Page 62 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
“I don’t believe that’s my blood,” Percy said. “And the less we talk about blood right now, the better.”
Kit realized for the first time that Percy didn’t have the pistol in his hand. “Where is the weapon?”
“I believe it’s in the carriage.”
“If you can mount your horse, you need to do it.”
It took Percy a few false tries, and in the end Kit had to all but shove him into the saddle. Kit still couldn’t tell whether it was blood loss or shock that was affecting Percy. All he knew was that they needed to get far away from this place, and they needed to do it now, but between them they only had one horse and two working legs.
And this was why Kit should have hired someone else for this job. Kit should have stayed in London, because in his condition he was worse than useless to Percy. Well, he could take himself to task later; now he needed to get Percy to safety. If he remembered this part of Oxfordshire at all correctly, a short walk through the woods would bring him to Jenny’s gran. Kit’s leg was in a sorry state, and he’d pay for this tomorrow, but he still had some strength left.
“Get on behind me,” Percy said.
“Your horse can’t hold us both,” Kit said. Christ, the horse looked like he needed food and water, too. “Come on.”
Percy didn’t even ask where they were going, which could not be a good sign. He let Kit guide him through the woods, quietand almost docile. Every few minutes—every few seconds, if he were honest with himself, Kit brushed his hands over Percy’s wounded leg and checked his fingers for blood. It didn’t take long for them to come away bright red.
The moon was high in the sky when they came to the part of the woods he knew. Past an old well, across a shallow stream, and there was the cottage, firelight flickering in the windows and smoke coming from the chimney.
Jenny’s grandmother might not even live there anymore. It wasn’t as if Kit had kept in touch. Well, even if strangers answered the door, it was better than sleeping rough or raising suspicions at an inn where news of the robbery may have already spread. This was their best bet.
When he raised his arms to help Percy down from the saddle, Percy scoffed and tried to dismount on his own, and would have fallen if not for Kit’s arm around his middle.
“We’re stopping at this cottage,” Kit said into Percy’s ear. “You’re Edward Percy. You’re no relation of the duke. You’re a friend of mine from London.”
When Kit knocked, the door was answered by a woman with a long white plait. It took Kit too long to realize it was Jenny’s grandmother.
“Granny Dot,” Kit began, then corrected himself. “Mistress—”
“Christopher. I should have known that if I ever were to lay eyes on you again, it would be on a moonlit night in the company of a blood-soaked stranger. Dennis!” A lad of about seven or eight appeared behind the old woman’s skirts, his mouth open in a yawn. “Set up a pallet bed in the barn and light the brazier.” Then, to Kit, “That’s John’s youngest.”
“And how is John?” John had been Jenny’s oldest brother.
“Dead,” Dorothy said curtly. “They’re all dead, except you, me, and Dennis.”
Kit realized Percy was looking between him and Dorothy. “This is Mr.Percy. He fell off his horse and injured himself. We need a place to sleep for a night or two, some supper, and some hay for the horse, if you can spare it.”
“You’d be welcome to stay longer than that, but I imagine you have your own reasons for not lingering. I imagine you always have,” Dorothy said, not unkindly.
The lad came back then and showed them to the barn, which was little more than a shack that Kit thought might at one time have housed a milk cow. Kit could hardly look at the boy for how much he resembled Jenny, for how much he seemed like a ghost of what Hannah might have looked like.
“Sit,” Kit ordered Percy once the boy had left them to go tend to the horse. “And strip. I need to check you for wounds.”
“Are you mad? It’s freezing in here.”
The barn was drafty and smelled of damp old straw, but it wasn’t the worst place Kit had ever spent the night, and once the brazier was lit it would be fine.
Kit unsheathed the dagger at his hip. “Strip or I’m cutting those breeches off you.”
Percy raised his eyebrows. “In another context that would have been a very fun game indeed.”
Kit supposed it was a good sign if Percy was talking like that. It was not a good sign, however, that Percy couldn’t seem to unlace his boots. Kit, ignoring his leg’s screaming protests, managed to kneel on the ground before Percy and get his boots off. He untied the bloody kerchief. “Lift your hips up,” he said, andtugged Percy’s breeches off. Percy gasped when the leather peeled off the wound, but he kept still and didn’t complain.
“Drink,” Kit said, handing Percy the flask of gin. Percy complied, and then before capping it, Kit poured a generous slosh over the wound.
Percy flinched and swore. “You could have warned me.”
The blood cleaned away, Kit could make out the contours of the wound. It was about two inches long on the outside of Percy’s thigh, as if Percy had been trying to step out of the path of the pistol ball and had nearly managed it. Kit let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. From the satchel, he removed a clean kerchief and tied it around the wound.
