Farther up the road, Farrell drew the gelding up short and whirled him around, finding his sister nowhere in sight. The shot had come a fair distance away, but the low rumble of noise that followed made him pull back in the darkness. He looped the reins around his useless hand and checked the loading of his weapons. Then after a word of caution to the girl behind him, he waited.
Erienne came into view a long moment later, and Farrell raised his pistol as he saw the group of riders racing behind her. He squeezed off a shot, and the band came to a skidding halt, raising up a plume of dust in the road. Farrell thrust the pistol away and snatched up the long musket. Laying it across the upper part of his crippled arm, he carefully sighted his target. The shot exploded and struck home, jerking a thief around with a loud scream. The man teetered for a moment in the saddle, then managed to turn his horse about and send him galloping down the road. His companions gave up the chase just as quickly, all except the stalwart sheriff, who shouted after them.
“Come back, you fools! We might lose a man or two, but if we keep together we can take him! Come back, I say!”
A rude contradiction was thrown back at him over a shoulder. “Ye’re the fool if ye think we’ll stay an’ take the first shot from the blighter! Take it yerself!”
Farrell had taken up the second pistol, and he let fly another report. The lead ball winged past Parker’s ear, and deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, he struck out after his cohorts, determining that it would be folly indeed to try to catch the night rider when that one was well armed and there was no way of accounting for what weapons his confederates had. The odds were definitely against him tonight, yet there would again come a time when the two of them would meet. He promised himself that much.
Erienne saw the last of the thieves heading off into the night. A flood of relief came with the knowledge that they had given up the chase, but she was plagued by a greater anxiety, that of Christopher’s whereabouts. If the murdering band had set out after him, where was he? Was he wounded somewhere? Did he need her help?
Farrell rode beside his sister until they reached the familiar lands of Saxton Hall, then Erienne waved him on.
“Get the girl to the manor,” she bade. “Aggie will know what to do to help her. I’ll come along in a moment.”
“Will you be all right?” he demanded. “The night rider may still be around here somewhere.”
“See to the girl, Farrell,” Erienne directed, taking on a tone of sisterly authority. “Quickly!”
She waited until her brother was out of sight before turning the mare into the woods and urging her in the direction of the cottage. The moon cast its light through the barren limbs, creating dark, tangled images on the leaf-covered sod and confusing the path. Erienne eyed the shadows carefully, half expecting some movement to startle her, and did not realize her tension until she reached the cottage. The windows were tightly shuttered, and no light escaped from between the planks to give any assurance of occupancy. Nothing stirred, nothing moved. No evidence of her husband’s landau was visible. For the most part the place seemed deserted.
Keeping to the sod to muffle the noise of the hooves, she rode past the front of the cottage on to the far side. A snuffling snort came from one of the paddocks behind the shrubs, pricking her curiosity. If Saracen was here, then Christopher had to be around somewhere, and her anxieties would be relieved. She slid from the mare and pushed her way through the greenery. The gate squeaked slightly as she opened it, and the sound brought up the ears of the steed who stood in the paddock across from Saracen’s. The horse watched her in alert attention and gave a low neigh as it reached its nose out across the fence toward her. Erienne scratched the steed’s neck, giving him the attention he sought. It was too dark to see his coloring, and she went in search of a lantern. One hung against the inside wall of the stable, and running her hand along the shelf beside it, she found flint to strike. In another moment a tiny flame flickered at the tip of the wick and grew stronger. By its light she proved the animal to be Christopher’s own bay stallion. Saracen’s yard and stable were empty, firming in her mind the identity of the night hawk, but it did not ease her trepidations. She wanted to be certain that wherever Christopher was, he was safe.
The stallion began to prance up and down his paddock, and on the other side of the shrubs the mare responded with a nervous stamping and snorting. Then the bay suddenly halted and stood facing the shrubs with his tail erect, his ears cocked, and his nostrils flared. Though his reaction might have been caused by the nearness of the mare, Erienne did not dismiss the possibility of someone or something else being out there.
She slipped through the shrubs with the lantern and found the mare staring toward the trees. The light cast a meager glow over the first stalwart trunks, but beyond them the darkness was dense. As Erienne neared, a black shape moved there, and a snort came from the ebon shadows. Behind her, the mare flagged her tail and pranced with a showy sidestep at the end of her tether.
Taking heart from the lack of a threat, Erienne approached the trees. “Christopher?” she called in a whisper. “Are you there?”
No answer came, and her skin crawled on her nape. Perhaps it wasn’t Christopher at all. Perhaps he was lying wounded or dead somewhere, and it was one of the highwaymen who had turned and followed her.
Her fear for Christopher prodded her forward. Regardless of what or whom she met in the woods, she was going to search until she found him.
She had taken no more than a few steps into the trees when she stopped and gasped, clutching a hand to her throat in sudden dread. The black stallion came forward trustingly, carrying on his back a tall, cloaked form that swayed precariously in the saddle.
“Oh, no,” she moaned. She had no need to see the blood to know he was hurt. The light of the lantern showed his face drawn and ashen. The lids sagged over eyes void of their usual sparkle.
Christopher smiled with difficulty and tried to allay her fears. “Good evening, mad—”
The effort sapped the last of his waning strength, and the world lurched in a slow tumble and grew dark. With a frightened cry, Erienne dropped the lantern and leapt forward as he began to topple from the saddle. She caught her arms about him, but his greater weight bore her to the ground beneath him. For an anxious, fear-filled moment she cradled his tousled head close against her breast and sobbed, “Oh, my darling Christopher, what have they done to you?”
Sanity returned out of dire necessity, and her trembling hands flew in frantic haste. She righted the lantern and began to search beneath the cloak for the wound, pulling the sticky shirt free of his breeches. The hard, cold blade of fear pierced through her as her gaze touched where the shot had left a gaping hole in his side. On further examination, she found where it had entered his back. Panic threatened, but she steeled herself against it, knowing it would do him no good if she broke beneath the lashing fear that assailed her. Her hands shook as she ripped a length of cloth from her petticoat. She pressed a wad of it against the torn flesh to stanch the flow of blood, then wrapped another piece tightly about his waist.
A low, creaking sound of an opening door came from the direction of the cottage, and Erienne glanced around as a man holding a lantern stepped from the doorway. He peered past his beacon toward the glow of her lamp, craning his neck to see through the trees that hid her. He called softly, “That you, master?”
“Bundy! Bundy, come help!” she cried, recognizing his voice. “Mr. Seton’s been hurt. Hurry!”
Shifting rays of light flashed through the darkness as the servant ran toward her. He asked no questions when he saw the limp figure sprawled beside her but quickly knelt at Christopher’s side. He lifted a limp eyelid, then briefly examined her handiwork before jumping to his feet again.
“We’d better get him up ter the big house, where Aggie can tend him,” he said urgently. He caught Saracen’s reins and then lifted Christopher in his arms and carefully eased him over the saddle. “I’ll take him throu
gh the passageway so none o’ the servants will see,” he announced and glanced at her. “Will ye come with me, mum? Or will ye be ridin’ yer horse to the stables? I can return later for it if ye wish.”
“I’m coming with you,” Erienne replied with no hesitation.
Bundy led the way through the trees toward the manse, and she followed, keeping an anxious watch over Christopher. When they reached the heavy door that marked the entry to the hidden passage, the servant transferred the unconscious man to his shoulder. She carefully guided him past the opening and held the lantern high to light the way as they hurried through the corridor. For Erienne, it seemed an eternity before they reached the bookcase at the far end.
“I’ll see if the way is clear,” she whispered and hurried toward the library door. She set aside the lantern, doffed her cloak, and smoothed her hair before entering the hallway. Though she heard a muffled weeping and other sounds coming from the guest rooms that lay beyond Lord Saxton’s chambers, the upper-floor corridor leading from the eastern section was quiet and void of servants. Quickly retracing her steps to the library, Erienne motioned the man out.
“Hurry before someone comes this way.”
“Get Aggie, mum,” he bade. “She’ll know what ter do for Mr. Seton, and she can be trusted.”
Her feet fairly flew as she ran down the stairs. She came to a skidding halt in the doorway of the tower when she noticed Farrell standing beside the hearth in the great hall. Cautiously she slowed her pace but sought to pass him without stopping. It was not to be.
Bemused, Farrell glanced from her to the front entry. He had not heard the front door open, and he made his thoughts clear with a simple question. “How did you come in? I’ve been waiting for you, and when you didn’t come back, I thought I would have to go out and find you. And now here you are. How did you get upstairs without me seeing you?”
Erienne would not trust him with her precious knowledge and gave the excuse, “Perhaps you were with the girl. How is she, anyway?”
“Poor girl, they killed her father, and she can’t seem to stop crying. Aggie has put her to bed with a toddy. She said it would help her sleep.”
Erienne’s mind flew. If Farrell found Christopher wounded in the house, he might take his news back to the sheriff. Aggie’s toddy might provide the solution to her dilemma. With so much at stake, she saw the need for Farrell to be unaware of the happenings in the house. “You might want to try one of Aggie’s toddies yourself, Farrell. ’Twill help you sleep, and it works wonders for rejuvenating one’s spirits. Come the morningtide, you’ll be refreshed and ready to meet the girl.”
Farrell’s face darkened with a blush, for he had not been blind to the girl’s comeliness. Those wide, dark eyes and bountiful reddish locks curling tousled around her pale and delicate face had been a vision worth remembering.
“Her name’s Juliana Becker,” he murmured distantly. “She’s only seventeen.”
Erienne fretted at her delay in getting back to Christopher. “If you don’t mind dining alone, Farrell, I’ll have one of the servants bring a tray of food to your room. I fear I am too distressed to eat, and I’ll probably retire as soon as I can.” This last she threw back over her shoulder as she hurried to the kitchen.
“Has Lord Saxton returned?” Farrell called.
“I don’t think so,” she answered without pausing. “At least, I haven’t seen him.”
“Should he return, tell him I would like to borrow the coach to take the girl back to her mother in the morning. They live in York.”
“I’m sure that will be acceptable, Farrell. Just tell Paine, and he can have Tanner bring the carriage around whenever you’re ready.”
The kitchen door swung closed behind her, but when she could not find Aggie there, Erienne made her way back through the hall again, not caring how badly she confused Farrell with her haste. In the west wing, she found the housekeeper just leaving the guest room where the girl had been ensconced for the night.
“Miss Becker is resting much easier now, mum,” Aggie announced. “ ’Tis lucky she is—”
“Aggie, I need your help,” Erienne interrupted anxiously. “Mr. Seton has been hurt, and Bundy said you would know what to do.”
“How bad is he? Can ye tell, mum?” Aggie asked in fretful haste as she hurried down the corridor with her mistress.
“He’s got an awful-looking hole in his side,” the younger woman replied worriedly. “The shot went all the way through, and he seems to have lost a lot of blood.”
Aggie did not waste another moment with inquiries. Lifting her skirts, she broke into a run, never relenting her puffing pace until she careened around the corner by Lord Saxton’s bedchamber door. The portal was partially open, and Erienne halted in surprise when the woman swept through without pausing. To her further amazement she saw Bundy bending over Christopher, who lay on the bed. The covers had been turned down and towels were spread beneath the bandaged area. Except for a sheet that covered his lower half, he was devoid of clothing. The black cloak and garments lay in a heap on the floor beside the tall riding boots.
Bundy stood away as the housekeeper approached the bed, and as the woman cut away the makeshift bandage and examined the wound, Erienne hung back, cringing as the pain of the probing fingers penetrated his oblivion. A moan came from his pale lips as he writhed in agony, and she muffled a frightened sob beneath her hand. She had never known how deeply she cared for the Yankee until this moment when she saw him helpless and in need. He had always been so strong, so capable, never really seeming to need anyone. Her feelings ached to be expressed, and it was her torment that she could not touch him in a loving manner or whisper the words that would tell him of her love.
“The shot went through, all right,” Aggie stated, “but it ’pears ter be a clean wound.” She washed the blood from her hands and gestured to the hearth. “We’ll need a kettle ’o water on the fire and some clean linen.”
“Shouldn’t we move Mr. Seton to another room?” Erienne asked fretfully. After whispering Christopher’s name while her husband was making love to her, she was fearful of Stuart returning home and finding his rival ensconced in his bed. She could not be certain that Lord Saxton would not become violent and do his cousin more hurt.
Bundy glanced quickly at the housekeeper and then cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully. “Lord Saxton won’t be returnin’ for several days, mum, so I ’spect it’ll be all right if Mr. Seton uses his room till then. He’ll be safer here. The servants will think ’tis his lordship come down sick, and they won’t likely be snoopin’ about. ’Tis better to be safe and not rouse undue suspicion.”
“But if Lord Saxton is gone, why are you not with him?” Erienne inquired in bemusement. “And where is the landau?”
“In the stables, mum. I brought it back a couple o’ hours ago. The master’ll be stayin’ with friends now. They’ll look after his wants, and he won’t need the carriage.”
The servant’s statement did not relieve her worry, but she accepted Lord Saxton’s absence as a blessing. Christopher needed care and attention, and she could give it more freely if her husband was not here to witness her concern. There was only Farrell to worry about now, but she determined to take care of that matter immediately.
“My brother has a great aversion to Mr. Seton,” she stated. “If he finds the Yankee here, he might sound the warning that he is wounded. Under the circumstances, Aggie, I believe it is expedient that you prepare him a toddy.”
The woman gave a quick nod. “I’ll take care o’ it right away, mum. Please see to Mr. Seton while I’m gone. I’ve gots me herbs and healin’ potions ter fetch from the kitchen.”
Bundy went off with the housekeeper to find an iron pot, leaving Erienne to sit with the wounded man. She busied herself tearing an old sheet into bandages, then she gently bathed the blood away from the area of the wound. Dipping the strong, lean hands separately in the basin, she carefully washed away the stains from the thin fingers.
She kissed them, and tears welled in her eyes as she let his hand rest in hers. She understood her emotions more clearly now, though she couldn’t exactly say when her love had started to bloom, but it came upon her with a solid certainty that she had loved Christopher Seton for some time now. And yet she had also grown to care for her husband with a deep, abiding affection.
It was disquieting to dwell on the knowledge that she could care for two men at the same time. In many ways she loved them differently. But then, there were also those moments when she was unable to separate one from the other. Christopher was dashing, charming, handsome, a man any woman could easily be enamored with. Lord Saxton, on the other hand, had gained her affection while having none of those traits.
Was her love for her husband, then, based on pity? Abruptly she rejected the idea. She had felt sorry for Ben but could hardly claim that she had loved him. Stuart Saxton made her feel very much the wife and undeniably a woman. And yet, strangely, it was at the heights of this mood that she had the most difficulty banishing Christopher from mind. Sometimes in her love play with her husband, she was assailed with such strong impressions of the other man, she had to reach out and touch the scarred back to affirm that it was Stuart and not Christopher with her. She could only reason that her desire for the Yankee was so strong she had put his face and name to the man who came to her only in darkness.