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Relief filled her. An arm was bad, but the chest was so much worse.

“Can you take off your jacket?” She swallowed. “And your shirt?”

The smuggler was silent, and Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. Without her help, he’d likely die. Did he really care so much for propriety?

“Cut off the sleeves,” he said.

“But your clothing . . .”

“Is of no importance and is ruined anyway.” He paused and continued more quietly. “And truth be told, I have not the strength to remove them.”

“Very well,” Elizabeth said. She set the candle down. “I will gather my things.”

A few minutes later, Elizabeth sat on the stool beside the cot, a washbasin full of water and the objects she’d collected at her feet. At the end of the cot lay the remains of the smuggler’s sleeves, and before her lay his bloodstained arm. By the light of the nearby candle, she studied the wound.

“How bad is it?” The smuggler’s right arm was over his eyes again.

“You’ve bled a great deal, but I don’t think the bullet went deep enough to hit bone. In fact . . .” She trapped her lower lip between her teeth as she gently rotated his arm. “I think it may have gone all the way through.”

“So I have a hole in my arm.”

“That’s a rather blunt way of expressing it, but yes, it would seem so.” She looked up in time to catch his grimace. “I should also add that if I’m right, you are very fortunate. It would be considerably worse for you if there were a bullet lodged inside.”

“Would you . . . ?” He breathed heavily. “Would you be good enough to clean it and ensure that that’s the case?”

Elizabeth gave him a curious look. He was far more polite than any of the other smugglers she’d dealt with. She’d not recognized him when he’d come to her aid three weeks before, and now that she’d spoken to him again, she still could not place his accent. He was not a local, of that she was sure.

“What’s your name?”

“Reynard,” he said.

“Reynard? That’s all?”

“Yes.”

He had yet to move his right arm, so she could not read his expression. “Very well, Reynard. I will start cleaning your wound. If the pain becomes too much, I have brandy and a wooden spoon. You may choose which one goes in your mouth.”

The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “You are wise beyond your years, Miss Doyle.”

***

When Elizabeth finally rose to her feet, she did not know exactly how much time had passed, but only a stump of the third tallow candle remained. Drying her hands on the last remaining clean rag, she rolled her shoulders, hoping to work out the ache that had settled there the moment she’d cut off Reynard’s sleeves and exposed his injury. Cleaning the wound had been nothing to the excruciating pain she’d inflicted when she’d pierced his skin with a needle. The agony in the cry he muffled behind the wooden spoon in his mouth would haunt her for a long time. Only when he’d passed out and fallen silent had her hands stopped trembling enough to enable her to finish the job she’d set out to do.

She looked at him now. With the passage of time, the bloodstains on his clothing had turned brown, but his injured arm was unencumbered by a sleeve and was clean of blood.

She’d wrapped a rag around his wound. It covered the bullet’s entry point at the back of his arm and the ragged exit point at the front. Once she’d stitched both holes closed, the bleeding had slowed considerably, and even now, the bandage remained white.

Leaning over the cot, she gently withdrew the wooden spoon from his mouth. She could smell the brandy on his breath. He’d taken only one drink, determined to keep his wits about him regardless of the discomfort. Eventually, however, the pain had overtaken him, and he’d succumbed to unconsciousness.

Now that his face was in repose, she realized he was younger than she’d imagined. His dark hair fell in gentle waves across his eyebrows, and a full day’s stubble covered his chin. His aquiline nose was not quite straight, and she wondered if he had broken it sometime—perhaps on the same occasion that he had cut his upper lip deeply enough to leave a small scar. She sighed and looked at his bandaged arm once more. Reynard had obviously survived one accident. Could he recover from yet another?

Gathering the soiled rags and the torn sleeves, Elizabeth wearily carried them to her bedchamber and dropped them on the floor. After returning to the hidden room two more times to collect the washbasin full of dirty water and the other bits and pieces she’d taken with her, she blew out the candle. Instantly, the small room fell dark, but a quick glance toward the ceiling told her dawn was not too far off. Small holes beneath the eaves let in enough air to clear the tallow’s smoke from the windowless room and revealed the lightening sky.

Elizabeth took the corner of the thin blanket and pulled it over Reynard’s sleeping form. It was bloodstained, but so was he. Without looking back, she exited the room and closed the panel behind her. In the half light, the outline of her bed stood out against the opposite wall. She stepped toward it, then collapsed onto the mattress and closed her eyes. She would need to wash blood out of a regrettably large pile of clothing, rags, and blankets in the morning, but for now, she was totally incapable of doing anything but sleeping.

***

Jonas’s first cognizant thought was that there was a deep pain pulsating through his arm; the second was that he was encompassed by blackness. He lay on his back, grasping at splintered memories, desperately attempting to piece them into a logical pattern. There was the unloading of boats on the beach, the warning shouts and gunshots, the race to escape on horseback, the innkeeper’s fury and his daughter’s assistance. As a vision of the young woman staggering up the stairs beside him filled his mind, the jumbled pieces came together.