Richard Hawkesbury managed to follow the young woman’s path, even though his vision wavered now and again. His chest hurt, and his head ached like the very devil, but she stayed just in front of him, so he kept his focus on her heels, praying they didn’t have to go too far.
His prayers were answered a few minutes later, when she slowed to a halt, and he found himself looking at a tiny cottage that might have been home to a hermit, or a couple of quite small people. Or elves maybe. His mind struggled to stay on track.
“This is Forest Nook. My siblings and I used to play here when we were children. It’s been kept up for when our friends who have children come to visit.” She managed a smile. “To be honest, I also come here now and again, just to read in peace and quiet.”
“I see.” It was the best he could do at the moment.
She opened the door with a key she pulled from somewhere above the eaves. “Here. Come in and sit down.”
He was more than happy to obey both instructions, and barely noticed the little hall with its pegs on the wall for jackets, or the boot tray beneath. They walked across worn floors into what was clearly a tiny kitchen, and with a sigh of relief, he sat on one of the larger chairs.
“Thank you,” he muttered, leaning back and closing his eyes. “This is much better than the bank of a stream.”
She was pumping water into a bowl and opening cabinets here and there. “I think we should clean up your head a little, if you don’t mind. Luckily, it wasn’t cold enough last night to freeze the pump.”
“I…” he frowned. “Should you not call a servant or something?”
“Good heavens, no. I’m quite capable of cleaning and bandaging all types of wounds. I could even set a boneif necessary.” She wrinkled her nose. “Unfortunately, the opportunity to do that has yet to cross my path.”
Before he could follow up on that particular comment, she was at his side, a cold wet cloth in hand, dabbing cautiously at the upper part of his head.
“Ow,” he murmured.
“I’m sorry, but it needs to be cleaned.” She dabbed again. “It appears to be a small wound, though, and I feel no broken bone shards around it.” Her fingers gently probed. “So either you do indeed have a remarkably hard head, or your attackers did not use as much force as it might seem.”
“They didn’t want me dead, I would suppose. Just out of commission, and without my bag.” He bit his lip. “They achieved that goal. I am exactly as they must have intended. Helpless.”
Holly wrung out the cloth. “I would like to clean up your chest, sir, but I have to return home soon, or I shall be missed and that’ll have my Mama sending out a footman to hunt me down.”
He managed a weak grin. “Run away often, have you?”
“Not since I was ten,” she replied frostily. Then thawed. “But my family worries, of course, as families do. Anyway,” she changed the subject, “there are guests arriving, I’m told, and my presence is necessary.” Handing him the cloth, she quickly rinsed her hands under the pump.
“Please do what you can with your injuries, rest here, and I will be back with more supplies as soon as I can. The sun shines in and warms this room, but I’ll get a fire going in the other one when I return.”
“You are very kind to a stranger, Miss Trease,” he answered. “Aren’t you concerned I might be here to rob your home, or perhaps post a threat to your family?”
She looked at him, her amazingly blue eyes meeting his in a firm gaze. “I suppose I should be, sir, but I’ve always consideredmyself a good judge of character, and I don’t think you have either of those goals in mind.” She sighed. “Of course, I could be wrong, which will land me in a lot of trouble. If I am, I assure you I shall hunt you down, and show you no mercy whatsoever.”
She put the cloths next to him and gestured at the sink. “The water is clean if you need a drink. There are cups in the cupboard. I’ll bring some tea when I come back.”
“I’m intrigued,” Richard said, managing a grin. “What does ‘no mercy’ mean?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him as she moved to the door. “I’m presently studying Professor Guilden’s Treatise on Local Poisons.”
“Ah.” He blinked. “That would do it.”
“By the way, what’s your name?”
“Hawkesbury. Richard Hawkesbury. Not quite at your service, Ma’am, but I will be soon.”
He heard her laugh as she left, and discovered he was feeling a lot better than he’d expected, given the unfortunate incidents of the night before.
His gaze fell on the short dagger he’d removed from his chest—and didn’t that hurt—turning it over in his hand. It was a quality piece, even spattered with his blood, and he was damned lucky it had only penetrated a small way into the skin beneath his armpit, thanks to his thick jacket. Still hurt like the devil, though.
Taking a clean piece of cloth, he carefully cleansed his side, wincing a little as the icy water touched the wound. The skin around it was cool, and the bleeding stopped, so he allowed himself a sigh of relief. If it was going to become infected, it probably would have done so by now, given that it had was twelve hours or so since the attack.
Sighing, he picked up the dagger again. And noticed the letter amongst the engraving on the handle. It was an ornate “B”.
