Page 22 of Tamed By a Passionate Lady
She was alone, now, and finally able to process what had occurred. Fergus Hicks had told her that he was grievously injured and had slipped into unconsciousness, but it was all so vague at this time. Was her husband going to die?
Suddenly she saw a party of men, rounding the corner near the last cliff face. There were four of them, holding a stretcher with a man on it. He was covered by a blanket, and he wasn’t moving a muscle.
Her heart clenched tightly. ItwasJames.
Even at this distance, she could tell. She knew his figure, his physique, his characteristics, almost as well as she knew her own. He was so tall that his feet hung over the edge of the stretcher, and she saw that the men carrying him were struggling. James was powerfully built, and he would not be light to carry.
A short, potbellied man, dressed in a long dark jacket and dark britches, with a black tricorne hat pulled down on his head, walked alongside the stretcher, barking commands at the sailors. Adaline guessed that this was Dr. Patterson, the ship’s physician. The man who had spotted James on the rocks, through his telescope, as theChristianahad sailed past.
Her legs almost buckled beneath her again as she watched their slow, arduous progress along the beach, to the path that would bring them up to the house.
Itwasreal. It was very real.
The last of her hope abruptly evaporated, like a bubble popping. The tears silently streamed down her face.
There was no mistake. ItwasJames, on that stretcher. And he did not look well at all.
***
Her heart was in her mouth as they heaved him up the final steps of the long path, towards the top of the garden. She saw that the sailors carrying him were panting with exertion, their faces slick with sweat, their hair plastered to their heads with it as well.
She ran to them, anxiously gazing down at her husband, lying prone on the stretcher.
His eyes were closed. Not even an eyelash flickered. And his face was deathly pale, almost waxen. It looked like a death mask.
He was covered by a rough hessian blanket, but she could see blood seeping through it. The sailors hesitated, stopping, balancing the stretcher precariously.
“James,” she moaned, in an anguished whisper, reaching for his hand, beneath the blanket. “Oh, James. What has happened to you, my love?”
There was no response. His eyelids didn’t flicker in the slightest. And his hand was so cold, it was like holding the hand of a corpse.
The short man in black stepped forward. “Madam,” he said, in a clipped tone. “Dr. Aloysius Patterson, at your service.” He saluted quickly.
“Dr. Patterson,” she said, straightening, her eyes brimming with tears. “I am Mrs. Townshend. Thank you for bringing my husband to me, and for saving him in the first place. I do not know what would have happened if your ship had not been sailing past the shore, at that particular time…”
The man nodded brusquely. “I am happy to assist, Mrs. Townshend, in any way that I can.” He took a deep breath. “I will fill you in on what happened and my assessment of the situation, but I am afraid that it will have to wait. Hicks has arrived, and asked you to prepare for the patient?”
She nodded. “Yes, we have prepared a sick bed.”
“Very good.” The man spoke in a quick, abrupt way. “If you would kindly direct us to where that is, we will get your husband comfortable and I can assess him and what needs to be done further.”
***
The window in the spare chamber that they had chosen as a sick room was open, letting in a stream of fresh air to take away the musty smell Mrs. Bolt had discerned as soon as she had stepped through the door.
Adaline gazed around as the sailors carefully transferred James onto the bed from the stretcher. Everything was prepared, just as she had ordered.
There was a jug filled with steaming water, and a bowl, on the bedside table. Three fresh towels were neatly folded, sitting alongside it. The linen was fresh, smelling of lemons, and she was touched to notice that Mrs. Bolt had placed a vase of roses, obviously freshly picked from the garden, on the opposite bedside table.
James did not make a sound as they settled him in the bed. His face was still a pale death mask, and his breathing was laboured.
Dr. Patterson went straight to work, leaning over the unconscious man, his sharp eyes sweeping him from head to toe.
“I will need bandages, madam,” he said crisply, turning to her. “Rather a lot of them. Your husband has a bad cut on his left leg. I stemmed the bleeding as best I could, but the dressing will need to be changed immediately.”
“Of course,” Adaline replied, heading to the door. Why hadn’t she thought of bandages? But then, she had no idea that they might be needed.
At the doorway Isabel suddenly appeared, peering into the room. Her eyes widened in horror as they fell upon the unmoving figure of James, with the doctor hovering over him. They widened further as she took in the sailors, still milling in the room.
