Page 7 of Escape of the Highwayman (Escape #3)

C hloe woke with a spring of excitement, remembering the events of the night before.

Fortunately, it was still early, so she dressed quickly and walked up the path to the stable with some carrot pieces for the horses and some scraps for the cat.

Her heart drummed, for she had no idea if the highwayman would have left of his own free will or if he had been discovered by the stable lads who had all gathered outside for an early morning gossip.

They saw her coming and tugged their caps. “Morning, miss, are you wanting to ride out early?”

“No, not yet,” she replied breezily. “I’ve just come to visit them really and see to the poor cat. Oh, I hope you have all the hay and feed you need and don’t need to go up to the loft?”

“Should have,” said the head groom.

“Good, because Molly is quite fiercely protective of her kittens just now and she should not be disturbed. She might be unwell, so no one is to go up to the loft until I say so.”

“Very good, miss,” they murmured—all but Joe, who looked at her askance.

“I mean it, Joe,” she muttered on the way past.

“You always mean it. I just don’t know why anymore.”

“You don’t need to,” she said with dignity. “I am looking after Molly.”

She needed to be sure he would obey her and not swarm up there from curiosity. But still she knew a pang as his amiable face shuttered. The last of a childhood friendship that could never have survived into adulthood anyway. It made her sad.

A couple of the horses greeted her with whinnies as she passed them. But the pitiful miaowing from above attracted her up to the loft, where Molly stood outside the nest she had made for her kittens, purring and licking her lips.

She was hungry, poor thing, though Chloe suspected she had been up during the night, stealing the food from the highwayman’s plate.

She couldn’t tell if the heap of blankets in the other corner had a man beneath them.

So, she dropped the food she had brought for the cat and walked softly across the loft.

Stupidly glad to see his tousled head sticking out of the blankets, she knelt and murmured, “Sir? Sir, are you awake?”

There was a sheen of sweat on his face that boded ill. He needed a doctor. How could she ever have imagined she could look after a sick and injured man alone?

“Sir,” she whispered again, touching his good shoulder—and that inspired more reaction than she intended.

He jerked from her fingers, springing into a sitting position while his hand scrabbled through the hay, searching desperately—probably for the pistol that was now safely hidden in an old bag at the back of her bedchamber cupboard.

Hastily, she dragged her finger to her lips, pleading for his silence.

His eyes stared into hers, clouded and bewildered. “Cavalo. Where is he?”

“Cavalo?” she repeated uncertainly.

Confusion flickered in his eyes before his lashes swept down, masking them. “Chloe Barclay,” he said, as though dredging the memory from very far away.

Hardly flattering . “Indeed. But the grooms will be in and out, mucking out the stables, so we have to be quiet. I think the cat ate your supper.”

“I let her. Though I’m grateful, I have no appetite.”

At least he had drunk the water—if the cat hadn’t had that, too. “You need a physician,” she said worriedly. “You are fevered.”

“It will pass,” he said distantly.

His hand, which had kept up its search amongst the straw, finally stilled. She glanced down too—and saw part of his leg poking out of the blanket at an impossible angle. She had an impression of a straight foot and an impossible, wood-grained shin, and then the blanket flapped over it.

Slowly, her eyes came back to his, as understanding dawned. He looked ill, defiant, and ashamed all at once, like a little boy who knew he was in the wrong. Only he wasn’t, not in this. It was she who should be ashamed. She had seen the awkwardness of his gait and never questioned it.

“Does it pain you, too?” she asked matter-of-factly.

“Not now.” It might have been a lie, but it was the confusion in his eyes that disturbed her more.

Her highwayman was a troubled soul beneath his brash exterior.

A burst of laughter from below caused them both to stiffen. A couple of the stable lads had come in, one of them whistling. Two of the horses were led outside to be groomed, while their stalls were mucked out.

Remembering her role, Chloe said, “Poor Molly, you’re not quite the thing, are you? Have a piece of chicken, you know you love that...”

The highwayman’s eyes lightened, faintly amused, but he knew better than to speak.

Chloe lowered her voice further, so that in the bustle below, it would sound merely like the hum of her talking comforting nonsense to the cat, who was gazing at her with contempt from the other side of the loft.

“I cannot stay much longer just now but I’ll come back later and bring some breakfast and look at your wound. It might be too risky for you to stay here, so I shall look around for somewhere better.”

His eyes, still clouded with pain and fever, continued to hold hers while he mouthed one word. Why ?

For no reason, her face began to heat, so she shrugged and turned away. Molly had finished her scraps and rejoined her pile of offspring in their nest. They immediately began to swarm over her.

“If you are discovered, tell them to come to me,” she murmured, and crept back to join the cats for a few moments.

Molly was not remotely interested in her. But she was sure she felt the highwayman’s gaze, curious and troubled. She didn’t look back as she clambered back down the ladder and exchanged a few words with the stable lads while she fed pieces of carrot to the horses still inside the stable.

“Going to turn them out into the paddock with the others,” Joe said from the door, “so there’ll be no need to disturb your cats.”

She smiled with some relief at that. It meant the grooms would likely confine themselves to the tack room for the next few days at least. So the highwayman was less likely to be discovered.

***

J ON HAD STOPPED SHIVERING , but he was hot and sweating all the time and it was difficult to distinguish reality from his vivid dreams. Chloe Barclay, the girl who had found him and dressed his wound, appeared to be real.

When she had gone, and he was sure the stable boys were outside again, he rifled his saddle bags in vain for the pistol he was used to sleeping beside.

If he could trust his memory, he had pointed it at her last night when she had found him.

Not his finest hour. But he could not recall what he’d done with it after that.

It struck him she had taken it, and instead of being annoyed, he was pleased by her common sense.

At least she was taking precautions against him, even if her keeping the secret of his presence was inexplicable.

Giving up on the saddle bags which contained little of use apart from a grubby shirt and a spare pair of breeches, he turned his attention to the prosthesis.

Having strapped it back on to what was left of his leg, he donned the breeches she had brought him last night—which was damned awkward with just one hand.

The effort exhausted him, so he lay back against the wall, where he rediscovered his vital walking stick—also a useful weapon in case of emergencies—and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, his vision was still crowded with dreams. Through the centre, Chloe Barclay walked toward him in the sunshine, leading Cavalo by the reins.

Behind her were his company of soldiers in uniform, without their scars and with their missing limbs restored.

Even men he had thought dead. Intense happiness washed through him.

That was the dream, the nightmare. In reality, he was still in Spain, still fighting with all his men in tact, and with a promotion about to be fulfilled. ..

He blinked and his men vanished. So did Cavalo, leaving only Chloe, not walking but kneeling beside him.

Well, that wasn’t so bad. He smiled at her, heard the catch in her breath, and thought triumphantly, She likes me!

She reached out her hand and touched his forehead. Her fingers were blessedly cool and gentle.

“You are so sweet,” he said, because she was.

She coloured at the compliment, which made him smile again.

“I brought you breakfast. I expect it should be gruel and willow bark tea, or something, but I couldn’t really tell Cook to make such things without inviting questions.

So it’s just some bread and soft cheese, and a piece of fish. And an orange.”

She held a cup of water out to him in a commanding sort of way that made him take it and drink.

It was cool and tasted good. She nodded, pleased, and replaced the cup with the plate.

Since she seemed so anxious, he ate a mouthful of fish and a bite of bread and butter.

He was more interested in watching her peel the orange with her strong, deft little fingers, and break it into segments.

He ate one of those, too. Sometimes, he thought they were in a Spanish barn with the men nearby, jealous of the attention he was getting. He didn’t mind that, if only his shoulder and his head would stop hurting quite so badly.

He drifted for a bit, until he realized she was unwrapping his bandage and examining his shoulder wound, her face serious and concerned.

When she concentrated, she held a part of her lower lip between her teeth.

He found that oddly endearing. She splashed water into a bowl and bathed the wound.

He shivered. But she dried his shoulder again, put some more ointment on it and a fresh dressing.

“I think it is beginning to heal, and it doesn’t look corrupt.”

He nodded, letting her draw his shirt straight. He was still sitting on a blanket, the other neatly folded beside him. He was glad he had put his leg back on, though he doubted he could walk very far on it just yet. He knew from experience the damage would heal if he kept still for a few days.