On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

Martin glanced at her. "This is Miss Amanda, Colly-I want you to do whatever she asks." Briefly, he surveyed the room.

Colly watched him, worried, fretting the knitted shawl he'd thrown over his nightshirt. "We don't have much to do much with, m'lord."

Martin nodded, his expression grim. "We'll have to make do with whatever we have." He turned back to the door. "Get the fire going-I'll bring in the wounded."

He left; Amanda went straight to the huge cast-iron oven. "How do you open it?"

Colly hurried after her. "Here-I'll show you, miss."

They got the fire in the stove blazing; at Amanda's suggestion, Colly set a second fire in the open section of the hearth as well. He was dazed, but readily followed her instructions. But if she didn't order, he dithered. Grabbing a cloth, she wiped down the deal table, the only place she could see to lay Reggie. She was arranging on its surfac

e the cushions she'd taken from an old chair when Martin ducked through the door, Reggie in his arms.

"Good." Easing Reggie down, he nodded toward the hall. Onslow stood braced against the archway. "Close the back door-slide the bolts."

Feeling the icy draft, Amanda dashed to the heavy door, swung it closed and bolted it. Returning to the kitchen, she urged Onslow into a dusty chair. Colly was setting two kettles to boil. "We'll need more bandages." She looked at Colly. "Old sheets? And old towels, too."

He nodded and hurried off. Martin was inspecting Reggie's bandage. She checked Onslow's arm, then the first of the kettles hissed.

The next half hour went in tending their patients. Amanda washed Reggie's bloodied face and head, then Martin took over, gently probing the wound while she watched, hands clenched, knuckles white. Then he washed away the fresh blood.

"As I thought." He reached for the towels she'd stacked ready. "The bullet didn't lodge, but it was a near-run thing." They rebandaged the wound, then Martin went out and brought in their bags. He rummaged in Reggie's and drew out a nightshirt. Between them, they stripped him of his bloodstained coat and shirt and eased the nightshirt over his head.

Onslow, weak but still awake, was easier to deal with. Then Martin looked around. "I'll have to stable the nags. Can you see what you and Colly can do about beds?"

Amanda nodded. Martin left; she turned to Colly. "The first thing we need is light. Lanterns would be best."

He found two, but they were empty. Armed with a huge, seven-armed candelabra, with Colly on her heels supporting its five-armed cousin, Amanda started into the house. Both candelabras had been fully set with fresh candles; given the likelihood of those being the only candles available, she'd lit only two in each holder. So the light was soft and wavering as she ventured into the long corridor beyond the kitchen; it led to a front hall so huge the candlelight didn't reach the corners. An equally impressive staircase led upward, then divided into two. She started up. "Which rooms were last used here?"

"Family rooms-family wing's to the right."

She took the right fork in the stairs; the gallery above was deeply shadowed. The candlelight played over gilt frames as she headed in the direction Colly pointed, toward a corridor that appeared to run half the length of the long house.

The mansion was silent and still, like Martin's London residence but with one vital difference. This house seemed to breathe, alive but dormant, quietly waiting tucked up in holland covers. Although the temperature was lower here, the coldness in London had been more profound. This place had been a home, once; it was waiting to be a home again. There was a sense of whispers in the shadows, as if, if she strained, she would hear the echo of laughter and flying feet, of children's shrieks and men's rumbling chuckles.

There was warmth here, albeit in abeyance; the promise of life still lay richly upon this house. The fable of Sleeping Beauty occurred to her-the house was waiting for her prince to return and reawaken her. Lips lifting wryly at her fancy, she let Colly ease ahead and open a door.

"This room was always kept ready for the master."

Holding the candelabra high, she surveyed the chamber. "The earl?" It didn't seem large enough.

"Nay, the young master. Lord Martin. They was expecting him back anytime."

She crossed to the curtained bed. "They?"

"The old earl and Lady Rachel. Looked for him for years they did, but he never did come back." Colly rattled back the curtains, ignoring the cloud of dust. "Gave me a right turn, seeing him standing there, large as life. Too late for his lordship-his father, I mean-and her ladyship, more's the pity."

Colly fell to shaking the pillows and the covers. Setting aside her confusion, Amanda placed her candelabra on the bedside table and helped. The room and this bed would do for Reggie. Leaving Colly with instructions to get the fire going, she headed back to the kitchen.

Back to Reggie. She'd never seen him so pale, so lifeless, stretched out on the table before the fire. Their last words rang in her head; she swallowed and chafed his hands, but her own hands were icy. Gently, she brushed back a tuft of hair that had fallen across his bandage; her heart constricted-she forced herself to look around. To do something to hold the unbearable at bay.

Shock, loss of blood-how did one treat that? She'd never felt so helpless in her life. Tea-people always prescribed tea for everything. She rummaged through the few canisters standing on a sideboard, Colly's meagre provisions. She found the tea.

Martin walked in as she stood hovering over a steaming kettle, a spoon in one hand, the open canister in the other. She glanced at him, gestured helplessly. "I've no idea how much to put in."

He heard the wavering in her voice, saw the rising panic in her eyes. He crossed to her. "I'll do it." He took the canister and spoon from her, deftly measured tea into the kettle. "How is he?"

"Icy." She dragged in a tight breath.