Mary And The Marquis. Janice Preston

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      Mary froze, her thoughts scrambling. The children! She couldn’t leave them out here, alone with an injured man. She would have to take them with her, but they would slow her down. How long had he been bleeding?

      ‘How far is it to find help?’

      ‘Rothley...two miles...maybe more.’ He seemed more alert, his breathing a touch easier.

      Rothley. She knew the village, although not well. She had known it was on her route. She had her own reasons for avoiding it. ‘Two miles? Is there nowhere nearer?’

      He snorted. ‘This is Northumberland. Sultan knows the way...won’t take long...you can ride?’

      ‘Of course I can.’ Mary twisted her wrist, trying to work it free. ‘But, first, I must look at your wounds. How long ago did it happen?’

      ‘Not sure...lost track...but—’ he squinted up through the branches overhead ‘—possibly...a couple of hours?’

      ‘Are you still bleeding?’

      ‘Never mind that...please...go...’

      Mary eyed him with exasperation. If he was still losing blood, she must try to staunch the flow before leaving him. It would be an hour or more before help arrived. Three hours of blood loss could prove fatal.

      ‘Please,’ she said, ‘let me see?’

      He scowled, but he lifted his jacket away from his left shoulder. She leant over him, grasped the lapel and opened it wider, reaching inside and placing her hand on the huge patch of blood that stained the front of his white shirt. It was wet. He hissed with pain.

      ‘Sorry,’ she said as she lowered his jacket back into place. She had seen enough. He had lost a great deal of blood and she knew she must bandage the wounds before she left.

      ‘You’re still bleeding,’ she told him. ‘I shall have to remove your jacket, no matter how much it hurts, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Any...other time...a pleasure.’ His eyes glinted and a brief smile twisted his lips.

      She narrowed her eyes at him, steadfastly ignoring the frisson of pleasure that skittered down her spine at his expression. A typical male, she thought. Not even a serious injury could curb his rakish tendencies.

      ‘I’ll need to check your back, too,’ she said. ‘If the bullet went straight through, you will need padding there as well. Have you a knife?’

      ‘A knife? What...? You’re not...?’

      ‘No.’ Despite the circumstances, she had to laugh. ‘I only want it to cut your coat. I shall make no attempt to remove the bullet, if it is still in there. After all, you almost swooned when I barely touched your shoulder just now.’

      His dark brows snapped together. ‘I do not swoon,’ he said. ‘Passed out...pain...hardly the same.’

      ‘Well, that’s as may be, but removing your jacket will hurt a great deal more, I promise.’

      ‘Hard woman...’ he grumbled, but fumbled in his pocket and produced a clasp knife, which Mary took and opened, using it to hack at the edge of his jacket.

      ‘Careful!’ he gasped.

      ‘The quicker I do this, the better,’ she said as she grasped the cut edges of the cloth and ripped with a quick, steady motion. She repeated her actions with his blood-soaked shirt. ‘Lean forward, if you please.’

      He obeyed and she cut again, then eased the clothes away, exposing his left shoulder. His skin was warm to her touch, warm and smooth. She was close enough to register the male, spicy scent of him, overlaid with the coppery smell of fresh blood. She shook her head. What was wrong with her? Concentrate, Mary, she admonished herself.

      ‘Good,’ she said calmly, as if her thoughts hadn’t been leading her in an entirely inappropriate direction, ‘it seems as though the bullet went straight through. I’ll...’ She paused, thinking.

      ‘You’ll...?’

      She looked at him and frowned. ‘We need bandages.’

      ‘Can use...shirt.’

      ‘No, that won’t do. Half of it is already ruined and you must keep warm.’ There was no help for it, she knew. She must sacrifice her petticoat, although, heaven knew, she had few enough clothes as it was. Still, in an emergency...

      ‘Stay there a minute,’ she said as she got to her feet.

      He looked up at her and his mouth quirked into a smile. His lips, she noticed with a flutter, were firm, shapely and very sensual. ‘Going...nowhere,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘Mary. Mary Vale.’

      She stepped behind the tree and lifted her skirt. She cut a slit in her cotton petticoat, then ripped a length from around the hem. She then repeated the action twice more, using the knife to cut one strip in half to pad the wound.

      ‘What...you doing...behind my back...Sensible Mary?’

      Mary’s jaw clenched. Sensible Mary! The exact same phrase her late husband had used, taunting her for her practical outlook on life. Well, she might be practical, but that trait had kept her family together after Michael’s drinking had spiralled out of control. Until he died, that is. Much use was practicality when the rent was due and you had no way of paying it. At least, no way she was willing to entertain. Resolutely, she forced her thoughts back to the matter in hand. There was much to do and, despite the sting of that name, she was grateful for her streak of common sense. Acting the lady and, yes, swooning would get them nowhere.

      She came back around the tree and knelt again by his side. ‘And you are?’ she asked, as she folded one of the strips to form a pad.

      ‘Lucas.’

      ‘Mr Lucas?’

      He eyed her, then sighed. ‘Lucas Alastair. Rothley.’

      She froze. ‘Rothley? When you said Rothley before I assumed you meant the village.’

      She knew of the Alastairs of Rothley. Her father and the Marquis of Rothley had once been friends who, in time, had become bitter enemies.

      As she urged Rothley to lean forward so she could pad the exit wound, her mind whirled. The old marquis must have died and this would therefore be his eldest son. There had been two, as she recalled. The tales of their wild behaviour, recounted in whispers, had even penetrated north of the Border, where Mary had spent her childhood. Wild stories, half-remembered. She pushed her conjectures to the back of her mind. His past was of no immediate import.

      ‘We are near to Rothley Hall, then?’

      ‘Indeed...this...my land...’ he gasped.

      Mary studied him with concern. His eyes were screwed shut, his fine lips twisted in a grimace. He might be a wild, hedonistic rake—and drunk, to boot—but he was injured and in pain.

      ‘Do СКАЧАТЬ