The front door of The Garland was thrown open. A dark figure of a man with a hood over his head charged out the door and ran right into the horse’s flank.
The man reeled back as if stunned to findsomeone blocking his escape—and Ned recognized him. It was hard to disguise the lanky awkwardness. “Fitzsimmons?”
The answer was a shocked gasp at the recognition. Fitz backed away just as a woman’s feeble cry went up from inside the tavern. “Help, please, someone help me.”
Fitz looked back at the doorway and then went tearing off.
In the next moment the woman herself appeared at the door and leaned against it. She wore her nightdress and little else. Her red hair was in a long dark braid over her shoulder.
A cloud blocking the moon shifted and Ned could see the stain of blood running down her face.
Chapter Ten
Ned immediately jumped to the ground. Dropping Hippocrates’s reins over his head, he untied his medical bag from his saddle and hurried to Gemma. The horse would meander where he wished. Ned’s first concern was for the woman.
When he reached the door, she fell into his arms. “Someone attacked me.” Her voice was breathless, panicked. Her eyes met his and then, recognizing him, she started to struggle as if afraid he would hurt her.
“Please, please,” he said. “It is all right. It is me, Ned Thurlowe. You are safe. But I need to stop the bleeding.”
She frowned fiercely as if not believing him.
“Gemma, I want to help. Come, please.” She didn’t relax but she let him walk her back through the door.
All was dark. “Where is a candle?”
“The . . . k-kitchen.” Her speech was slowing. She was going to faint.
He swept her up in his arms.
She stiffened. “What are you doing?”
“Making it easier for both of us. Do you know what he hit you with?”
“No,” she said softly and then leaned her head against his chest, her braid falling over his arm. Good. She’d given up the fight.
Moving in the dark, he trusted his instinct, and years spent in The Garland, to find the taproom door. From there, he could see the burning embers in the kitchen hearth.
“Can you sit?” he asked.
“Of course.” Her voice was still weak, but slightly cranky. He interpreted it as a good sign.
After sitting her in the nearest chair at the table, Ned placed his medical bag on the table and went over to stir the fire. The flames came to life, adding more light to the kitchen. He looked around for the candle and saw it on the table beside her. A beat later he had the candle lit. The room filled with a thin, golden glow.
“My embroidered bag... my herbs. In my room.”
She was giving him orders. Yes, she would be fine.
“I have salves for cuts.” His foot kicked a log that was on the floor.
“That is what he hit me with,” she murmured before slumping. He caught her before she tumbled to the floor.
“Come, Gemma. Be strong.”
Her lids fluttered and she tried to smile. “He hit . . . me.”
“That he did.” Bracing her with one arm, Ned held the candle up to take a closer look at her injury. The cut was high on the temple, just at the hairline. “Clean rags?”
She shook her head, sitting back on her own in the chair. Her breathing was still shallow.
