, yet he felt so cold.

When he clambered over the broken wheel and onto the carriage step he found the body of a woman lying still on one of the squabs.

Even though the woman’s coloring was the same as Marisa’s, she couldn’t be Marisa because this woman wore a dress.

Marisa had been in disguise. She’d been wearing trousers.

He used his teeth to tear off his gloves, and, grabbing her wrist, he felt for a pulse.

He let out a breath as he felt a strong regular beat.

He signaled to Hadley. “Help me get her out.”

Arend appeared just as they carried the woman out onto the grass. “Whoever took them has scarpered.” He placed a hand on Maitland’s shoulder. “I want you to take a deep breath.”

The roar of his pulse thundered in his ear. “Have they taken her? Is she not here?” At least if they took her, it would mean she was still alive.

Arend’s face looked ashen. “She’s here.” He looked at Hadley before saying, “Come with me.”

Scrambling to find his footing in the boggy ground, he raced after Arend. They rounded the carriage and he saw it had hit an oak tree; part of the back had sheared off and fallen into the ditch, where there was about half a foot of water.

Arend slid down into the ditch, the water almost coming to the top of his Hessians. Only when Arend bent down did he see what his fellow Libertine Scholar was looking at. A foot. Marisa’s foot.

Maitland went crazy as he tried to push the piece of carriage up and off her. “Don’t just stand there, bloody help, you bastard!” he yelled at Arend. “Don’t you dare tell me she’s dead,” he added, before Arend could tell him it was pointless.

Just then, a splash was heard. It was her foot, and it was moving, trying to find ground.

Arend moved like a lightning bolt, both of them yelling for Hadley to come and help. It took the three of them to move the heavy underside of the carriage off her.

Luckily, the ground was soft due to the water and she had not been crushed, merely pinned. Her head had also been held above the water line.

Before they moved her, Maitland placed his fingers on her neck, feeling for a pulse. Unlike the other woman, hers was weak and erratic.

There had to be an injury.

He gently rolled her over onto her back, and it was Hadley’s hiss of breath that drew his attention to the piece of wood protruding from the lower right area of her stomach.

His hand reached?—

“Don’t touch it. We can’t remove it until we have her somewhere a surgeon can help. She might bleed to death.”

His hand hovered over the splinter, everything in him screaming to tear it free, to remove it from where it threatened the woman he loved. Yet he understood Hadley’s warning.

“How are we going to move her? I can’t pick her up or the wood might penetrate farther.”

Arend ran a hand through his hair. “The closest town is Crouch End. I’ll try there. If not, I’ll head back toward London. I will bring a surgeon here.”

Maitland was paralyzed with fear. The wrong decision could take from him the very person he found was the only one he wanted in his life. He could not speak but merely nodded.

“Before you go, let’s very carefully carry her farther up and onto dry land under the tree. We should get her out of these wet clothes.”

Hadley’s suggestion made sense.

They grabbed blankets out of the carriage and cut the cushion squabs off with Arend’s dagger. They moved both women under the tree, out of the direct sunlight, and Hadley started a fire in order to boil water to drink.

Maitland walked with Arend as he made for his horse. “Don’t let me down. She means everything to me.”

“I’ll be back, and with a good surgeon. Just make sure you keep her alive until then.” He whirled his horse in the direction of Crouch End and took off. He had Hadley’s horse hog-tied to his saddle, so he could alternate horses.

Maitland watched his friend ride off. He trusted Arend with his life, but could he trust him with Marisa’s? It would appear he had little choice.

He heard murmured voices behind him. He made his way back to their makeshift camp and saw that the other woman was sitting up, talking with Hadley. She was quietly crying. “I tried to grab for her, but I didn’t have enough strength to hold her.”

“It’s not your fault, dear girl,” Hadley said.

Maitland was far too worried about Marisa to give her a moment’s thought. He used the dagger Arend had left him to carefully cut her soaking-wet clothes from her body.

Hadley had the decency to walk away to fetch water to boil in the carriage’s metal foot warmer they’d found in the wreckage.

Maitland stripped off his coat and jacket. He used the jacket to cover the squab they lay Marisa upon. She hadn’t made a sound, not even when they moved her up the bank. He covered her back up with his coat; cutting a hole so the wooden stake could be fed through without damaging her further.

Isobel sat down next to her, opposite Maitland, and took Marisa’s hand in hers. “She looks so pale.”

That is what worried him. There was very little blood externally, but who knows what was happening inside. How deep did the wood penetrate? He leaned close and whispered in Marisa’s ear. “Don’t you leave me now. We’ve only tried two positions in your book.”

It might have been the wind in the trees above, but he swore he heard a slight hiss of breath.

“Who would do this to her, to us?”

Maitland tried to tip some whiskey from his flask through Marisa’s mouth, but it simply dribbled down her chin. He tenderly wiped it away, silently willing her to live. “Did you see who took you?”

Isobel shook her head. “Marisa already asked me. We could not find any connection at all, other than we were both having our first season.”

Hadley arrived back. “Has she spoken?”

Maitland shook his head, his eyes misting.

“May I?” Frowning, Hadley bent and ran his fingers over Marisa’s head. “There is a large bump here, she might be knocked out.”

“She bumped her head earlier at the club.”

Hadley’s hands continued roaming. “Well, there are two bumps now. Feel.” He guided Maitland’s fingers to the back of Marisa’s skull and then to the side of her head. He could feel a bump that was much larger than the earlier one.

“This is probably the culprit, and the reason why she’s not waking.” Hadley felt for her pulse. “It’s steady and I think slightly stronger than before, now that she’s more comfortable.”

Isobel sat hugging her knees. “I wish I could do more.”

Maitland simply sat in stony silence, squeezing her hand to let her know he was here, and also in the hope that if he squeezed hard enough she wouldn’t be able to leave him.

After half an hour, Maitland checked her thoroughly again, but her condition hadn’t changed.

He was thankful it hadn’t worsened. Maitland checked the wound several times, pouring whiskey from Hadley’s hip flask on it to keep it clean.

Infection would be the biggest risk. The longer the stick remained in her body, the worse off she’d be.

“Did you hear that? It’s horses,” Hadley said. “It can’t be Arend, it’s too soon.”

The two men looked at each other and reached for their pistols. Hadley moved to put himself between the approaching horses and Isobel, while Maitland never left Marisa’s side.

The horses and a horse-drawn wagon came into view; it was Arend with a troop of soldiers.

Arend walked up to them, pushing forward a man in military uniform. “I’ve found a surgeon, his name is Sean Colbert, from the Army Medical Department. They have a regimental base nearby.”

“Lieutenant Colbert at your service, Your Grace.”

Maitland took the man’s hand as if he were God himself. The surgeon was not much older than Maitland. “Have you had much experience with terrible wounds?” he asked.

“I served at Waterloo.”

Nothing further needed to be said. Grayson had told them all about the horrors of the battle, and Christian’s recovery from his terrible burns. More than two thousand men had had limbs amputated. It had been a bloody mess.

Maitland stepped aside and let the lieutenant examine Marisa.

Once the surgeon had finished his examination, he looked at the three men and Isobel. “We need to get her to the barracks hospital before I remove the stake. The risk of infection is too great here, plus I need more instruments for any internal wounds. It’s only five miles.”