The venison was superb. He wouldn’t tell Stone, but it was slightly better than his cook’s version. Braised in port, it melted in the mouth and made the cabbage…palatable.
God, whatever had led O’Carroll here?
He suited the place though – another good-looking chap to add to the Stonebridge stud farm. Back in Portugal, the women fell for the Irish lieutenant in droves – even though they couldn’t understand a bloody word. He’d croon to them in Gaelic and disappear into the woods for an hour.
“Meet my wife, Lottie.”
Choking on the last mouthful of colcannon, Lucas admired a curvy shy-looking lass standing at O’Carroll’s side. She was ordinary but for a pair of sparkling blue eyes and a mass of black curls tumbling down her back.
“Her da owned the inn and when he got too old, gave it over to us, bless the ole bugger.”
“Where did you meet?”
“Ah well, after Talavera, I was a bit of a mess. They’d shoved me in some filthy hospital in Camden. Thought my end was nigh when I saw an angel.” Lottie giggled and poked him in the side. “Saved me, she did, with her ministrations.”
Lottie smiled, a wealth of love in her gaze. “I was helping me sister who’s a nurse for returning wounded – so many men and not enough of us to tend them. Saw this rogue and tried to cheer him a little.”
“Jesus, she quoted poetry at me. I had to kiss ‘er just to shut her up.”
Lucas had oft wanted to hush a certain Irish mouth himself, but that method would be going too far. “You look very well, Lieutenant. Why were you in hospital?”
“Oh, devil take it, of course ya wouldn’t know.”
He put a hand under his thigh and lifted his foot onto the chair. Taking the empty tankard, he thumped it hard against the lower part of his leg; there was an inhuman clunk.
“Got it clean blown off below the knee – Christ almighty, it hurt.”
“Bloody hell. I noticed your limp but I had no idea…” Lucas now saw the wooden shoe poking from the end of his trouser leg.
“Lottie’s brother knows a fella that does decent wooden ones. Depends on the day, but it’s always better at night and then aches like the devil’s biting first thing in the morning. It takes me half an hour to fasten as it’s got more straps and buckles than a Frenchman’s breeches. Lottie helps out.” And he gave her a wet smacker on the cheek.
“I ‘ave to get back to the kitchen.” Lottie’s voice had a melodious northern burr to it. “Pleased to meet you, Major. My husband often spoke of you, so ’tis good to see you alive.”
Both men watched her expertly wend around the tables to the bar.
“Good fortune you, O’Carroll. A prosperous inn and a lovely girl.”
“And you, Major, are ya married?” he asked as he seated himself.
Lucas hesitated. Once he would have answered that no one would stand to see his face every morning over the pillow but here was O’Carroll with his peg leg, and Miss Trewent’s words kept echoing in his ear. He felt he led a fulfilling life with his surgery but in truth, had he been pitifully hiding behind it?
“No, but I am a surgeon now and, don’t tell anyone, an earl.”
“A bloody earl… How in the hell–” the lieutenant yelled and a few men gazed over curiously.
“Shush!” Now he remembered. O’Carroll could make himself heard to an ensign five miles away. “I’m keeping it quiet for the moment, but…well, quite a few of my family cocked their toes and so the title landed in my lap.”
“I’ll keep hush then.” O’Carroll tapped his nose and Lucas cocked a brow. “So, who have ya met so far in our little village?”
“Besides my host and his…dependants. I’ve met the Risleys, the vicar and curate, and a few people of the village. Sir Hector was out. What canyoutell me about them?”
“Risleys are a nice couple, although the husband is a bit…”
“Dour?”
“Exactly. Sits in the corner looking miserable, and that was before his daughter’s misfortune. The vicar’s good enough. Have ya been to church yet?” At Lucas’s shake of the head, he continued, “You’ll see on Sunday then. Between you and me, he does like his liquor. He bought three bottles of brandy from me in as many days once. A while back, so perhaps he’s on the straight and narrow now. The curate…well, you’ve seen him. He doesn’t come in here and I dunno if I like such a cherub face, but not everybody can be as chiselled and manly as us.”
“Sir Hector?” Lucas asked, smiling manfully into his ale.
