Page 105 of Tremaine's True Love
Nita was fairly certain who the widow was. She did not, however, recognize this band of angels intent on protecting her from the very bad news that might have resulted from the duel.
“You needn’t accompany me,” she said. “If I’m to be ruined, the less you’re seen in my company, the better.”
“You’re not ruined,” Addy said fiercely.
“I agree with Addy.” Leah, as the countess and highest title in the shire, could speak with authority. “Nicholas will dissuade anybody from discussing today’s events. Men must be allowed their silly crotchets, after all. Ladies, we’ll need our boots and cloaks.”
“Nita should bring her medical bag,” Della said. “Duels can get messy.”
“Surely not—” Nita began, because that bag was an item of loathing among her family members and had figuratively cost her a future with Tremaine.
“Horton will be there,” Kirsten added. “And Edward thinks of himself as a great rural sportsman. I don’t doubt Mr. St. Michael is an excellent shot.”
Good God, Horton, with his dirty instruments and complete disregard for the patient’s pain. Terror for Tremaine threatened to choke Nita where she stood.
“Fetch your bag,” Susannah said.
“Get your cloak,” Leah said, “and I’ll fetch the medical bag for you.”
* * *
George Haddonfield was apparently a connoisseur of good whisky. Tremaine had nearly drained that worthy fellow’s flask before William shuffled to a halt. The horse stood placidly outside the Belle Maison kitchen door while Tremaine enjoyed another dram. Excellent stuff. Slowed down the cold creeping over a man from within.
“I’ll find a footman,” George said, swinging off his gelding. “Don’t, for God’s sake, fall out of your saddle. Nicholas might even be about, and if he can help, that’s one less source of gossip—”
The kitchen door opened and a half-dozen women in cloaks and scarves emerged.
“The jury has assembled,” Tremaine murmured. “Ladies, I apologize for my condition. Bit messy, you see. Mourning the end of a fine boot and a finer engagement.”
“He’s tipsy,” George muttered. “Nash fired early and St. Michael got the worst of it, but you lot aren’t to know any of that.”
“Stone sober,” Tremaine retorted cheerily. “But, alas, not in any condition to dismount unaided.”
“I’ll lead the horses to the stable,” Susannah said. “Leah, let Nicholas know Mr. St. Michael has survived his ordeal. If I’m not back by noon, I’ve gone to kill Edward Nash.”
“You can’t kill him,” Addy Chalmers said—what wasshedoing among the assemblage? “He’s Mary’s uncle. I’ll go with you.”
“Get Mr. St. Michael into the kitchen.” Nita spoke with the crisp dispatch of a field marshal confident of victory. Pain hadn’t robbed Tremaine of consciousness, but the relief of knowing Nita would tend him nearly put him into a swoon.
“I’m sorry to bother you, my lady,” Tremaine said as George more or less pulled him off his horse. “Hadn’t meant to impose, but Horton was there with his dirty knife. Paracelsus would disapprove.”
“I would disapprove,” Nita said. The damned woman was smiling, also crying, as she slipped an arm around Tremaine’s waist. “Slowly, George, and once we get Mr. St. Michael out of the cold, his bleeding might become profuse.”
Tremaine’s heartache was already profuse. “You may remove my leg if you like,” he said as he was half carried into the kitchen. “You are already in possession of my heart.”
“A tipsy shepherd poet,” George murmured. “Where do you want him?”
“On the table. I’ll need blankets, more whisky, quantities of sugar, bandages, and as much prayer as you can muster.”
“What about my heart?” Tremaine asked as he was propped against the kitchen worktable. “Do you need that as well?”
Nita held a flask up to his mouth, more of George Haddonfield’s lovely brew. Tremaine dutifully gulped but fought off a growing mental fog, because he needed an answer to his question.
“Shall you hold on to my heart, Lady Nita?”
“You’re tipsy, Mr. St. Michael, and weak from loss of blood. Right now, I’ll hold on to your leg while George cuts your boot off.”
Tremaine might have importuned Lady Nita further, but she kissed him, a sweet, nighty-night kiss that boded well for his heart. She’d also called him Mr. St. Michael in the brisk tones that had ever been a cause for good cheer. When George started peeling off the abused boot, an agony of fire shot through Tremaine that did not bode at all well for his leg.
