Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order #3) - Adele Clee Page 0,13
rampant thoughts, he’d be begging the chit to marry him just to satisfy his curiosity.
“Do Highlanders ride without footwear?”
“Not when the cold nips the toes. My only concern was to fetch help quickly, and I struggled to find my boots amid the chaos.”
The comment drew his mind back to the more important matter of the wreckage and Turton’s wound. “What happened to Turton? I doubt you were set upon by bandits, not on this road.”
“Buchanan said a plague doctor fired the shots, though he had hit his head when he made the strange comment.” Miss Hart’s attention drifted to the fields on her left. “We’re almost at the site of the accident. I’m sure Buchanan will give you an account of what happened.”
Evan followed Miss Hart to the overturned carriage. Someone had released the team of bays from their harness and secured their reins to the rail around the driver’s box seat. There was no sign of Turton or the lady’s Scottish servants.
“Buchanan dragged your coachman behind the vehicle to tend to his injuries,” Miss Hart said as if party to Evan’s thoughts. “The poor man was thrown from his seat when the carriage tipped, and I fear he may have broken his ankle.”
Evan dismounted. It occurred to him that without the luxury of stirrups to aid her descent, Miss Hart would need his assistance. Yet in true bluestocking-come-hellion fashion, the lady leant forward, gripped the horse by the withers and mane and slipped down to the ground.
“There,” was all she said, brushing her hands and giving a satisfied grin.
Women usually used erotic means to gain his attention, yet Miss Hart’s competent manner held him spellbound.
“Come, Mr Sloane.” She tiptoed over the wet grass and beckoned him to follow. “You should assess Buchanan’s work while I attend to Mrs McCready.”
Evan hurried to the brawny Scot who was pouring whisky from a hip flask over the wound in Turton’s upper arm. Turton lay on top of his greatcoat, a red plaid blanket draped over his legs. Blood soaked the shorn sleeve of his shirt. Thankfully, he was conscious.
“I hear someone shot my coachman.”
The Scot pushed to his feet. He was almost as tall as Evan—half an inch shorter than six-foot-three—and his strong, muscular frame belied his age. Judging by the creases around his eyes and his grey beard, Evan guessed Buchanan had seen sixty summers.
“Aye, I managed to dig out the ball and stitch the wound. I think the injury to the ankle is just a wee sprain, but I’ve made a splint from the damaged wheel spoke and strapped it with material torn from Miss Hart’s petticoat.”
You’ll come to admire their talents in the coming weeks.
The lady’s earlier comment drifted through Evan’s mind, as did a vision of her inadequate undergarments. “You’re a resourceful man, Mr Buchanan.” A quick inspection of the man’s fine wool coat and quality riding boots suggested he was not a servant.
“Call me Buchanan. Only men of the cloth call me mister.”
“Then I thank you, Buchanan, for taking good care of my coachman.” Evan crouched beside Turton and examined his injuries. He doubted a surgeon could have done a better job. “Might you explain briefly what happened on the road?”
Turton grimaced in pain. “The bandit … he must have followed us from Keel Hall, sir. He had … had two loaded pistols. I can’t rightly say what happened after the f-first shot.”
“Don’t trouble yourself now. We can discuss it tomorrow when you’ve rested.” Evan stood and faced Buchanan. “Miss Hart mentioned a plague doctor. Though when the mind is consumed with fear, one is often mistaken.”
“I saw the devil astride a black stallion fifty yards away. He wore a caped coat and a tricorn, hid his face with a white mask.”
Was this a failed attempt at highway robbery, then? The person had an exceptional aim if they hit a moving target while on horseback. And the mask must have hindered his vision.
“Where is he now?”
“The lass fired a warning shot from her pocket pistol, and he disappeared into the night.”
It seemed the lass was as brave as she was reckless.
“So the mask had an extended beak, like the ones once worn by physicians treating victims of the disease?” The ones worn to masquerade balls by weak men who enjoyed intimidating young women. Was it the shooter’s intention to frighten Miss Hart? Was Turton’s injury a case of the person firing blindly in the blackness?
“Aye, sir.”
“And you determined that from such a distance in the dark?”