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Myriah realized he was still dazed and took command of the situation. She grabbed the bottle from Tabby and forced more of the burning brew down the injured man’s throat.
The young man suddenly tried to sit up. “I remember … my horse …”
“Right here. Your horse is right here. What has happened to you?”
He stared at her and smiled. “I took a fall and have no doubt landed myself in hell, beauty.”
Myriah laughed out loud. “That, sir, is no compliment! I have always thought men were supposed to declare themselves in Heaven after being brought round by the attending heroine.”
He looked up at her in puzzlement. He certainly was hazy, and he had suffered a loss of blood. Myriah frowned as she watched him trying to regain control of himself. His voice when it came was faint and gravely troubled.
“Heaven? But you don’t look like an angel …”
Myriah again laughed and arched a friendly brow. “Indeed, ’tis a lamentable truth, I must say, but still shabby of you to remark on it!” She sighed mockingly. “Ah, but there is yet time to alter your hasty opinion once I put you into the hands of your local doctor.”
“NO!” objected the young man, cutting her off and making a feeble attempt to raise himself up, only to collapse back down.
“But, sir,” returned Myriah, prohibiting such action with a firm hand on his chest, “you have sustained a nasty wound, and it must be attended to at once by someone far more experienced than I.”
“Please, ma’am … if you … would be so good—just help me get to my feet?”
“On no account,” Myriah replied authoritatively.
“She-devil!” the young man muttered.
“Have a care, my friend,” Myriah teased, rallying him as best she could, for he had her worried. He looked so helpless. “I may end by sending for that doctor after all.” She sighed and put a hand over his mouth, preventing any further speech. “Evidently you have some aversion to the physician in question for reasons not yet known to me. Very well then. Where shall we take you? You cannot continue to lie here in my lap. I am getting most frightfully stiff.”
He grinned beneath her palm, and she lifted it from his mouth to allow him speech.
“Wimborne Towers—just up the pike to River Road.”
“Right then, Wimborne Towers it is.” She turned and called sweetly to her horse. The black stallion snorted but was in tune to the sound of his mistress’s voice. “It will be much easier for us to get you mounted on my horse, who has a very nice trick.”
Silkie nudged her, and she told him firmly, “Down, darlin’, that’s my love.” She clucked encouragement at the handsome animal, watching as he went down first on his fores and then completely. She was proud of him and herself for having taught him the useful ploy. With Tabby’s assistance she got the wounded man to his feet and positioned him on the horse. Myriah then cooed softly to the stallion, bringing him back up.
Her thighs ached from the night’s riding, the small of her back felt pinched, and her head was throbbing unmercifully. This was no longer an adventure but a grueling, uncomfortable, mind-racking evening. She steadied herself before mounting the man’s horse still grazing by the side of the road and allowed Tabby to lead Silkie while she brought up the rear.
Before long they had reached the fingerpost that turned them onto the
River Road. This led through a stretch of flatland, broken only by a scattering of low, budding trees. It sloped gently upwards and passed a wooded cluster of birch and evergreens that opened into what obviously had once been a magnificent estate park.
Even in the darkness of night, Myriah was impressed with the estate’s layout and with the huge Tudor home that beckoned. Concern for the young man lest he fall off her horse kept Myriah busy watching him, yet even so she felt that the house and the grounds must have once been quite regal, and not so very long ago.
After what seemed an interminable time they reached the covered portico of the mansion. There was nothing for it but to leave the horses standing as they assisted the young man off Silkie and brought him to the front double doors.
He leaned heavily on Tabby, who had little to say throughout these proceedings, while Myriah banged hard with the knocker.
The young man coughed convulsively. Myriah, worried lest the bleeding begin again, tried to hush him, but he pulled at a chain at his waist and produced a large brass key. “No—no servants,” he managed to advise them in a hoarse voice.
She exclaimed impatiently as she took the key and worked it in its housing.
She pushed the heavy doors open. After they helped the young man inside, Tabby closed the doors at his back.
“Candles on the table …” the lad told Tabby, who went and lit one in its lantern-styled container.
The wounded man motioned the way to the second floor, and after some exertion they deposited him on his bed. He closed his eyes and lay back. Myriah winced, for she could read the pain in his face. She placed the candle lantern on his nightstand.
Tabby removed the young man’s torn and dirty coat and undid his waistcoat. The white linen shirt was already destroyed, and so he made short work of it as he tore it off.
