Page 24 of The Major’s Mistake (Intrepid Heroines #7)

Eleven

T he thin horsehair mattress felt as luxurious as the finest eiderdown to Julian’s bruised body. He sat on the edge of the cot, his long legs stretched out before him, while Jem searched for an extra blanket.

“This is all we have,” There was a tinge of embarrassment in his voice, for a brisk shake of the folded bedding had sent a shower dust and bits of hay wafting through the air. “You are welcome to mine instead,” he added shyly. “But I fear it’s not in much better condition, Your … Your Lordship.”

The marquess wished to allay any awkwardness over his sharing their humble quarters.

“You can stubble the fancy titles and such rot, lad. Sterling is fine, if you wish to call me anything at all.” His mouth quirked in a self deprecating smile.

“After all, you’ve seen I can be knocked on my arse as easily as any other man. ”

Jem looked quite relieved, as if he had half expected the marquess to climb up on a high horse now that tempers had cooled.

“And the blanket is more than adequate.” He glanced over at Angus. “I trust your offer of another jug still stands?

After the whiskey had made several rounds, the mood had loosened considerably, as had their tongues.

Jem soon lost his initial reticence and began to pepper the marquess with questions about his stallion and whether he had ever attended the races at Newmarket, for as well as being army-mad, the lad was even keener on horses.

Julian was more than happy to oblige with a detailed description of things that had the young groom’s eyes glazed with longing.

“If you like,” he added, “Perhaps I might arrange with my aunt for you to visit my estate during race week. My man Sykes attends near every day and would be happy to show you the sights.”

Jem stammered a near incoherent thanks at the generous offer.

Then, emboldened by a good deal more whiskey than he was used to imbibing, he regarded his own stockinged feet then the Marquess’s polished Hessians, now slightly the worse for wear, and ventured another sort of question.

“Ain’t you going to take off your boots to sleep, or does Quality always wear ‘em to bed?”

Julian turned away and appeared to be studying the knots in the rough pine wall by his side. “I can’t,” he finally answered in a tight voice.

The young groom turned crimson at realizing his unwitting gaffe and his eyes made a mute appeal to Angus for what to do.

Without a word, Angus put aside the jug and went over to the marquess’s side, where it took him no more than a few moments to gently ease first one than the other boot off.

He placed them side by side next to the cot and returned to his own place, coolly taking up the jug as if nothing had happened.

Before Julian could say a thing, he asked a quick question about the grey filly’s lineage, and the awkward moment was past.

As Julian was in the middle of his explanation, a sharp rap came at the door.

All three heads jerked around.

“Angus? Jem? Are you there?” demanded a female voice. “Is something wrong?”

Julian’s eyes pressed closed. “Hell’s teeth,” he muttered.

“The marquess’s horse is saddled but is still in its stall,” continued Miranda. “What has happened to His Lordship?”

Angus looked at Julian and lifted his brows in question.

“Angus!”

The big groom quickly gestured for Jem to answer the knock.

“Me!” he squeaked in surprise. “But?—”

“Go on!” whispered Angus. He pointed to his blackened eye. “Mayhap ye can convince her there’s naught to be concerned about.”

“Not bloody likely,” swore the marquess under his breath.

They exchanged baleful looks as Jem scurried to the door and opened it just a crack.

“What is going on?—”

“N … n … nothing, milady. Everything is, ah, just fine. No need for concern,” stammered the young groom.

Miranda tried to peer around him into the darkened room. “Is His Lordship in there?”

“Er, well, yes.”

Her brows came together. “Why?”

“Why? he repeated nervously.

“Yes, that is what I said, Jem. Why?”

“Ah ….”

“Please stand aside. I am coming in.”

To his credit, the lad tried to stave her off. “Well, er, there’s been a slight mishap. The marquess finds he … he has ta stay here tonight.”

There was an ominous pause. “What sort of mishap?”

Jem swallowed. “It seems that one—well, maybe two—ribs are broken, but Angus was able?—”

She sailed past him as if he weren’t there and headed for the two figures seated towards the back of the room.

“How in the name of heaven did?—”

At that moment, the light from her candle flickered over her groom’s face.

Though he ducked his head and brought his hand up to rub at his brow, he couldn’t hide the swelling eye and several bruises that were already beginning to turn an ugly shade of purple.

Miranda stared at him in utter silence for what seemed to be an age, then turned and slowly moved the candle towards Julian.

He studiously avoided meeting her gaze as she studied his split lip and mottled cheek.

Her eyes then fell to his torn and bloodied shirt. “Perhaps one of you would care to explain this … this ….” She gave up trying to find the appropriate word and simply placed one hand on her hip.

There was no response.

Her eyes narrowed and she thrust the candle hard by Angus’s nose. “I expect an answer from you. What happened?”

Angus drew in a long breath. “Well?—”

“Don’t rake the fellow over the coals. It was my fault,” interrupted the marquess. “We had a difference of opinion over a … certain matter and I suggested we settle it as gentlemen would, in, er, a sporting manner.”

“Gentlemen!” Her tone made them both wince. “Look at the two of you—more like unruly schoolboys I should say.” She gave a harried sigh. “Just what caused this … squabble?”

Julian caught the groom’s eye. “Horses,” he said quickly.

“Aye, horses,” agreed Angus.

Miranda’s face betrayed her skepticism. But instead of pursuing the matter, she turned her attention back to her groom. “Have you gone entirely mad, Angus?” she demanded. “Surely you are aware you could be on a shipped off to the Antipodes for striking?—”

“I should hope you would not think me so lacking in honor that I would strike a man who wasn’t free to strike back,” said Julian in a tight voice. “Of course he had my word there would be no such consequences.”

“I would not think you were so lacking in sense—or decorum—than to be found scrabbling in the dirt with my groom?—”

“That’s not entirely fair, milady. I provoked him,” piped up Angus in defense of the marquess.

Miranda looked nonplussed at the show of unexpected support from that quarter.

“Men,” she muttered under her breath, causing each of them to look even more abashed.

Her brow furrowed in exasperation as she continued to regard the two of them in deafening silence.

But when finally she spoke again, her tone had softened considerably.

“That eye needs some attention,” she said, bending to have a closer look at her groom’s face.

“Oh, it’s really naught ta worry on, milady,” he mumbled. “I’ve weathered far worse scrapes.”

“I shall decide on that,” she answered in a voice that brooked no argument. “Neither of you are to stir. Jem?—”

The young groom jumped.

“You will come with me. I shall return shortly.”

She marched off, leaving the two of them alone with their thoughts. The marquess slumped forward, threading his fingers through his disheveled locks, while Angus threw himself back on his cot and contemplated the low beams above his head.

“I trust you will not be made to suffer in way for this,” murmured Julian after a bit.

The groom pulled a face. “Nay. Lady Miranda is much too kind to mete out any punishment. She doesn’t have to—it’s bad enough to know I’ve disappointed her.”

The marquess made a sound in his throat, then lapsed into a moody silence.

Angus continued staring at the ceiling. “And I’m sorry if I’ve caused ye trouble with the lady. But ye see, none of us here takes kindly to anyone who might … hurt her.”

Julian’s features hardened. “I have no intention of doing any such thing.”

“No?” There was a note of challenge in the reply. “Then what exactly are your intentions?”

The words struck him like another blow to the midriff.

What, indeed? Good Lord, his emotions were in such a state of confusion that he couldn’t possibly begin to fathom his feelings, much less explain them to a stranger.

His jaw tightened and his gaze dropped to the floor, as if the answer could be found anywhere but within himself.

Miranda soon returned carrying a large basket filled with assorted medical supplies, Jem trailing in her wake bearing a steaming pot of hot water.

She knelt beside Angus, extracted a small compress from her things and pressed it over his swelling eye.

Brushing aside his feeble protests, she took up a soft cloth and, after dipping it in the hot water, began to clean the other cuts and bruises.

“You must hold this in place for a bit longer,” she said, placing his fingers up to the compress. After applying several dabs of salve to the broken skin, she gathered up her basket and moved on to the marquess.

“Miranda—” Julian began in a near whisper.

His words died in his throat as her thumb touched the corner of his mouth.

“Your lip is cut,” she said softly. With a clean cloth, she gently wiped away the dried blood and caked dirt.

Her fingers touched the mottling on his cheek, lingering there for just an instant, then brushed back the tumbled locks from his forehead.

“And you’ve a nasty scrape here. And here. ”

He let his eyes fall closed as she tended to his injuries. The closeness of her face, the subtle scent of lilac mingling with the sharp herbal whiff of her medicinals, caused him to suck in his breath.

“I shall have a look at those ribs now.”

His eyes flew open. “No! I?—”

Her fingers were already working at the buttons of his shirt.

“That is, I would rather you didn’t.”