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pistol. She never went out alone without it, but more for foxes and vermin than protection. She dragged back the hammer. Old the weapon might be, but she kept it in excellent working order.
She stepped forward. “Who’s there? Come out at once!” If it was a beggar, she’d give him short shrift and send him on his way. A beggar was highly unlikely to be armed with more than a knife, so as long as she kept her distance, she’d be fine.
The pistol wavered in her grip. She brought her other hand up and braced her hold on it. “Answer me!”
All she got was another groan. Daring to move closer, she peered into the darkness.
He moved, and a shot of alarm arced through her. His body went on forever, and his bulk wasn’t entirely due to his heavy clothes.
The rain had lessened and the sun had come out, giving her better light.
Something sticky and dark glimmered on the floor of the hut. The straw had absorbed some of it, but not all. That accounted for the rest of the smell she’d detected when she’d approached this place. It was the smell of the cobbled yard at the back of the pigsty after the slaughterman had paid his autumn visit.
Imogen uncocked her pistol and crept forward. When he stirred, blood seeped from a wound somewhere on his body, and the fresh red stain was easily visible, even in this gloom.
This man was no vagabond. He didn’t wear rags but a sturdy overcoat covering a coat that, while not the height of fashion, was well made—and currently stained with his blood. Her heart missed a beat. How much had he lost? More than a man should, that was for sure.
Imogen dropped to her knees next to him, doing her best to avoid the sticky pool. She needed to discover the source of the blood, so she could try to stop it. He rolled on to his back.
He wasn’t conscious, but a slit of blue showed from beneath his lids. If he’d ever had a wig and hat, he’d lost them long since. His short dark hair was clammy, either with rain or sweat, clinging to his skull. His hands, bare of gloves, were pale, and his nails broken. Had he had a horse? Horse thieves were rife around here. If thieves had set upon him, why hadn’t they taken his clothes as well as his horse? And left a perfectly good pair of riding boots?
While she considered the situation, she pulled at his clothes, dragging them aside to discover the wound. Either she’d have to ride for help, in which case he might bleed to death, or she might find a way of stopping the bleeding long enough to get him to a place of safety. It didn’t pass her understanding that she could be in danger here too, if the attackers were still lurking nearby. She laid the pistol down by her side and remained alert to any untoward sound or a whinny from Blackie.
His side was clear of wounds. The damage was to his arm. She breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn’t near a vital organ. After taking her knife, she cut up the sleeve of the man’s overcoat, and then, with more effort, the coat he wore beneath. She had to deal with the shirt. This man had dressed far too well.
There it was. A deep wound on the upper flesh of his left arm bled sluggishly. When he changed position he’d caused the fresh flow. Imogen breathed out slowly in relief. She had uncovered no mortal wound. He would most likely live.
Now to find something she could use to bind his wounds and prevent them opening up again when she moved him. The solution lay before her in the creamy white of his linen. She cut away the sleeve of his shirt, taking great care not to cut his skin. Busy about her work and planning her next move, she started so violently at the sound of his voice that she nearly leaped three feet in the air like a startled cat.
“Are you planning to hurt me again?” His deep and rich tones were tinged with amusement.
Imogen shrieked. Gripping the shirt sleeve, she sat back on her heels and glared at him. “How long have you been awake?”
“I keep drifting,” he said. “I hit my head when I was shot. Didn’t you realize that’s what happened?” He closed his eyes and groaned. “Please tell me the bullet passed through and didn’t shatter the bone.”
“You’re a doctor?”
When he shook his head, he winced. “What about my head?”
“Your head’s hurt?”
He took a couple of deep breaths. “My horse bolted and threw me off. That’s when I hit my head. I’m a damned idiot for letting the landlord talk me into hiring the beast. But perhaps if somebody hadn’t shot at me, the beast wouldn’t have run off. My head hurts like the devil. Somehow I found this place, I’m not sure how.”
The road was at least half a mile away. “The bullet went through you. It’s not inside you.”
He closed his eyes and bit his lip. “Would you mind binding that wound before I bleed to death?”
Thus admonished, she returned to her task. After she ripped the shirt down its seam and split it in half with her knife, she had plenty of linen to bandage the wound. She bound it loosely to start, but gentleness wasn’t the best way. Blood oozed through the fabric. Gritting her teeth, she started again. This time she pulled it tight.
He sucked a harsh breath between his teeth, but bade her, “Don’t mind me. Keep going.”
She did as he said because she had no choice. Only a tight bandage would work.
When she’d finished, she ripped the end of the makeshift bandage down to make two ties and fastened it off with an efficient knot.
Only then did she realize her calves were screaming at her to move. They ached with a deep, agonizing cramp. Trying not to whimper, she sat back, ignoring the damp ground under her backside. With little consideration to modesty, she lifted her skirts and rubbed her calves.
He glanced at her, and to her amazement, a smile flicked at the corners of his full mouth. A strained one to be sure, but it was there. “When you’ve recovered, would you mind taking a look at my head? Then I’ll be on my way.”
She could hardly believe he’d said that. “Where will you go?”
“I may still have my purse. Did you not look?”
“I was too busy saving your life.”
He chuckled low in his throat before he groaned again.
Her legs tingling with pins and needles, Imogen strove to move. Despite the blood and dirt smears on his face, his powerful attraction pierced her awareness.
He was tall, or at the moment, long. When she spread her hands over his head to feel for any wounds or blows, she found nothing life-threatening, as far as she could tell. Touching him like this felt far too intimate.
He glanced up at her without moving his head. “Do you feel anything?”
Yes, a man. She’d never expected to get this close to a man, having long given up the prospect of marriage.
Better to give up the idea entirely than lose her land. But now, with her hands on this man’s head, she realized exactly what she was giving up.
Intimacy. She would never be close to anyone. She had been an only child with an undemonstrative mother. Only her body servants would touch her. In any case, she took care of most of her personal needs herself, so that would be rarely. No man, and never in the act of love.
Her thoughts came to a halt. “You have a lump as big as a pigeon’s egg.” She gentled her touch.
“Anything else?”
Wasn’t that enough? “A cut. Not a deep one.” At least, it wouldn’t be when the bump had subsided. The wound had begun to clot, and soon it would have a substantial scab. His only problem would be dirt. But she couldn’t wash either of his wounds or any she hadn’t yet discovered because there was no pond or stream close by. The rain had helped, but he needed proper care.
“I’ll do. Help me up, and I’ll leave you in peace.”
“You’re mad,”