The stone shepherd’s croft had no door or glass in its one window to block out the storm completely, but the exterior walls, roof and the chimney were intact. I wasn’t the first to take shelter here, for wood was heaped near the fireplace and the chimney was operational, thank the heavens. There may have been a wall or a curtain to divide the room when it had last been in use, but now it was just one large open room with the window and door allowing some of the storm to blow in and make what was left of the slate floor damp.
I didn’t mind the solitude or the dark. The sound of rain on the roof and the smell of moss on the stones were pleasing. If it weren’t for the fact that Papa was injured, I might have enjoyed the evening—one last moment of solitude before Blackwell Manor was overrun with guests.
The logs crumpled and I reached for another one just as the unmistakable sound of a horse whinny came through the window.
Someone was outside.
Could it be the carriage or Hollister on a lone horse for some reason? Had they removed the tree, righted the carriage and continued on in the rain? Impossible. Not with road conditions so impassable.
I reached for Papa’s pistol.
No one called out. If anyone in my party had arrived, they would have announced themselves immediately. I tightened my grip on the handle of my gun and kept my eyes trained on the open doorway. And like an image from a nightmare, a shape darker than the night sky behind slid into view.
I froze. I’d been looking into the fire and couldn’t make out any details of the man entering the croft. He would see me clearly, though, coming in from the dark and having the fire beside me.
A flash of lightning made me jump, and for the briefest of moments I caught sight of a man stumbling forward, wet hair plastered to his forehead, and arms stretched out and tugging off a sodden overcoat.
I leveled the pistol in his direction. He’d shown me no ill intent—hadn’t even acknowledged I was there. I wouldn’t shoot him without cause, but I would fulfill my promise to my father if he tried to harm me. “Who are you?” My voice was calmer than I’d expected. I sounded like Papa. “State your purpose.”
He’d come close enough to the fire that I could make out some of his features. His hair was dark and dripping into his eyes—eyes which still didn’t look up at me. He was focused only on his coat, pulling and tugging as if it were full of brambles hooked into his clothing. Eventually he got one arm out and then groaned and fell to both knees. In the dim light I could seean unhealthy sallowness to his skin. But that could be an act, couldn’t it? A ploy to get me to come closer. I lowered the gun, but only because I had to in order to keep him covered. “Tell me your name, sir.”
His head lifted in my direction, exposing a strong, sharply cut jaw underneath a day's growth of beard. One hand moved a few inches in my direction and then dropped down. “Capt ... ” he began, and then tumbled the rest of the way to the floor.
Every instinct told me to run to him. He could be injured, bleeding, or in need of some other kind of immediate assistance, but Papa had trained me better than that.
I kept the gun on him and crept nearer to him one careful step at a time. When I was about three feet away, I stopped. “I have a firearm, and it is trained on you.”
He didn’t move.
I took another step forward and prodded his leg with my foot.
Still nothing.
I pushed him harder, and he groaned.
Now that I was closer I could make out the form and cut of his coat. There were no insignias, but the broad shoulders and brass buttons reminded me of many of Papa’s coats. Was he a military man? Many men were returning home after Napoleon’s abdication, so it was very possible, but that didn’t mean I should trust him. Papa would be the first to tell me that.
I raised my voice. “Are you injured?”
Silence. I stepped closer to his head. I was in range for him to grab my foot with his hand, so I held the pistol fast. I put my boot onto his shoulder and pushed him until he rolled over, facing up. He didn’t make a sound and I’d been right about his pallor. He was pale—deathly pale. My heart stuttered. I swept the sides of my dressing gown behind me and knelt at his side.
I’d been careful enough.
I placed my free hand on his chest and held my breath. For one agonizing moment, I felt nothing, but then––a shudder and a breath. He was alive.
I pulled the glove off of my hand with my teeth and touched his cheek. Beneath the cold of his damp hair, his skin burned with fire. Whatever else this man was, he wasn’t pretending an illness. I hissed against the heat of him and pushed his hair off of his face.
My breath hitched at my first clear look at him. He was striking.
Beneath the shadow of his beard, sharp angles made up an unforgiving face—one of hard lines and hollows. His lips still had color in them, making a harsh contrast to the whiteness of every other part of his face save his thick eyebrows, one of which was slashed through with a scar and lifted in a permanent arch. His dark lashes, glistening with rain, were the only thing soft about him. I seldom had the opportunity to examine a man’s features in such close proximity, and never in the dark and under such disastrous circumstances.
He’d stumbled in with the gait of a man of eighty, but he couldn’t be much over thirty if he had reached thirty at all. This man still had many years of life left in him, assuming he didn’t die in front of me in this abandoned croft. Of all the scenarios I’d worried about while walking here with Hollister, watching a man die had never crossed my mind.
I leaned away from him and clamped both hands into my skirt. What was I doing just staring at him? He could be injured or dying and I was kneeling at his side studying him as if I was trying to decide how to paint the man. He was a patient, not an artist’s model. And even if he had the bone structure for it, I was hardly an artist.
I gave him a quick examination. There were no holes or tears in his clothing, and as he’d walked into the croft, nothing abouthis appearance pointed to a wound. His fever pointed to an illness, one most likely brought on by the storm.
Which meant I needed to get him as dry as possible, but how? He was a large man, nearly as tall as Papa, even if he was trimmer. I couldn’t drag him to the warmth of the fire.
