Chapter 11 #2
With a muffled oath, Davenport pried the pistol free and flung it away.
But the coachman—clearly no stranger to bare-knuckle fisticuffs—recovered with astonishing speed.
Pushing Caroline to the ground, he lashed out a vicious kick at the earl, catching him on the knee and sending him staggering.
A chopping blow sent Davenport’s pistol skittering under a jumble of hogsheads.
Both men began circling each other.
“Want a beating to that pretty face o’ yers?” sneered the coachman, feinting to the right. “I’ll be happy to oblige. When I finish with ye, yer own doxy won’t recognize ye.”
With a bob of his head, he sought an opening, but the earl hadn’t been fooled. “I see the snivelin’ cripple has run off,” he snarled. “Not that ’e be any use te ye.”
Davenport parried a wicked left, then countered with a hard shot that caught the coachman square on the nose. As blood spurted out, he gave a roar of pain and lunged straight ahead, knocking the earl back into the wall.
His beefy fist came up, poised to deliver a punishing blow…when, suddenly, a length of stout hickory whipped out of the shadows and smacked the side of his head. Reeling from the unexpected impact, he staggered back, and then a lashing punch to the jaw from Davenport laid him out cold.
“He likes to hit people until they hit back,” muttered the earl. He looked up at his friend, who was brandishing a broken broom handle in one hand. “Well done, Jeremy. My thanks.”
“Milord, you are hurt!” Caroline had picked herself up from the mud and was staring at the dark stain that was spreading on Davenport’s shoulder.
“It’s nought but a scratch,” he replied. “Come, that shot will have a crowd here at any moment. We must get away from here.”
Jeremy threw down his makeshift cudgel. “Follow me.”
* * *
Caroline lit the lantern and held it close to the unconscious earl. “Is he…”
“He’s fainted.” Jeremy looked up uncertainly. “The wound doesn’t look too bad. But there’s quite a lot of blood.”
Caroline untucked her shirt and began tearing the long tails into strips.
“I know a bit about tending to injuries.” She knelt down beside him and carefully peeled Davenport’s coat and shirt back from his injured shoulder.
With a sharp intake of breath, she pulled the earl’s shirttails out as well and ripped a goodly amount of fabric from them.
“I fear the shirt was ruined anyway,” she said wryly as she folded the material into a thick compress and pressed it hard against the ragged gash.
But, in truth, the heavy bleeding had her worried.
After a few minutes, she used the strips she had torn to bind the pad to the wound, then looked over to Jeremy.
“He needs to be properly attended to, but I’m afraid that your rooms are no longer safe.
Is there somewhere we may take him, somewhere away from this town?
Though how we shall manage to move him…”
Jeremy gestured toward the small gig that was standing beside them. “Can you harness a horse?”
She nodded.
“A lady of many talents.” He flashed a smile as he brushed the straw from his breeches and stood up. “Old Patch is as docile as they come. I am acquainted with the owner, and when he learns of the circumstances, I doubt he’ll be overly angry if we, er, borrow his conveyance for a short while.”
He went to fetch the animal from a stall at the back of the small stable while Caroline began to wrestle with the tangle of harness that was hanging from a wooden peg. Jeremy pulled a face as he watched her drag it down and nimbly sort out the straps and reins.
“What a helpless idiot I am,” he muttered.
Caroline slanted a look at him as she began to put the bridle on the horse. “You are only an idiot if you truly believe that. Rather than mourning for what you don’t have, you should feel very fortunate to possess such a rare talent as you do. You are luckier by far than most people.”
She quickly put on the harness, did up the buckles and tightened a strap or two. “Besides,” she added, “I saw what you did. That was hardly helpless—Gentleman Joe himself couldn’t have landed a better blow.”
Her words caused Jeremy’s brow to furrow.
He stood in silence, as if deep in thought, as she backed the animal into the traces and finished making the gig ready.
It was only when she hesitated and asked his aid in moving the earl’s prostrate form into the back of the gig that he snapped out of his reverie and rushed over to help.
Together, they somehow managed to lift him up onto the pile of straw that covered the rough boards. Caroline added an old horse blanket she had spied hanging from the door of a stall. Though hardly in a pristine state, it would help in warding off the chill.
Jeremy had taken up an old stovepipe hat, which had been sitting atop a pile of discarded burlap bags, and planted it firmly over his curling locks. It came down nearly to his eyes, and she would have been wont to giggle if he hadn’t looked so resolute.
“I can drive a gig,” he announced, his tone daring her to challenge his assertion.
“I do it quite often. You should lie down in the back with Julian with the blanket drawn up over you both until we pass out of town. It is less likely anyone will take note of a poor farmer in a simple gig.” He turned the collar of his coat up to heighten the effect.
Caroline had to agree it was a good plan.
She took her place under the musty wool, stifling the urge to sneeze at the cloud of dust and horsehair that mizzled over her head and shoulders.
At least the smell wasn’t unbearably rank.
Jeremy slid the door of the stable open and checked that all was clear.
With a flick of the reins, they were off.
* * *
The gentleman watched from the shadows as a small group of men gathered around the man who was lying in the mud. As he was helped to his feet, blood streaming from his broken nose, voices demanded to know what had happened.
“Thieves,” croaked the coachman. “I was merely stretching my legs after a day of driving when, suddenly, I was set upon by three of ’em. Armed they was, too. But I managed to fight them off.”
A murmur of consternation ran through the group.
“Thieves? We don’t countenance such goings on here. Did you happen to get a good look at them?”
“Aye. One was a tall, well-built fellow with a scar on his cheek; another was kinda skinny, hardly more than a boy. And the third was a cripple—missing his left hand, he was.”
“Why, that sounds like Mr. Leighton,” cried one of the tradesmen who had rushed out from a nearby tavern at the sound of the shot. “But I cannot believe that such a gentleman would be involved in this.”
“He’s a bit queer in the head,” muttered another man. “Roaming around the countryside with his paints and such.”
As the group helped the coachman back toward the inn, the gentleman slipped from his spot and hurried away.
Damn the coachman! The cursed fellow had bungled things yet again.
The trap had been sprung before things were in place, and now the quarry was at large again.
His fingers curled around the butt of his own silver-chaised pistol, itching to put it to use.
He would pay a call on Mr. Leighton’s quarters, but he doubted that he would find anyone there.
He would have to set to casting his net in a wider direction and hope that it pulled in something—and quickly.
Time was running out.
* * *
It could have been worse, thought Caroline as the gig hit yet another rut. If the vehicle had been able to travel at more than a plodding walk, the jarring would no doubt have been even more uncomfortable. As it was, the jostling was tolerable, but the sedate pace set her teeth on edge.
Would she never make any progress toward London?
Yet another bump caused the earl’s leg to bounce up and press up against hers.
Caroline could feel the solid contours of his muscled thigh, the heat of his body that was emanating from beneath the snug buckskins.
It was disconcerting, yet oddly comforting.
She made no move to pull away. Indeed, after another jolt, she reached out to cradle his shoulders.
The constant bumping could have been doing no good for his wound.
Shifting even closer, Caroline settled Davenport’s head on her chest. His breathing was labored, but there was no sign of fever on his brow.
She brushed back the dark locks, letting her fingers linger on his sun-bronzed skin.
In repose, the planes of his face appeared softer and more vulnerable than when he was awake.
Still, the signs of worry and strain were visible in the lines etched around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth.
With a guilty shiver, Caroline realized that she had only added to them. Yesterday, the thought of it wouldn’t have upset her greatly. But now, she found that it mattered a great deal to her. Rather than add to Davenport’s burdens, she wished she could help to ease them.
If only there was a way to keep the laughter and warmth she had glimpsed in his sapphirine eyes from being darkened by whatever demons jabbed at his thoughts.
His breath tickled her neck with the gossamer lightness of a summer breeze. Yes, his moods could be stormy. And yet, she had also witnessed that he was capable of great gentleness.
A sigh. There was so much to think about concerning the earl…if only she could keep her eyes open.
* * *
Davenport awoke with the strangest feeling that a horse was sitting on his head.
A bizarre dream, no doubt! Still muzzy with sleep, he shifted slightly to banish the odd sensation.
However, the soft warmth beneath his cheek was no figment of his imagination.
It felt quite pleasant, and he had no desire to do away with it.
With a deep sigh of contentment, he burrowed his head deeper.
His hand also came up to seek out the heat, closing lightly over a tantalizingly soft mound…
“Oh!”
Davenport’s eyes flew open in confusion. His hand slid away from Caroline’s chest, and he started to sit up.
Caroline quickly restrained him. “Don’t try to move, milord. I fear you may open your wound.”
He was suddenly aware of the sharp throbbing in his shoulder, the jostling of the gig and the prickle of hay under his coat. “What happened? Where the devil are we?”
“You’ve been shot,” she replied. “You fainted. Mr. Leighton and I managed to carry you to a stable and…well, we have borrowed a gig and are taking you somewhere safe so that your wound can be properly tended.”
“Fainted? Only females faint,” he muttered. “Where are we going?”
Caroline repressed a grin. “What I meant, sir, is that you passed out from loss of blood. As to where we are going, I don’t know.”
He probed gingerly at his injury. “It’s been bandaged. How…”
“I managed to stop the bleeding, though I fear that both of our shirts are quite the worse for it.” She wriggled up into a sitting position so that his shoulders rested in her lap and his head remained cradled against her chest. “But truly, you must stop moving about. Please try to get some more rest.”
It was a novel experience to have someone fussing over his well-being. Davenport realized that he had no inclination to disobey her order to remain still. He was quite comfortable where he was.
His eyes were on the verge of drooping shut when he suddenly noticed the cut on her mouth. “Damnation, that poxy varlet struck you!”
“Yes, well, I suppose another bruise hardly matters.” Her tongue ran lightly over the split in her lip.
To the earl’s consternation, the fleeting gesture sent a frisson through his limbs.
Caroline tugged the blanket up higher. “Are you chilled, milord?”
He merely grunted, closing his eyes to hide the flare of desire he was sure would be evident in them. His senses must have been addled from shock, he thought. There was no other explanation.
“You have real backbone, Miss Caroline,” he said softly, finally managing to take control of his thoughts.
“It’s quite easy to appear brave when someone is always coming to the rescue. Once again, you had to—how did you put it?—scrape me out of the mud.” A rueful smile tugged at her mouth. “It must be getting very tiresome.”
He mumbled something under his breath.
“I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble,” she continued. “And alas, it seems to keep getting worse.”
Davenport chuckled at that. “Worse? Hmmm, let me see—I’ve been forced into a mad chase on horseback, I’ve been shot at, punched in the gut and now winged by a bullet. I figure at this rate, I’ll be sticking my spoon in the wall before noon tomorrow.”
“No!” Caroline’s voice caught in her throat. “Don’t say that! I…”
“I was merely teasing,” he said, surprised by her reaction. Was it merely his imagination, or had she brushed her fingertips against his cheek in something akin to a caress?
“Hmmph.” She scowled. “It’s not a jesting matter.”
He didn’t answer. But when he closed his eyes, there was a slight smile on his lips.