Sanguinet's Crown Read online

  A man, his shirt most gruesomely stained and his attitude one of mortal fear, lay on the ground at the foot of the hill, one arm thrown up in a feeble attempt to protect himself from the blade that menaced him. The individual who held that glittering sword, far from showing any pity, stepped even closer, until the point of the blade cut into his victim’s throat.

  Paralyzed with shock, Charity heard a soft, gloating laugh. A cultured voice observed with cold inflexibility, “Very well, then. This world is overburdened with your kind!”

  The sword was drawn back, the hand holding it now aiming in such a way as to make his murderous intent very clear. The wounded man gave a shriek and began to babble frantically, but his words were drowned by the scream that burst from Charity’s throat. Running pell-mell, she called, “Do not! Oh, you must not murder the poor soul!”

  “Damn and blast!” The swordsman spun to face her.

  Still running, Charity beheld a slim gentleman whose expression fairly hurled wrath. He was much younger than she had at first supposed. Even in that taut moment, a portion of her brain registered the fact that he was excessively handsome, his hair thick and dark, his nose high-bridged and Roman, his features of an aquiline cast, and his chin firm. The mouth, however, she judged cruel, with thin lips compressed into a tight, angry line, while the eyes— Oh, heavens! Had she ever before seen eyes of such an icy grey?

  His voice a snarl of rage, he demanded, “What in the devil are you doing here, madam?”

  The question was as arrogant as it was stupid. Ignoring it, she stood before him and panted, “You must not! It would be cold-blooded murder!”

  A twisted smile curved his mouth unpleasantly. He sneered, “Much you know of it. My gift to England, rather.”

  “Oh! How can you be so wickedly unfeeling?” And noting from the corner of her eye that the wounded man had managed to stand and was tottering away, she said, “Have you never heard of good sportsmanship, sir?”

  “My God! A missionary!” The grey eyes, glinting scorn, flickered in the direction of the hilltop. “Where’s your keeper, ma’am? You are surely not allowed to run loose?”

  He was as brutal and ill-mannered, Charity decided, as he was good to look upon. She said haughtily, “One might expect a gentleman to apologize for swearing at a lady, rather than to rail at her.”

  “And one might expect a lady to be accompanied by a maid or a footman, rather than prancing like any hoyden into affairs that don’t con—” He had turned about as he spoke and, discovering that his intended victim was making good his escape, uttered a cry of rage and started off in pursuit.

  With a cry of her own, Charity sprang to throw her arms about him. “No! You shall not!” she cried, heroically clinging to him.

  She discovered her mistake at once, even if she did not repent it, for despite his slender build, he was all steel. Her determined clasp was broken in an instant and so violently that she fell headlong. The Villain was stamping off after his prey; he wasn’t running, as she would have expected, but that he fairly slavered for the kill she did not doubt. Starting to get to her feet, Charity saw that the wounded man had reached a cluster of trees, but even if his horse was tethered there, he could not hope to get very far, and when his merciless opponent came up with him, would have no chance to defend himself. Nor could she hope to prevail upon such ferocity, unless … She lay back and uttered a sobbing wail. Somewhat to her surprise, the Villain slowed and turned to scowl irresolutely at her. She moaned loudly. He hesitated, glaring after his departing victim, for all the world, or so thought Charity, like a wild beast deprived of its prey. The simile pleased her highly developed sense of the dramatic, but a moment later as he strode reluctantly towards her, she experienced a pang of fear. For only then did it occur to her that she was alone, far from help, with a man who would not balk at murder.

  Coming up with her, he said grittily, “I suspect you mean to enact me a proper Cheltenham tragedy, no? What is broke ma’am? Your neck … at the very least?”

  Oddly enough, those scathing words eased her anxieties. She lifted one drooping hand. “I will trouble you only to help me rise, if you please.” And with a saintliness that would have astounded those who knew her, she murmured, “I have been rather ill, you see.”

  He snorted derisively, but his hand went out and gripped hers. She was surprised to find it cold as ice, and shot a searching glance at him. He was very pale, which was fashionable, of course, and probably merely indicated a life of debauchery.

  His strong tug having restored her to her feet, he sneered, “I collect it must be a forlorn hope to enquire if you’ve someone to escort you home, ma’am?”

  Home? She had no intention of going home. She’d scarcely begun her painting. He wanted to be rid of her purely so as to hunt down and slaughter his wounded adversary. Bloodthirsty wretch! Charity had always felt a deep contempt for dueling, but she was well aware that in spite of the efforts of the Bow Street Runners and other minions of the law, the practice continued. She knew also that it was governed by a rigid Code of Honour. It was scarcely to be credited that a man so obviously well bred as this one should ignore every precept of that Code, but credit it she must. To divert him from his savagery would, she decided, be well worth the sacrifice of a morning’s sketching. Therefore, she abandoned the pithy indictment of his manners and morals that she had been about to dispense and instead said in a die-away voice that her groom’s horse had gone lame and he was walking the animal home.

  “The fellow should have his wits refurbished for leaving a lady alone out here,” growled the duellist. “Have you a horse nearby, ma’am?”

  She acknowledged, quaveringly, that she had, and that it was tethered at the top of the hill.

  He grunted and, putting fingers to mouth, whistled shrilly. A horse neighed. Charity heard fast approaching hoofbeats and from around the curve of the hill came a magnificent black mare, galloping with a smooth, effortless stride that was a delight to behold. For a moment it seemed that she would trample them, but at the last instant she plunged to a halt and stood sidling and snorting beside her master. She nuzzled at him fondly, but then flung up her pretty head and danced away, eyes rolling.

  “It’s all right, Whisp,” he said in a voice that surprised Charity. “Come now, quiet down.” His tone becoming acid again, he asked, “Are you able to mount, ma’am? She’s a trifle frisky, but—”

  “Thank you. That will not be necessary. I am quite able to walk to my horse.”

  He shrugged, and instead of walking beside her as any gentleman would have done, thrust one foot into the stirrup. His decidedly stiff swing into the saddle was so at odds with the splendid mare that Charity again appraised him narrowly. He was white as death and when he lifted the reins she saw blood on his wrist. “Good heavens,” she exclaimed, “you’re hurt, Mr., er…”

  “Pray do not weep, Miss, er…” he said harshly. “And my name is Mitchell—” He broke off, his jaw setting and his right hand gripping hard at the pommel.

  Incensed, she cried, “Of all the nonsensical starts! Get down at once, Mr. Mitchell, so that I may—”

  “I shall do no such thing. And if you do not hasten, ma’am, I shall leave you to your probably gruesome fate. I’ve … I’ve much to … do.”

  The words were as obnoxious as ever, but his voice had wavered and was less distinct. Running to keep up with the mare, Charity declared indignantly, “Never in all my life have I encountered so idiotic a creature! For heaven’s sake, sir, would you prefer to bleed to death rather than suffer me to—”

  “Oh, infinitely, ma’am.”

  Dumbfounded, she halted to stare up at him. The mare cavorted and danced. Her rider swayed easily and instinctively, winced, and again grabbed hard at the pommel.

  “Mr. Mitchell,” said Charity, torn between anxiety and exasperation, “if you will not allow me to help you, pray leave me and ride to the nearest inn. There is a delightful one a mile or so to the west, and—”

  “
And I shall repair to it, just as soon as I’ve seen you safely home.”

  She tightened her lips and threw an irked glance at the heavens. The man was all about in his head. But despite his stubborn stupidity he really did look very ill, wherefore she picked up her skirts and ran the rest of the way. She did not attempt to gather her belongings, hurrying instead to her horse. As she reached for the reins she glanced around and was just in time to see Mr. Mitchell topple from the saddle and lie in a motionless heap beside his Arabian.

  With a groan, Charity ran to snatch up the small bottle of water she carried for her paints, then fairly flew back to the fallen man.

  He lay on his right side and she sank to her knees beside him, opened his coat, and searched for the telltale signs of a wound. There were none. She took up his left wrist. The crimson streaks had crept down to his fingertips but the coat sleeve revealed no tear. Baffled, she pushed him over onto his stomach, finding it to be more of a task than she’d anticipated.

  “Good God!” she gasped.

  The back of his coat was slashed and wet with blood. She stared numbly for an instant, thinking, “In the back…? Was he running away then?”

  Recovering, she attempted to tear the jacket, but the cloth might have been made of iron, and she carried no scissors with her artistic supplies. The garment was very well tailored and fit snugly across his shoulders; to remove it by conventional methods would require quite some time and possibly more strength than she possessed. At this point, she remembered the duel. His sword had been restored to its scabbard and was a trifle difficult to come at, but eventually she succeeded in retrieving it. She held it gingerly. It had not looked nearly so enormous when Mr. Mitchell had held it. Now, it seemed prodigiously heavy, and the horrid thing was razor sharp. It was necessary that she proceed with great care lest she add to his woes by impaling him, but somehow, in struggling to rend the back of that once excellent jacket, she dropped the weapon and, grabbing for it, inflicted another long slash in the back of the unconcious man’s pantaloons.

  Two years ago, when poor Alain Devenish had been so brutally hurt in Dinan, she had done what little she could to help her sister nurse him and had frequently held the bowl while Rachel applied hot compresses to the wound in his thigh. That had seemed quite convenable. For some odd reason, the slash in Mr. Mitchell’s britches and the glimpse of the smooth flesh beneath did not seem at all convenable. Her cheeks burned and, laying the sword aside, she tried with the foolishness of panic to pull the severed edges of the fabric back together.

  “What in … hell…?”

  Charity gave a little shriek. Mr. Mitchell’s dark head was turning to her. “Do not move!” she shrilled.

  “The devil I won’t!” He tried to sit up, but abruptly subsided.

  With her heart fluttering, Charity grasped the sword and completed her desecration of the jacket.

  “Madam,” said Mitchell, faint but determined, “whatever it is that you … attempt, desist!”

  Whatever she attempted? What did he think she attempted? But she knew all too well! Horribly embarrassed, she nonetheless investigated further. His shirt was wet with blood and slashed from the area of his spine across to the left side, just below his shoulder blade. Still wondering how such a wound could possibly have been inflicted during a duel, Charity slipped the sword under the fine cambric, made a long slit, and laid the sword aside. She spread the shirt apart and stared, suddenly very cold. The gash was quite deep and had bled profusely, but it was not the wound that caused her heart to all but stop. The muscular back she gazed at was a mass of scars, the criss-crossing ridges leaving no room for doubt that at some time in the not too distant past this man had been flogged half to death. Very few crimes, she knew, could cause such punishment to be inflicted upon an aristocrat, and she shrank back in revulsion. Small wonder he had not wanted her help!

  A derisive chuckle brought her eyes flashing to meet his. “Well,” he sneered, “and what have you decided, Madam Prim? Did I murder my mother? Or violate my baby sister, perhaps?”

  The words were as contemptuous as they were disgraceful. Her disgust of him flared, but there was a pinched look about the thin nostrils now, and for all their mockery, his eyes were dulled. Charity pulled herself together. Whatever his offence, he was injured and in pain.

  She said quietly, “Both, I fancy. Only lie still, sir, and I shall do what I may to help you.”

  Chapter 2

  Despite her limited experience in the actual treatment of wounds, Charity knew that it was imperative the bleeding be stopped as soon as possible. To this end, she appropriated Mr. Mitchell’s neckcloth, formed it into a pad, and placed it over the wound. Peering over his shoulder to watch these procedures, her patient said, “That won’t serve. You shall have to tie it.” His eyes glinted at her with fiendish enjoyment. “You must now tear a flounce from your petticoat. If you will hand me my sword, I’ll be glad to assist.”

  She ignored him, unwound the sash from her gown, and said with cool self-possession that if he could contrive to sit up, she would manage.

  He sighed in disappointment, but complied. It was inevitable that she should come very close to him as she performed her acts of mercy. His body reminded her of her brother. Like Justin, he carried not an ounce of fat. The muscles rippled smoothly when he moved. The hair on his chest was thick and very dark. She averted her eyes, her cheeks hot.

  Amused, he said, “You are blushing, ma’am. But I’ll say one thing for you, the sight of blood don’t reduce you to blancmange, as it does most females.”

  “You are too good,” she murmured. The blood was still seeping from under her impromptu pad, and there was only one way to stop it. “I’m sorry, but I must tighten this.” Nerving herself, she gave a sharp tug at the sash she had wound about him. There was a hiss of indrawn breath, but not a sound escaped him. Despite this stoicism, when she asked him to put a finger on the knot she was tying, his hand shook and he stared down blankly at the makeshift bandage. She wondered uneasily if he would be able to climb into the saddle, and had seldom been more relieved than when the thud of hooves announced Best’s return.

  The groom reined up and dismounted with leap. “What on earth happened, Miss Charity?” he asked, running to her in considerable agitation.

  “The lady was good enough to help me,” said Mitchell, reaching for the remains of his jacket.

  Charity thought, “He doesn’t want Best to see his back.” She reached around to assist him. “I chanced upon a duel,” she exclaimed.

  “A duel!” Dropping to one knee beside the injured man, Best moaned, “Oh, I knowed as I shouldn’t have gone off and left ye, miss! Were there no seconds, sir? No surgeon?”

  Charity frowned, wondering why she hadn’t thought of such questions.

  Mitchell answered a curt, “No.” He turned to Charity. “I am most grateful for your … assistance, ma’am.”

  He did not look grateful. He looked haughty and vexed. Therefore, she responded with deliberate double entendre, “I am only glad that I reached you when I did.”

  His lips tightened, and he turned to Best and requested the aid of his arm.

  The groom, who had watched this small exchange in some bewilderment, at once helped the injured man to his feet. Mitchell seemed dazed, and with no little reluctance, Charity suggested that they proceed to her brother’s house so that he could rest.

  “Thank you, ma’am. But I am already late.” He whistled, and the mare that had been grazing nearby trotted over. Best guided Mitchell’s left foot into the stirrup, then provided cupped hands to receive the right foot and boost him into a clumsy but successful mount. “My,” Best murmured, stroking the mare’s glossy neck admiringly, “she do be a prime bit o’ blood, sir. Arab?”

  “Obviously,” said Mitchell, taking up the reins. “Now, could you direct me to a house called Strand Hall?”

  Charity’s heart dropped into her shoes, and Best looked at her in surprise.

  Turning from one
to the other, Mitchell drawled a sardonic, “It does still stand, I presume?”

  “It did two hours since,” Charity replied. “Strand Hall is my brother’s principal seat, Mr. Mitchell. Please collect my belongings, Best, and then we can take—”

  “If you will rather be so good as to direct me,” Mitchell interpolated. “As I have said, I’m in something of a hurry.”

  How insufferable he was! Charity was very tempted to inform him that no one at Strand Hall waited in breathless impatience for his arrival, but it dawned on her that Tristram might be expecting him. “In that case,” she said in her calm way, “I shall ride with Mr. Mitchell, Best. You will not object, sir, if my groom takes the time to aid me to mount?”

  Mitchell scowled and did not respond to this deliberate provocation. His irritation communicated itself to the mare, and she danced about nervously so that for a few minutes he had to place all his concentration upon staying in the saddle. When he glanced up, the girl was mounted and waiting, a look of saintly resignation on her face. He didn’t want her. Thanks to her confounded interference, his chance to identify the man who’d sent the murderous trio after him had been foiled. Besides, he felt like hell, and the dread of toppling from the saddle and again being forced to submit to her martyred airs, scourged him. If Whisper would just behave herself for once! He yanked on the reins with unnecessary violence. It was not a touch Whisper knew, and she snorted and stood trembling. “You damned gudgeon!” thought Mitchell remorsefully, “now see what you’ve done!” But before he could comfort his beloved mare, Miss Prim was saying in her soft and confoundedly sanctimonious voice, “You will spoil her mouth if you treat her so, Mr. Mitchell.”

  “Mr. Mitchell!” The foolish chit didn’t even know his name! And choosing to forget that his own halting words had given her the wrong impression, he snapped, “Might we perhaps start today?”