Page 31 of The Major’s Mistake (Intrepid Heroines #7)

Fourteen

M iranda also bit back a cry, one of outrage rather than pain.

She realized she must keep both her wits and her emotions together if she was to find some way to extricate the two of them from this nightmare.

Drawing a steadying breath, she turned her gaze to Julian.

He had clearly lost consciousness and his labored breathing sounded too shallow for her liking.

Worse, the patch of blood on his breeches was spreading noticeably.

She could hardly bear to imagine what lay beneath the torn buckskin.

Tears welled up but she forced herself not to dwell on how badly he was hurt. What mattered now was to find a way to get him the help he needed.

She twisted her hands against her bonds. At least she had a start, she thought grimly. The man who had bound her wrists had whispered a caution not to struggle so that he could leave the rope as badly tied as possible. Indeed, it was loose.

Loose enough for her to work the skirts of her gown around so that her fingers could just about reach into one of the pockets.

Miranda fumbled for the canvas packet and was finally able to extract it on the third try.

She got the strings undone and searched within the folds for the thin scalpel.

The razor sharp blade cut through the knots in a trice.

As the rope fell away, she studied how things were.

It was impossible to slip away unnoticed, even if she wished to.

Rocks hemmed her in from behind and on both sides.

Straight ahead was the fire, with the group of men now finishing a meager meal and exchanging muted conversation.

Beyond them, in a small group to themselves, were McTavish and his two underlings.

The jug had indeed reappeared and it was been passed around with increasing frequency.

Her mouth tightened. There seemed precious little she could do, despite her freedom.

Then her eyes fell on the pistol that McTavish had flung at Julian’s leg.

It lay unretreived in the shadows, not ten feet from where she sat.

Her gaze darted back to the leader’s group.

They appeared to be arguing, though McTavish was doing most of the talking.

His gestures became more and more animated and she was aware of the rise in his voice though she couldn’t make out the words.

Slowly, she inched sideways just a bit.

When nobody noticed, she began a stealthy crawl towards the forgotten weapon. It was nearly in reach when her half boot dislodged a stone.

Miranda froze as it fell with what sounded like a resounding crash to her ears.

However, the sound must have been faint, for only one of the men turned slightly at the noise.

With a quick glance, he took in her position, the pistol on the ground and then their eyes locked.

After only the briefest hesitation, he merely nodded and went back to the contents of his battered tin plate.

Miranda let out the breath she was holding.

She moved another few feet and began to reach out for the gun.

To her horror, McTavish suddenly lurched to his feet, and with a loud oath, started to walk toward where the marquess lay motionless.

It took a moment, but he slowly registered that something was not quite right.

“Where is she?” he roared, yanking his own weapon from the waistband of his pants and breaking into a run.

Miranda snatched up the pistol, praying that priming had not been jarred loose. “Stay where you are!” she warned. “I know how to use this.”

He spun around. “You meddlesome female. I’ll get more than enough blunt for the marquess alone and be well away into to Scotland before they find your corpse.” His pistol started to draw a bead. “Though when I get through with him, he’s going to wish he were dead.”

She gritted her teeth and pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

McTavish threw back his head and began to laugh. His pistol came up higher. The laughter turned into a scream as a shot echoed among the rocks. He staggered forward several steps, staring in wild disbelief at the spreading circle of red on his shirt, then collapsed face down in the dirt.

Sykes stepped from behind a boulder. “In the future, milady, you must remember to check your flint.”

Scofield and Gibbs, slowed by the copious amounts of liquor they had consumed to drown their growing anxiety, made no pretense of resistance when Angus appeared and motioned for them to throw down their weapons.

The big groom quickly gathered them up and turned his attention to the group of frightened men by the fire.

“You’ve nought to worry from them,” said Miranda quickly. “They wanted nothing to do with this. Couldn’t we allow them to simply slip away? I’m sure they have learned their lesson about where a life of crime can lead.”

“You’ve too soft a heart,” murmured Angus, but on regarding the ragged fellows before him, he had to agree they hardly looked like a bunch of hardened criminals, just a sad lot of hungry, desperate men.

“You are free to go, but those of you who truly wish an honest job may stay and count that the marquess will provide you and your family with work, as well as food and shelter,” Miranda said, addressing the huddle of men. “We are going to need some help in getting His Lordship down from here.”

Hope slowly replaced fear in many of the faces. One man stepped forward, twisting a corner of his tattered jacket in his hands.” What would you have us do, milady?”

“We shall need a litter. Perhaps some of you can find two trees and a blanket and rope?—”

“Aye, ma’am. I knows what you mean, I’ll see to it.” The fellow who spoke jerked his head at two of his companions and they hurried off.

“Somebody put on a pot of water to boil. And torches. We shall need a number of torches so we may light the way.”

Several others nodded and set to work.

“And someone should go ahead of us and make sure a carriage is ready below,” she continued. Her brow furrowed. “Though I confess, I’m not quite sure how we will manage to get Julian down parts of that trail.”

“There is another way down,” piped up a voice. “It’s shorter too, and not nearly as steep, though it leads down the other side of the moor, close to Leadton.”

Miranda gave a sigh of relief. “It doesn’t matter where, so long as there is a road.”

“I’ll go ma’am. The others can show you how to go.” He hesitated before adding in a unsteady voice. “The authorities … they won’t put me in the gaol, will they?”

Sykes dug deep in his pocket. “Take this.” He pressed a gold button engraved with the Marquess’s crest into the man’s hand.

“It fell off one of the guv’s jackets and I hadn’t gotten around to replacing it.

Just tell them you are one of the marquess’s men and you won’t have any trouble.

” He shot a menacing look at the cowering Scofield and Gibbs.

“Make sure a magistrate is there as well.”

The man set off at a trot.

Miranda was already at Julian’s side, smoothing the tangled dark locked from his streaked brow.

“How is he?” Sykes knelt down next to her.

She could barely control the tremor in her voice. “I fear he’s badly hurt. I need to treat that leg before we can think of moving him.”

The valet’s expression became very grim and he muttered an oath. “It would nigh on kill him if he should lose his leg.”

Miranda took a deep breath. “Julian is not going to lose his leg, Mr. Sykes. Now help me get him nearer the fire. Then find as clean a cloth as you can and start making some bandages.”

He looked his own soiled shirt and looked dubious.

She thought for a moment. “Please avert your eyes.” Lifting her skirt she tore off a large section of her shift. “This should do.” She thrust it into his hands, then felt around on the ground until she found her scalpel and the rest of her instruments. “Come, let’s hurry.”

Sykes waved two of the others over to help him and together they carried Julian towards the crackling flames.

“Build the fire higher,” she ordered as she folded the few blankets she could find into some sort of cushioning from the hard ground. “And is there anything left in that jug?”

Angus brought it over and poured the rest of the contents into a tin cup. She sniffed at it. “Is it strong?”

That brought a ghost of a grin to his face. “Aye, milady. That it is.”

“Good. Then help me get it down his throat.” She arranged a spare jacket over Julian’s chest. He stirred slightly and his eyes fluttered open. “Lord, he feels cold.” Her hand gently lifted his head. “Julian, please, you must drink this.”

She put the cup to his lips and forced him to take a swallow. Most of it went down though he coughed and tried to push it away.

To her relief, the alcohol had some effect. His disjointed muttering ceased and he fell back into a haze of unconsciousness. She turned to Sykes and Angus. “I need you hold his leg as still as possible. If he stays like this it will be easier, but if he wakes …”

They nodded their understanding.

“Mr. Sykes, please remove his boot.”

She signaled for the pot bubbling over the fire. After plunging her scalpel into the scalding water, she started to cut away the bloodied buckskins.

Angus sucked in his breath while Sykes had to look away for a moment.

Miranda felt her own hands begin to tremble at the sight of the torn flesh and the jagged pieces of metal ripping through the skin.

She clenched her teeth to steady her nerves and set to work.

Slowly, with great skill, she made several small incisions.

Reaching for the pinchers she used to extract the occasional splinter from one of her patients, she methodically began to remove the bits of shrapnel from the open wound.

Every so often, she stopped to clean away the blood and check that the bleeding had not become too severe.