—From The Convent of Orsino by A Lady
“They never said they’d be armed!” complained one of the ruffians.
“Stop whining and get on with it,” hissed one of his fellows, pushing him back into the fray. It was hard to tell through the kerchief, but his voice seemed less rough than that of the others.
Two of them made a rush at Colonel Reid, who sent one flying back with what Gwen believed was popularly termed “a leveler.” It certainly sent the man reeling to the ground, spitting blood and a loose tooth.
Gwen pinked the second man in the backside, just enough to make him release his grip on the Colonel. That left the third ruffian, who was so importunate as to make a grab at her while her sword arm was otherwise engaged. She was made aware of this by a low bellow from the Colonel, who elbowed his own assailant out of the way and swept the feet out from under the man who was attempting to draw her out of the fray. The miscreant landed with a most satisfactory thump and a curse, but there was no time to gloat. The second man was back, his temper hardly improved by her sally against his posterior. A fist narrowly missed Gwen’s nose.
She resented that. She rather liked her nose. It was excellent for looking down at people.
She retaliated with a lunge that clipped a button off the man’s loose jacket. She wasn’t aiming to kill, just to deter. Unfortunately, it appeared to have the opposite effect. The man leapt back and came up with a knife in his hand. It was a rather nasty-looking piece of work.
“Don’t even think of it,” said Gwen sharply.
In front of them, the man the Colonel had leveled was rising, blood dripping down his chin. He was missing two teeth and he looked angry. Very angry. His knife looked even larger and nastier than the other.
“Back to back!” commanded the Colonel in a low voice.
Gwen had never stopped to consider what his title indicated; for the first time, it was borne in on her that this was a man who knew his way around a battlefield. She found herself obeying as the ruffians circled nearer, knives in their hands.
“You have no sword.”
“It could be worse,” said the Colonel philosophically.
Gwen tilted her head towards him, while keeping an eye on the men circling around them. “There could be four of them?”
“No.” She could hear the laughter in the Colonel’s voice. “They could be Gypsies.”
If he thought writing a novel was easy, he should try it.
There was no time, however, to give him the set down he so richly deserved.
Launching blood and spittle through the new gap in his teeth, the man in the middle uttered those immortal fighting words: “Let’s get ’im!”
The brigands were upon them. They all converged on the Colonel, leaving Gwen waving her épée in the empty air.
That wasn’t sporting.
Gwen flung herself on the brigands from behind, rapping one smartly on the head with the butt of her parasol, pinking another in the calf, and then, when he jumped back, jabbing him neatly in the toe. That should keep him sneaking up on anyone for some time.
Near her, a knife clattered to the ground as the Colonel twisted the arm holding it. Gwen kicked it out of the way before the brigand could dive for it, and then kicked the brigand for good measure. She aimed her kick even better than she had intended. The man doubled over, clutching himself and howling in a high-pitched note that would have elicited envy from a professional countertenor. It was a very impressive high C, especially given the tears streaming down the man’s face.
“Enough,” he gasped. “Away!”
“I’m going as fast as I can!” protested his companion, hopping on one foot, while lopsidedly cradling his right arm with his left. It made for a rather erratic progress.
They lurched away, followed by their toothless companion, who gave Gwen a look over his shoulder that could best be described as malevolent.
Gwen brandished her sword parasol at him. “Let that teach you to set upon innocent citizens!”
Retrieving the parasol portion, she rammed the casing back down over her épée. It slid back into place with a professional click. Really. Villains never stopped to consider these things.
Turning to the Colonel, she said with satisfaction, “Well! We certainly sent them— What’s wrong?”
Colonel Reid staggered as he tried to walk. His hand was pressed to his left side, but even against the dark fabric of his coat, Gwen could see the blood beginning to seep between his fingers.
“Nothing,” he grunted. “Nothing. Just a scratch.”
“That’s not a scratch.” Gwen moved to shore him up as he stumbled again, sliding an arm around his waist to brace him. “Scratches don’t bleed like that.”
It must have happened when all three had converged on him, knives in hand. A man could fight off only so many at once. It was a move she hadn’t anticipated.
“At least it wasn’t”—Colonel Reid lurched slightly as he tried to move forward—“a Gypsy curse.”
“Stop talking and save your breath for dripping blood down my dress,” said Gwen sternly. She didn’t like the way he looked. His skin was sickly white beneath his tan and his breathing was labored.
“Sorry,” he said, managing a smile that looked more like a grimace. “I’ll try—drip—on the ground.”
“I’d prefer you not drip so much at all,” muttered Gwen. The wound was bleeding freely. She supposed that was a good thing, in terms of cleaning it out. On the other hand, he might need some of that blood.
Colonel Reid must have caught the expression on her face, because he said in a labored voice, “Don’t—fret. I’m an old campaigner. I’ve had worse. ’S just a—flesh wound.”
But he winced as he said it.
“Hold your peace,” said Gwen. “I know it pains you not to hear your own voice, but I’d rather get you somewhere where I can take a good look at that flesh wound. Once I’ve got you properly bandaged up, you can expound to your heart’s content.”
“Coaching inn—,” he managed, and caught himself on a wince.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “One more word out of you and I’ll stab you myself.”
The ridiculous man smiled at her. It wasn’t much of a smile, but it was a valiant attempt. “Thank you,” he said, and subsided against her shoulder.
After that, the Colonel saved his breath for walking, if walking it could be called. It was more of a sluggish stumble, more and more of his weight resting on Gwen’s shoulder. She was a tall woman, but the Colonel was taller and broader. She knew it was bad when he accepted her assistance. She knew it was even worse when she felt the hand clutching her shoulder start to go slack.
The Colonel slipped and Gwen gripped his waist harder, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. Gwen looked at him with concern. His face had gone a curious greenish color beneath his tan.
“Not far now,” he gasped, giving her what was meant to be a reassuring smile.
Gwen wasn’t reassured.
Five minutes to the coaching inn hadn’t seemed far before, but now, with the Colonel stumbling beside her, it might have been as far as Bath.
“There,” she said with authority. There was a public house in front of them. They would have a few rooms to let, she had no doubt. It wasn’t exactly York House, but it looked reputable enough, as public houses went, and, more important, it was there.
“The coaching—,” began the Colonel.
“The coaching inn is too public,” Gwen said brusquely.
It was better than telling him that she didn’t think he was going to make it another ten yards, much less another ten minutes. If he thought they were getting back on that mail coach tonight, he was crazier than she’d given him credit for. She just hoped those ruffians hadn’t hit him in any sort of vital spot.
No. If they had, he would be on the ground, five streets back, not swaying next to her, trying to redirect her towards the coaching inn.
She took resort in an out-and-out lie. “What if we were seen together in a privat
e parlor at a busy inn? My reputation would be in tatters.”
“Oh,” said the Colonel, brow furrowing. Then, “Sorry to be—bother.”
“Yes,” said Gwen rallyingly, hauling him over the threshold of the Happy Hare. “A great bother. It was the rankest effrontery on your part to get yourself stabbed.”
From the public room, she could hear the sounds of a very loud debate about keelhauling. She grabbed the arm of a woman who was bustling past her from the public room to the parlor on the other side. From her no longer quite so white apron and the tray of comestibles she was holding, Gwen deduced that she was employed by the establishment.
“My husband has suffered a mishap on the road,” Gwen said imperiously. “Do you have a room where I might attend to him?”
She had blood on her gown and no ring on her finger, but her hauteur spoke for her. The maid set down her tray on a table and bobbed a quick curtsy.
“Will you be wanting a room for the night, or just the now?”
“For the night.” Next to her, the Colonel stirred. Gwen squeezed his hand, hard. “Do you have one?”
Someone in the other room was bellowing for his meal. The maid glanced nervously over her shoulder.
“Ye-es,” she said slowly. She was clearly not the brightest flower in the garden.
“Good,” said Gwen. “Take us there at once. We will also be needing a cold collation, hot water, and some brandy. Some clean cloths, as well. Oh, and a pot of honey, if you have it. Well, what are you waiting for?”
The maid looked anxiously from the taproom to Gwen and back again. Gwen glowered. The maid bowed to a force beyond her control. “Yes, Mistress—”
“Fustian,” she said promptly, using a name she had employed as an alias before. “Colonel and Mrs. Fustian.”
“I’ll bring your . . .” The maid looked around, confused. “Baggage?”
“We don’t have any,” said Gwen crisply. “We were set upon by ruffians in the road. They made off with our curricle and all of our baggage. We were lucky to escape with our lives. It was,” she added, “most impertinent of them.”
From beside her, she heard something that might have been a faint chuckle from the Colonel. Just maybe.
“Upstairs with you,” she said briskly. “Now.”
The room into which the maid led them was less than luxurious, but it was private, it was reasonably clean, and it had a bed.
One bed.
The Colonel took one look at the single bed and sagged heavily against the wall. “This,” he said faintly, “is worse than a private parlor. Your reputation—”
“Stuff and nonsense,” said Gwen, chivying him forcibly towards the bed. “My reputation isn’t such a fragile thing as all that. Do you really think anyone would believe you intended me a mischief? In such a state as you are? You don’t have the strength to seduce a flea.”
Even in a state of severe blood loss, the Colonel found the energy to quip, “I’ve never—found anything—the least bit—attractive—about the insect population.”
He sat down heavily on the bed. The ancient cording screeched in protest, but it held.
“Am I meant to be relieved by that? Or is that meant to be a crushing set down for the fleas?” Gwen eased him back against the pillow. He had lost his hat somewhere along the road, and his tousled hair, worn longer than the current fashion, was springy against her fingers. It looked very red against his pale face. “With any luck, you won’t be sharing your bed with any.”
The Colonel breathed in deeply through his nose, mustering his strength. “I’ve bedded down in worse places.”
He opened his eyes and looked up at Gwen, his expression stripped of its usual levity. Catching her hand, he squeezed it. His grip was weaker than it should be, but she could feel the press of each finger as though it were branded on her. She made to pull away, but he held tight, his blue eyes fixed on hers.
Without raillery, he said, “Thank you.”
For a moment, she let her hand linger in his, strangely touched by the simple profession, stripped so bare of his usual foolery.
“I suppose if you can flirt, it means you aren’t quite at death’s door just yet,” said Gwen tartly. She slipped her hand out of his weak grasp, wrapping it in the folds of her skirt as she made a show of bustling across the room to the door. “Where is that dratted girl with the hot water? She’s had time enough to heat an entire Roman bath by now!”
The word “bath” had been a mistake. She heard Colonel Reid’s voice behind her. “Once you patch me up—we can go.” She looked back to find him struggling into a sitting position. “Catch the stage—to Bath.”
Gwen hurried back before he could do himself further injury. “Lie down, you ridiculous man!” She pressed down firmly on his good side, forcibly settling him back down among the pillows. He went down with barely a murmur of protest. Gwen leaned over him, pinning him in place. “Do you want to make me tie you to the bed?”
“—can only hope,” the Colonel mumbled.
Gwen gave him an eagle-eyed stare. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” the Colonel said meekly.
“Hmph.” With one last quelling glance over her shoulder, Gwen retrieved her reticule. She removed a pair of tiny scissors. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut your shirt away. Trying to take it up over your head will only hurt you.”
And she wasn’t sure she wanted to grapple with him quite that intimately. She could still feel the press of his fingers against hers.
“Never liked it anyway,” said the Colonel gallantly.
The cloth over the wound itself was deeply crusted and clotted; that would have to wait until she had hot water to soak the cloth away. She feared doing him more injury otherwise. Either way, it was going to hurt like the very devil. She knew. She was nimble, but not always nimble enough.
“I do hope you’re not missish,” she said, mostly to distract him from the sound of the scissors. She began snipping away, the small scissors snagging on the dense fabric. “I’m going to be seeing a good deal of you before this is done.”
“Oughtn’t I be saying that to you?” said the Colonel weakly, trying to lift his head to see what she was doing. He gave up and let it fall back against the pillows again.
“Most certainly not! You’ll see of me exactly what you’ve seen.” Gwen set aside the scissors. “No more, no less.”
The Colonel gave a weak chuckle. “I meant about the missishness.”
“I passed the age of missishness a good ten years since.” Gwen carefully peeled the lacerated shirt away from a torso that was as sun-browned as the rest of him. He was in remarkably good shape for a man his age, his stomach still flat and firm.
The Colonel drew in his breath between his teeth as Gwen eased the cloth away from around the wound. It was still oozing blood. Blood was good. Blood wasn’t pus.
The Colonel’s head popped up again. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Gwen ignored him and examined the wound. “It’s not so bad as it could be. It’s shallow, at least.”
Shallow but jagged, with flecks of cloth, driven in by the knife, still clinging to the opening. She suspected that ruffian’s knife had been none too clean. The blow itself wouldn’t kill him, but wound fever might.
It was impossible to imagine the vital man who had teased and bedeviled her all the way from Bath to Bristol laid permanently low by one sneaky back-alley footpad’s knife.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen. Not if she had anything to say about it.
“Mrs. Fustian?” The door squeaked open a careful few inches.
It was a different maid this time, no more than seventeen at a guess, awkwardly balancing a tray laden with assorted plates, bowls, and jugs, all covered with roughly woven cloths. She goggled over Gwen’s shoulder at the Colonel sprawled half-naked on the bed.
“That will be all,” said Gwen firmly. Hadn’t the chit seen a half-clad man before? If she hadn’t, this wasn’t the time for h
er to start. She relieved the maid of the tray and smacked the door firmly shut behind her.
Taking the tray, she headed back for the bed. The Colonel did look unfairly debonair, shirt gone to the waist, clad only in a pair of tight breeches and scuffed black boots to the knee. She should probably see about getting those boots off, but she didn’t think the leather would succumb to her sewing scissors.
The Colonel made a weak attempt to lift himself up on his elbows. His bare arms were very brown against the white of the sheets. “Can we still make the stage?”
“Perhaps,” said Gwen noncommittally. “Let’s see how you’re feeling once I’ve bandaged you up, shall we?”
She lifted the covering from the largest bowl. Steam rose satisfactorily from the surface. Good. They had boiled the water, not just warmed it and called it hot enough. There was a jug of brandy on the tray, too, just as she had asked. Not surprising. A fair amount of smuggled French goods came through Bristol. It wasn’t the best vintage, but it would serve.
Making sure her back was between the tray and the Colonel, Gwen released the tiny catch that opened a hidden compartment in her onyx ring. White powder sifted into the pewter mug. Gwen poured the brandy over it, swirling it to make it mix.
“We’ll need to let them know at the school,” said the Colonel, struggling to a sitting position. His face was seamed with worry. “That we didn’t find them.”
“Stop that!” She’d never before met anyone more stubborn than herself. She whirled around, the doctored brandy in hand. “You’re only making it bleed again. You can’t do anything for either of them if you exsanguinate.”
“Nice—word.”
“Hardly,” said Gwen. She handed him the doctored brandy. “Drink this.”
“Precise, I meant.” His hand wouldn’t quite close around the cup.
Gwen took it from him, holding it to his lips. “Yes,” she said, “and it’s precisely what will happen to you if you don’t behave.”
She saw the ghost of a smile. “Touché,” he said, and swallowed the brandy from the cup she held to his lips.
Gwen set the cup back down on the tray, fetching the bowl of water and a pile of linen cloths. She dipped the corner of a cloth in the water. Beneath the gash left by their assailant’s knife, the Colonel’s chest was a map of old wounds, white scars pale on bronzed skin. Apparently, military command in the East India Company’s army was less of a sinecure than she had thought. There was the puckered scar of an old gunshot wound on his side, and a long, thin line that curved from just below his left nipple straight down below the waistband of his breeches.