Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,121
There was no trace of the scent of cologne so many men in London wore. Mr. Podmore had favored a strong fragrance with a cloying sweet scent, and it had made Ines want to gag when she was in a closed room with him for too long. Conversely, now she had to resist the urge to bury her nose in Mr. Murray’s chest. Except she really couldn’t breathe with his weight pressing into her. She gave him a push, then a harder one, and she managed to free her torso from beneath him. Then after much tugging of her dress and her body, she freed her legs and finally her feet. She had to pause to catch her breath.
One look down told her this was a mistake. Her dress was soaked with blood, the material was dusty and dirty, and she could see pieces of her hair fluttering over her forehead. She blew them out of her eyes. The blood was not a good sign. She could see the crimson coloring the drive beneath Murray. She was no nurse, but she knew the bleeding must be stopped.
Ines pushed the Scot’s good arm, trying to heave him onto his back. But he was heavy and large, and he didn’t move. She adjusted her position, and with a grunt, pushed again. She raised his body just enough that she could wedge her shoulder underneath and push him higher and then onto his back. Panting heavily and wiping perspiration from her brow, Ines decided she would never manage to free him of his coat on her own. Instead, she took a breath then lifted the hem of her dress and ripped a good portion of her petticoat. She quickly bound the Scot’s wound over his sleeve and tied another piece tightly around the arm of his coat to staunch the bleeding. Once inside—if they were ever allowed inside—they could remove his coat and clean the wound and see it clearly. She had no medical experience, but surely a surgeon must live nearby.
Resisting the urge to fall back and close her eyes for a moment, she instead looked up at the house, listening. All was finally quiet. That was either a good sign or a very ominous one. Ines ripped another section of petticoat and wiped Murray’s face. The wound on his temple looked as though it came from a sharp object. She dabbed at it, determined it was not serious, then tried to clean the blood from his cheek. She had almost removed it all when his hand came up and caught her wrist. She screeched in surprise, and he shushed her.
“Dinnae fash, lass.”
“I will fash!” Whatever that meant. “You scared me.” And not just by grasping her when she’d thought him unconscious. All that lost blood terrified her. What if he died? He’d used his good arm to take hold of her wrist, and it comforted her that he was still so strong. No one this strong would die, não? He would live, sim?
“Help me up, lass,” he said. “I have tae go back in.”
The man was certifiably mad. What was it the English said? Daft? He was daft. “You need to lie down,” she said. “You are bleeding, senhor.”
“I told ye, it’s a trifle.”
“It is more than trifle if you fall over. Now stay here and be still until Mr. Fortescue and Miss Wellesley come out. They will either have tamed your so-called friend or you will need your strength to run.” She could imagine the wild Mr. Pope bursting through the door any moment and firing at her with his rifle.
Murray let out a surprised laugh. “I willnae run. Nash needs a wee dose of convincing. That’s all.”
“From the sound of it, he needs a whole barrel of convincing.” She cocked her head again. “Things have gone silent since Miss Wellesley went inside. I cannot decide if they are all dead or listening to reason.”
He didn’t respond, and she looked down at him to find his amber eyes were on her. “Why did ye pretend ye couldnae speak English?”
She should have been prepared for the question. She’d known from the beginning she’d have to answer it at some point. It was just that the shock of seeing him with blood streaming down his face had made her forget her ruse. She’d forgotten, too, how nervous he made her. All of a sudden, her belly began to flutter, and she felt her cheeks grow warm.
His brows came together in concern. “I’m not angry with ye, lass. I’m after an explanation.”
That was a relief. Not that she would have been afraid if he’d been angry, but it was already difficult enough to speak to him. “I did not want—”
“Speak up, lass. A moment ago, ye were yelling in my ear.”
She took a breath and spoke louder. “I did not want you to take me home.”
“Why nae? Where’s home?”
But she was saved from answering when the door opened again. Ines and Murray both ducked, but it was only Emmeline.
“Mr. Fortescue and I have the matter in hand now. I think you had both better come in. In—I mean, Beatriz, let me help you with him.”
Ines was trying to help Murray to his feet. He swayed once but caught himself. He cut her a glance. “Why do I have the suspicion yer name is nae Beatriz?”
“We can discuss it inside,” Emmeline said, taking his good arm and lending support. Ines ducked her head carefully under his bad arm and the three of them hobbled toward the house.
As far as Ines was concerned, she would put that conversation off as long as possible. Except she knew it wouldn’t be possible much longer. She’d been seen at the inn in that little village and surely Draven was out looking for her by now. If he didn’t know she was with Murray, he would know soon, and he’d find her too. Then it would be back to London and Mr. Podmore or some other awful suitor. She’d have to bid her brief taste of freedom goodbye.
She stepped into the house, turning so Mr. Murray could squeeze in after her, and then stared at the wreck around her in horror. The paper curled off the walls, the rug was torn, and the furniture was smashed into pieces. When Emmeline finally moved in through the door, Ines caught her eye. “Are you certain this is safe?” Ines gave the cracked ceiling a worrying look.
“Safe?” Emmeline shook her head. “Most certainly not, but I’ll try to keep you alive until dinner.”