Chapter 30
Akeening cry made Perry look up from the game of Patience spread before her and pull her shawl closer.
It was only the wind, soughing through the fireplace where the wood had ceased its spitting, the fire having long died down. Outside, the waves still crashed ceaselessly.
Jenny raised her head from the table where she’d fallen fast asleep. Lady Jane put aside the book she had been staring at for long minutes.
And then she heard another sound—men’s voices, growing louder.
Whoever they were, they were not being at all subtle. The tones were choppy, urgent. And soon enough they were right outside the oak paneled main door.
She glanced at the pistol on the mantel. Speaking so loudly, these surely must be their men.
“Wait.” Lady Jane ran right behind her to the door, pulling her back from the latch.
On the other side, a key rattled into the slot. Perry yanked the door open.
Alarm raced through her. Fox juggled a big body between himself and Farnsworth, the head drooping and swinging, the dark hair spraying droplets of dampness.
“Put me down now, you bluidy sods.” That voice was Kincaid’s.
“Save your breath,” Fox said. He moved a hand up to bolster his grip on Kincaid.
Fox’s hands were crusted with blood. The wet coming from Kincaid’s head dripped red too.
“Clear the sofa,” Perry called.
“No,” Fox said. “He needs a bed. Let’s get him upstairs.”
Perry caught a glimpse of other men, crowding in behind. “Have you sent for a surgeon?”
“No bluidy surgeon,” Kincaid said.
“Mac can sew him.” Farnsworth said. “Send him up, when he comes. You there,” he called to a man, “Help the maid fetch hot water and towels.”
“I’ll get my sewing kit,” Lady Jane said. “Sewing up Kincaid can’t be any tougher than stitching a hide.”
“We’ll put him in my bedchamber,” Perry said. “It’s the biggest.”
“No,” Farnsworth said. “Take him to the chamber Shaldon was using.”
Perry’s heart seized.Wasusing, Farnsworth had said.
“Where is Shaldon?” Lady Jane whispered.
“Missing,” Farnsworth hissed.
“Taken,” Kincaid croaked. “He’s alive. I set men to follow them. We’ll find him.”
“Aye,” Farnsworth said, “and let’s get you upstairs before you bleed all over the carpet.”
Fox watchedPerry fussing over Kincaid as he lay in the small bedchamber, his back propped on a pillow, his bandaged chest carefully draped by a clean sheet.
The last hour had been a flurry of stripping, washing, and stitching the Scotsman. Fox’s own wounds, and those of the others, had been no more than scrapes and bruises.
He’d not had a chance to tell her about Harv. Face frozen in a frown, she’d insisted on washing the big man’s wounds, demanded to thread the needle for Lady Jane, and not flinched a bit as the stitching began.
His heart ached with pride in her, and relief that she’d stayed behind. He must find a way to get her father back.
