The Highwayman Read online

  Jane’s first thought, quickly suppressed, was Goodness, what a magnificent-looking specimen! Her second was that she could well believe that this dangerous-looking man might, indeed, be a highwayman. Her third was. Good heavens, how have I, of all people, ever managed to get myself into such an alarming and indecorous situation?

  No matter what the man’s station in life, however, she felt somewhat responsible for his present condition, since it was her coachman—her inebriated coachman—who had caused it. And even a highwayman did not deserve to be left to the inevitable fate which awaited him if his injury remained untreated. Therefore, gathering her courage and assuming a calmness she did not feel, she forced herself to move toward her patient. A patient who looked to be extremely angry and who, she feared, was in no mood to be cooperative.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gripping his thigh in a vain attempt to control the excruciating pain there, the wounded man thought, Lord! It hurts like the very devil! Perspiration popped out on his brow and he fought against the waves of faintness which threatened to overcome him. To make matters worse, his head hurt almost as much, too, and he supposed he must have struck it when he fell from his horse.

  Past experience had taught him that the best way to take one’s mind off physical discomfort was to concentrate on something else. To that end, he stared at the female who had entered the room on the heels of those two Friday-faced minions who had deprived him of his clothing, then left him to bleed to death.

  As a means of distraction, she left much to be desired, and he needed only one glance to take her measure. To begin with, she looked to be far past her prime. She was also something of a Long Meg, being rather taller than the average female. Her hair, partially covered by a lacy white cap, was a soft, though unremarkable shade of brown. And her gown, while obviously of the finest material and well made, was not designed to show off her feminine attributes to any advantage.

  If she even had any feminine attributes to show off, he thought sourly. He had no means of knowing whether or not she was married, but everything about her fairly shouted Ape Leader. To do her justice, however, she did possess a rather fine pair of clear, grey eyes.

  Had he not been in such pain, and so angry at finding himself here—wherever here was—and, worst of all, in such a damnably helpless state, he might almost have laughed at the expression of shock she’d worn upon first entering the room. That had soon given way to her present look of pinched disapproval. It took no imagination whatever to know that this female had never before been presented with the sight of an unclothed male.

  He watched her warily as she approached the bed and, in order to retain some control over his situation, he forestalled anything she might say by demanding, “Where the devil am I?”

  A small, strained smile had begun to form on her lips, but at his words she pressed them firmly together once more before replying, in a surprisingly civil tone, “You are at Meadowbrook, sir. My home. And I am...”

  He did not hear the remainder of her speech, for his senses began to dim as another wave of faintness washed over him. He squeezed his eyes shut as be fought it. When it finally passed, he spoke through gritted teeth. “And how is it that I find myself an unwilling guest here, ma’am?”

  A frown of concern creased her brow, but he was far too occupied with more immediate matters to note it.

  “I shall be happy to answer your questions, sir,” she said. “But at a later time, if you please. For now, suffice it to say that you have been shot; that the bullet is still in the wound; and that it must be removed and the bleeding stopped if you are to survive. I am sorry to state the matter so bluntly, but that is the truth in a nutshell.”

  “Bloody hell!” he muttered. Then, glancing behind her and seeing only one of the minions, he said, “In that case, I hope you have sent for a doctor.”

  From the expressions which crossed her face, he was certain that he could see into her mind with a great deal of accuracy. Quite obviously, she was magnanimously suppressing her natural instinct to object to his language. He felt certain, too, that she was attempting to make allowances for a man who was in a great deal of pain as well as weakened from loss of blood. It was a pity that he was not able, just now, to appreciate fully the humour of it all.

  She said, injecting a tone of rueful amusement into her voice, “Well, as to that, I am afraid that there is no doctor available.”

  His eyes had closed again, but now they shot open in another furious glare.

  Before he could treat her to more of what she undoubtedly considered his offensive utterances, she rushed into speech again. “However, sir, you are fortunate in that I have some knowledge of the healing arts. In fact, at the risk of sounding conceited, I am considered to be something of an expert in that area, and in the absence of a physician, I propose to remove the bullet myself.”

  “The hell you will!”

  Her mouth compressed once more, but she merely raised her eyebrows and said, “Very well, sir. If not I, then Jackson, my groom, will do it.” Then she said with an air of exaggerated innocence, “He has treated all manner of ailments in horses.”

  At that, he narrowed his eyes at her and gritted his teeth again. Ominously, he said, “I am no horse, madam. I insist that you send for a doctor. If I must have someone digging into me with a knife, I want a real sawbones, not a damned horse-quack.”

  “My dear sir, the nearest...ah, sawbones...is in Leeds and it would be hours before he could arrive. I fear you must choose between me and Jackson.”

  At that, his eyes closed again. He dropped back onto the bed, then gasped at the pain caused by the sudden movement and clutched at his leg once more.

  What in damnation had he ever done to deserve this? He had the dubious choice of entrusting his life and limb to a ham-handed horse doctor or to this female who considered herself to be an expert in the “healing arts.” Likely her expertise consisted of nothing more than waving a vinaigrette or a handful of burnt feathers under the noses of other vapourish females.

  But, loath though he was to admit it, he knew her to be right in one respect. Something must be done, and done soon. Already he felt as weak as a sick kitten, and he was holding on to consciousness by a mere thread. And so, there really was no choice at all, was there? At least she didn’t look to be ham-handed.

  With weary resignation, he growled, “Very well. Get on with it then—you, not that fugitive from a stable. It appears that you have me at your mercy.”

  Until that moment, Jane had kept her gaze resolutely fixed on the man’s face, but now her eyes shifted to his wound, then skittered away again. She suddenly found herself lacking in confidence and more reluctant than ever to do what must be done. She knew that she must, but the thought of touching that bare, hairy, masculine limb with her own hands—without even the benefit of her gloves and his breeches between them—was almost more than her mind could cope with. It would have been difficult enough if he had remained unconscious, but with him awake...

  Abruptly she turned away towards the washbasin, and was grateful to note that Agatha and Melrose had entered the room and were hovering just inside the doorway beside Jackson. Their presence served to bolster her courage and add some much needed stiffness to her backbone.

  She required her companion present to lend at least a measure of propriety to the situation, and as she began scrubbing her hands, she said, “I know this will not be pleasant for you, Agatha, but I thank you for coming.”

  Agatha merely nodded and said, “We are out of laudanum, so I have sent Elsie to procure some. Is there anything more I can do to help?”

  “No,” Jane replied. “Just the fact of your being here is a great help to me. As for the laudanum, we shall need it later, but I doubt it would take effect soon enough to be of use to us now.” Then, turning her attention to the men, she said, “Melrose, I shall need you and Jackson to stand ready to restrain the patient, should it become necessary.”

  Looking very like men on their way to t
he gallows, the two crossed the room, Melrose going to the head of the bed and Jackson to the foot.

  Jane, after pulling the low bedside table closer and arranging her basket upon it, eyed the two chairs in the chamber. But, judging that either of them would be too low for her purposes, she sat gingerly upon the edge of the bed beside the stranger’s exposed knee. From her basket she lifted a container of Scotch whisky, uncorked it, and was holding it over the wound when a new thought suddenly occurred to her. There was a very real chance that this man might yet die, from infection if not from blood loss, and they did not even know his name. Her mind shied away from the thought of an unmarked grave.

  Determined, before beginning, to discover that much at least, she asked, “What is your name, sir?”

  He was lying perfectly still with his eyes closed, the only sign of tension being his clenched jaw and his hands gripping the linens on either side of him. Relaxing his jaw, he said, “Sebast...”

  As he spoke, the container accidentally tipped, and a small stream of whisky poured onto the wound. He bolted upright with a roar of anguish, and his hand shot out to grip her wrist like a vise. His black eyes glaring into hers once more, he shouted, “What the bloody hell are you doing to me, woman?”

  “Really, Mr. Sebast,” Jane said disapprovingly, “I have tried very hard to take into account both your probable station in life and your condition. But I must tell you that I find your language to be offensive in the extreme.

  “As to what I am doing, I am attempting to cleanse your wound with whisky as a preventive to infection.”

  At that, his eyes shifted to the container, and releasing her wrist, he jerked the bottle from her hand, saying, “I have a better use for it.”

  Too surprised to react for a moment, Jane watched as he drank, long and deep. But then, before he could finish it off entirely, she reached for it again, fully expecting a struggle for its possession.

  However, he gave it up willingly enough, then lay back, closed his eyes, and after resuming his grip on the sheets, said, “I am ready now.”

  Melrose grasped the man’s shoulders and Jackson his ankles, while Jane took up the thin-bladed knife she had cleansed earlier. Holding the blade poised over the wound, she hesitantly placed her other hand on the naked flesh below the wound. But if her patient was ready, she now discovered that she was not. She squeezed her eyes shut, almost overcome by the very alien and disturbing feel of his hair-roughened skin against her palm, as well as by thoughts of the grisly task before her.

  There was no telling how long she might have remained like that—seemingly unable to either retreat or go forward—had the man not goaded her by saying, “Confound it, woman! Do you enjoy torturing me with this suspense? Get on with it!”

  That effectively ended her procrastination as nothing else could have done. Opening her eyes and gritting her teeth, she lowered the knife and inserted the tip into the wound.

  Though not a sound came from his throat, the man’s body stiffened and arched, straining against the hands which held him, and then, blessedly, he went limp. Fortunately for both himself and Jane, he had lost consciousness.

  By the time she had probed for the bullet, removed it, cleansed the wound, stopped the bleeding, and applied a dressing, she was nearly as pale as her patient. She also found that she was trembling with fatigue brought on by the strain of the ordeal. Even worse, she had the most horrifying feeling that she might burst into tears at any moment—something which would have been entirely out of character for her.

  And so she accepted with alacrity Agatha’s offer to sit with their patient, and made her way to her bedchamber to recover her poise in privacy.

  It was not until after the dinner hour that she returned to the sickroom, where she found Mr. Sebast to be still insensible, as Agatha had reported when she came down to the dining-room. Jane supposed it was just as well. He needed someone with him since he was not yet out of danger, but once he was awake, it would not be proper for her to be alone with him.

  However, she hoped he would not remain unconscious for too long. He would soon need sustenance in the form of broth and gruel in order to regain his strength. Then all she need worry about was the dreaded possibility that he might develop a fever, which would indicate that his wound had turned putrid. But a hand placed on his cool brow relieved her of that fear, for the time being at least.

  Sitting down in a chair beside the bed, she made herself as comfortable as she could, then gazed at the man lying there. His head was turned toward her on the pillow, and the candle on the bedside table shone full on his face, making it possible for her to study him closely.

  His hair was a dark, chestnut brown, and disheveled as it now was, gave evidence of a natural curl. His brow suggested intelligence; his nose was mainly straight with just a hint of the aquiline; his mouth was well formed; and his chin and jaw seemed to indicate strength. She had noted earlier that his eyes were not actually black, but so dark a brown as to appear to be that colour. Now she noticed that at the outer comers of his closed eyes there were tiny, barely perceptible lines, which made her think that he was no stranger to laughter.

  A most attractive man indeed, thought Jane. Yet his was not the classic handsomeness one might associate with a gentleman. Even in repose she could easily imagine it belonging to an ancient warrior, or a pirate or a... highwayman?

  Oh, she was being too nonsensical by half. And even if he should be the highwayman, as she had told Agatha, they had little to fear from him in his present condition. She very much doubted that he would end by robbing them, anyway. Surely he would not repay them so shabbily for saving his life. Of course, his life would not have needed saving were it not for them....

  Misliking the direction of her thoughts, she sought to turn them into other paths. She mentally listed the many duties awaiting her on the morrow. There were the linens to be sorted, and of course many of them would be in need of mending. They always were. Thank heaven Cook was able to function with only a modicum of supervision. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Elsie, the young and rather inept maid.

  In addition she must meet with Phillips, her estate agent. Their meetings never failed to throw her into a state of gloom. Then, too, she must find time to visit her herb garden and replenish her medicinal supplies, but she considered that a pleasure rather than a chore.

  Jane suddenly yawned, shifted to a more comfortable position in her chair, and returned to her ruminations. There was also the necessity of preparing a chamber for young Alice Brant, who would be coming to stay at Meadowbrook in a few days. Jane was looking forward to that event with slightly less pleasure than before. She was beginning to wonder if Agatha might not be correct in thinking that Jane was biting off more than she could chew.

  In small doses, Alice could be extremely likeable, and even amusing at times. But, Jane now admitted to herself, to say that Alice was a spoiled minx was a kindness; the girl was indeed wild to a fault, the product of a doting father who could seldom bring himself to say nay to her. Now the widowed squire had suddenly awakened to the fact that Alice was of marriageable age, and even he was not so blind that he could not see a few glaring deficiencies in her conduct.

  “I’ll not deny that my young puss is a handful,” he had said jovially. “But you will know just how to handle her.”

  Well, somehow she would manage to bring the girl up to snuff, if only because she must. She deplored the necessity of accepting payment for the task, but, unfortunately, she was in no position to refuse it. Her own papa had left her with a modest competence which was quite sufficient for everyday needs. But there never seemed to be enough money for the repairs required to keep Meadowbrook up as it should be kept.

  Jane’s heavy-lidded eyes returned to the bed, and a vague thought drifted through her mind. She hoped that her patient would be able to travel soon. There was a certain incongruity in her trying to teach a young girl proper behaviour while a highwayman occupied one of her bedchambers.


  The bedside candle had guttered out, and the chamber was moon drenched when Jane startled to wakefulness. For a moment, she could not think how she had come to fall asleep in a chair, nor did she know what had caused her to awaken so abruptly. But then memory returned in a rush as she heard a muttering and rustling sound coming from the bed. She rose swiftly, certain that her greatest fear had come to pass. Her patient was becoming delirious with fever.

  Jane reached out a hand to feel his brow, but before she could do so, he gave a great shout and began thrashing about quite violently. Without consideration, she did the only thing she could think of in order to prevent his reopening the wound. She threw herself across his chest in an effort to hold him still.

  * * * *

  Jane’s patient came awake rather slowly, but with awareness came the consciousness of three things in rapid succession. He’d been reliving Waterloo in a nightmare, someone had thrust a hot poker through his thigh, and there was an unaccountable heaviness on his chest. For the ending of the nightmare, he could only be thankful, but the latter two circumstances were not to be tolerated.

  His left hand and arm seemed to be trapped somehow at his side, but the right one was free and he moved it toward his chest, only to encounter a handful of hair. Further exploration told him that this was attached to a head, and he raised his own head from the pillow to squint down at the apparition lying on his chest. He muttered, “What the devil?”

  The moon was full, providing sufficient light for him to identify his assailant. It was the Long Meg, and she had turned her head and was staring back at him, rather as though she were shocked at finding herself in such a position and did not know how she came to be there. Incongruously, and despite the discomfort in his leg, he was amused. He also decided that he had been wrong, after all. With her lying across his chest in that way, he discovered that the lady did, indeed, possess at least two feminine attributes.