Mary and the Marquis. Janice Preston

blood-soaked shirt. ‘Lean forward, if you please.’

      He obeyed and she cut again, then eased the clothes away, exposing his left shoulder. His skin was warm to her touch, warm and smooth. She was close enough to register the male, spicy scent of him, overlaid with the coppery smell of fresh blood. She shook her head. What was wrong with her? Concentrate, Mary, she admonished herself.

      ‘Good,’ she said calmly, as if her thoughts hadn’t been leading her in an entirely inappropriate direction, ‘it seems as though the bullet went straight through. I’ll...’ She paused, thinking.

      ‘You’ll...?’

      She looked at him and frowned. ‘We need bandages.’

      ‘Can use...shirt.’

      ‘No, that won’t do. Half of it is already ruined and you must keep warm.’ There was no help for it, she knew. She must sacrifice her petticoat, although, heaven knew, she had few enough clothes as it was. Still, in an emergency...

      ‘Stay there a minute,’ she said as she got to her feet.

      He looked up at her and his mouth quirked into a smile. His lips, she noticed with a flutter, were firm, shapely and very sensual. ‘Going...nowhere,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘Mary. Mary Vale.’

      She stepped behind the tree and lifted her skirt. She cut a slit in her cotton petticoat, then ripped a length from around the hem. She then repeated the action twice more, using the knife to cut one strip in half to pad the wound.

      ‘What...you doing...behind my back...Sensible Mary?’

      Mary’s jaw clenched. Sensible Mary! The exact same phrase her late husband had used, taunting her for her practical outlook on life. Well, she might be practical, but that trait had kept her family together after Michael’s drinking had spiralled out of control. Until he died, that is. Much use was practicality when the rent was due and you had no way of paying it. At least, no way she was willing to entertain. Resolutely, she forced her thoughts back to the matter in hand. There was much to do and, despite the sting of that name, she was grateful for her streak of common sense. Acting the lady and, yes, swooning would get them nowhere.

      She came back around the tree and knelt again by his side. ‘And you are?’ she asked, as she folded one of the strips to form a pad.

      ‘Lucas.’

      ‘Mr Lucas?’

      He eyed her, then sighed. ‘Lucas Alastair. Rothley.’

      She froze. ‘Rothley? When you said Rothley before I assumed you meant the village.’

      She knew of the Alastairs of Rothley. Her father and the Marquis of Rothley had once been friends who, in time, had become bitter enemies.

      As she urged Rothley to lean forward so she could pad the exit wound, her mind whirled. The old marquis must have died and this would therefore be his eldest son. There had been two, as she recalled. The tales of their wild behaviour, recounted in whispers, had even penetrated north of the Border, where Mary had spent her childhood. Wild stories, half-remembered. She pushed her conjectures to the back of her mind. His past was of no immediate import.

      ‘We are near to Rothley Hall, then?’

      ‘Indeed...this...my land...’ he gasped.

      Mary studied him with concern. His eyes were screwed shut, his fine lips twisted in a grimace. He might be a wild, hedonistic rake—and drunk, to boot—but he was injured and in pain.

      ‘Do you have a family?’ she asked, in an effort to distract him as she pressed another strip of her folded petticoat against the hole where the bullet had penetrated his shoulder.

      ‘Family?’

      ‘Yes: a wife? Children?’

      ‘No!’

      Rothley’s response to her idle question was swift, in a tone tinged with abhorrence, stirring Mary’s curiosity. Why so hostile? Mayhap it was as well, she thought, as she continued to dress his wound. Better by far, to her mind, that the rakes of this world remained unwed and saved some poor woman, and their children, a life of misery.

      She banished his attitude to the back of her mind and concentrated on the task in hand, listening with increasing anxiety to his shallow breathing. He groaned as she lifted his arm to pass the bandage beneath, wrapping it around to hold the pads in place.

      ‘Why...do you...ask?’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘Why ask...about...family?’

      She smiled at his suspicious tone, secure in the knowledge he could not see her expression. Did he imagine she wished to discover if he was wed? Did he fear she might set her cap at him on the strength of his title alone?

      ‘I wondered if someone might be out searching for you.’

      ‘Not...’ His voice faded.

      Alarmed, fearing he was about to pass out, Mary glanced up at Rothley. His eyes were riveted on her chest. She glanced down and felt a blush rise as she realised how much of her décolletage was revealed to his gaze as she leaned forward to bandage him. He glanced up and caught her eye.

      ‘Merely...distracting...myself...S...Sensible Mary.’

      Mary felt a tingle deep inside at the heat she glimpsed in those dark eyes. It had been a very long time since a man—rake or not—had viewed her as a woman and not simply as a burdensome wife.

      ‘Let me see your leg,’ she said, striving to sound unaffected as she quelled her unwelcome response. Rothley was a rake and a drinker. It was a combination she despised. How could she react to him in such a way? It must be sheer animal attraction; he was, after all, very striking: all brooding, sensual masculinity.

      She gently cut the material of his breeches away from the wound, wishing she had some means of cleaning the hole where the bullet had entered the fleshy part of the back of his thigh. There was no exit wound. That was bad. She bit her lip as she bandaged his leg.

      Rothley groaned softly and Mary looked up with concern. His eyes were closed and harsh lines bracketed his mouth and furrowed his brow.

      ‘My lord?’ He did not respond. She laid her hand on his forehead. Not too much heat there. Not yet, anyway, she thought grimly, but he needs a doctor. The sooner the better.

      ‘My lord?’ Mary raised her voice, laying her hand against his cheek. His stubble scratched against her palm. She patted him, gently at first, then firmly.

      He groaned again and opened his eyes. She could see the effort he made to rally, jaw clenched and nostrils flaring as he inhaled several times.

      ‘Inside...brandy...’ He indicated his jacket.

      Mary felt inside what was left of his jacket. The muscles of his chest jerked in reflex as she brushed against them.

      ‘Haven’t you had enough of this already?’ She retrieved a small flask, recalling the stench of alcohol she had noticed before. No doubt she had already become accustomed to the smell.

      He thrust his hand out and, when she handed him the flask, he unscrewed the cap with his teeth and spat it out before taking a long swig. Mary shuddered, the smell again reviving unhappy memories. She forced herself back to the present, to the situation in hand.

      ‘Which direction is Rothley Hall?’ she asked. ‘How shall I find it?’

      ‘To right...follow path...turn left on road.’ He paused, tensing, then raised dark eyes, racked with pain, to hers.

      ‘Big gates...a mile...on right. P...please...Mary, be quick!’

      ‘Don’t fret, I shall go soon,’ she replied. Taking his hand between hers she squeezed, her heart going out to him. ‘But first, I shall fetch my cloak. It will keep you warm until help arrives.’

      Toby