Page 32 of The Major’s Mistake (Intrepid Heroines #7)

None of them spoke. It seemed the slivers of twisted metal would never come to an end. Finally, satisfied that she had found them all, she leaned back and wiped the beads of perspiration from her pale forehead with an audible sigh. Angus and Sykes looked drained as well.

Next she probed gently into the tissue and muscle surrounding the lacerations, looking for any further damage.

One or two more fragments came out before she laid the medical instruments aside.

Looping a length of black silk thread through a large needle, she set to stitching the skin together as neatly as possible.

When that was done, she sprinkled a small packet of basilicum powder over the wound. A large pad of folded material went over the wound, followed by a wrapping of the bandages Sykes had fashioned from her shift.

“I fear that must do until we get him where he can be looked after properly.” She looked up. “The last thing we need is two straight stout sticks, to serve as a splint of sorts, so his leg won’t be jostled too badly in the journey.”

When those had been tied in place, she got shakily to her feet. Her own limbs were so numb that on trying to take a step, she stumbled and would have tumbled headfirst had not Sykes reached out to catch her.

“Your pardon, Mr. Sy—” she started to stammer but rest of the words caught in her throat and all that came out was a strangled sob. A tear spilled onto her cheek, then another and another. She tried to brush them away.

“S—Sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m not usually?—”

Somehow she found her nose buried in the rough wool of the valet’s coat, his calloused hand awkwardly patting the back of her head. He was not nearly as large as the marquess or Angus, but his shoulder felt just as reassuringly solid.

“Here now, milady,” he murmured. “The worst of it is over.”

When finally she regained a modicum of control over her emotions, she lifted her tear-stained face and took a deep breath. “You must think me nothing more than an hysterical female,” she murmured. “But truly, I am not usually prone to throwing a fit of vapors.”

“Think you an hysterical female?” repeated Skyes as his brows rose in amazement.

“Why, what I think is you’ve shown more courage than most seasoned soldiers, not to speak of being a dab hand at organizing your troops with more skill than any general I’ve ever seen.

” Unused to speaking so plainly to a lady, he shuffled his feet in embarrassment.

“And no doubt, you’ve saved the guv’s leg. ”

Miranda fingers fumbled with the folds of her skirt. “You are being more than kind.” Then her head jerked up. “But nothing is assured yet. We must get His Lordship down from here as quickly as possible.” She looked around. “Is everything ready?”

“Aye, ma’am.”

Angus had already tested the litter and assigned each man a place, taking one of the front positions for himself.

A number of torches had been fashioned out of rags torn up from the spare clothing and bedding.

At the big groom’s signal, the marquess was gently lifted from the ground.

Miranda carefully tucked another blanket around his unconscious form and the small party headed off.

Sykes armed several of the remaining men and appointed them the task of trussing up the whining Scofield and Gibbs. “Keep a close guard on them until we can hand the miserable varmints over to the authorities.”

The men smiled in grim pleasure. “You may count on us, Mr. Sykes. These two won’t be slipping away.”

The other trail was indeed easier, though there were stretches that made for some rough going.

In places, the steepness caused the footing to become perilous, while at times the narrowness made it tricky to maneuver.

Slipping, sweating, straining, the men took great pains not to jostle their heavy burden.

It was hard work and every so often a stop would be made so that the torchbearers could exchange places with the men carrying the marquess.

Each time, Miranda would check that his leg had not begun to bleed through the bandages and to coax some water down his throat. Though he stirred occasionally under the thin blankets, he had yet to waken fully.

It was perhaps a blessing that he had not, she thought grimly, as she straightened the covers and motioned for the men to start up again.

The pain would be intense and she had no laudanum to help ease it.

She could only hope that the man sent ahead would be able to marshal a proper doctor and a carriage.

As the trail pinched in, she was forced to fall back behind the litter. Close to exhaustion herself, Miranda found her step faltering over a patch of treacherous scree. A hand came around her elbow and guided her to firmer ground.

“Come, walk with me for a bit, milady,” said Sykes, who was bringing up the rear, the marquess’s own pistols tucked at the ready in his belt.

He took note of the dark smudges under her eyes, the slump in her shoulders and kept a firm grip on her arm.

“Just lean into my shoulder—why, the guv would pin my ears back if I was to let you take a tumble and twist your ankle after all this.”

Miranda managed a wan smile. “Somehow I doubt very much that you tremble at the prospect of any set-down from His Lordship.”

He grinned. “We have our understanding, the guv and me. I suppose that comes from pulling each other’s irons out of the fire on more than one occasion.”

“Mmmm.”

They walked on for a bit in silence before Miranda spoke again. “I’m … glad that he had you to look after him during all those years,” she said haltingly.

The valet’s leathery cheeks reddened in embarrassed pleasure.

“Tell me how his leg was injured?”

Sykes slanted a sideways glance at her. “You are sure you want to hear it? It is not, well, not a very pretty story.”

She nodded. “I doubt that anything about war is very pretty, but yes, I am sure.”

He drew in a breath and told her of the battle. As he described the murderous havoc played by the Spanish battery sweeping the panicking foot soldiers, the desperate cavalry charge and how it was repulsed, Miranda could feel her whole body go rigid.

“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 the companionable 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.”