The understanding in his tone brought a hard, painful lump to Martha’s throat. She felt a faint blush stain her habitually pale cheeks. Her eyes flickered from the still features on her best guest pillows to the pleading grey eyes of her former pupil. “Very well. I will fetch cloths and water,” she said stiffly, and left the room.

Mr. Delacourt followed her. “Thank you, my dear. I knew I might rely on you.” He studied her face, which she kept carefully neutral. It was a difficult subject to broach, and Martha had never invited familiarity. Silently, she willed him not to say the words. “This must be painful for you, Martha. The memories…” He broke off as she turned her head away and made a little, pleading gesture for him to be silent. “Very well, I will say no more on the matter. I’ll leave you now, but I will return on the morrow to see how your patient fares. Then we will confer and decide what next must be done.”

They parted as she went to the kitchen, and with a final, worried glance back at her, he left through the front door. Once he had gone, Martha allowed her shaking knees to give way and lowered herself into a chair. She permitted herself the luxury of a few minutes to collect her thoughts before returning to join Tom and Rosie in the back bedchamber.

Chapter Two

Martha watched her young cousin carefully. It was obvious from her pallor that the next hour tried every ounce of Rosie’s fortitude, but she bore up well. At the end of it, Tom had removed the musket ball, after digging and probing deep into the flesh with a fiendishly long, thin knife. He then relinquished his place at the bedside to Martha. Once Mr. Delacourt had made his feelings known, she, along with every other member of the household, accepted his decision without demur. The rebel would receive the very best care she could give him. First, she stemmed the fresh flow of blood produced by Tom’s ministrations and then began to bathe the wound with a pungent solution.

“What is that?” Rosie, leaning over her shoulder, wrinkled her nose at the smell.

“It is a mix of thyme, sage, rosemary and lavender soaked in vinegar to cleanse the wound and keep away any pus or rottenness which might prevent it healing. Until it does heal, the wound must be swabbed with this solution twice a day.” Rosie nodded as though making a mental note. Martha’s lips twitched slightly. She refrained from commenting on the fact that Rosie had never before shown the slightest interest in what she and her brother Harry called Martha’s Potions.

“What next?”

“Next, we apply a soothing salve made from some of the same herbs suspended in animal fat and honey. This also has nettles which promote healing in a deep wound and St. John’s wort which helps with pain.” Martha’s deft fingers applied the sticky mixture to the injured flesh as she spoke. “This must be covered—” she made a pad from a cloth and placed it over the wound, “—and held securely in place.”

Expertly, she bandaged their patient’s wound. As she worked, Tom lit a fire in the grate and pronounced there was little more they could do that night. While she washed her hands, he whispered to Martha that, with the amount of blood the rebel had lost, it was most unlikely the man would last until morning.

“Do not repeat those thoughts in her hearing, if you please,” Martha murmured in return, indicating Rosie’s absorbed expression.

“We can only wait and pray,” Tom said more loudly, as they gathered up the bloodstained cloths and clothing in preparation for burning.

“Tell me he will live, Tom,” Rosie pleaded, without looking up from the bed.

Tom shrugged. “He must be strong, Miss Rosie, to have survived thus far and to have travelled all the way here from Swarkestone Bridge with a bullet in him. If he can fight off any fever that comes his way, no doubt he’ll pull through. He’ll likely not come round again tonight. Best get some sleep.”

Rosie smoothed the coverlet that she had placed back on the bed. Martha had pretended not to notice the slightly defiant action. “I’ll stay here and watch over him,” Rosie said, her voice quietly determined.

“It really is not necessary—” Martha began. Seeing the suddenly fierce light in the usually mild grey eyes, she broke off. “If you insist, however, I will leave you to your task. You may fetch me if you need me.”

Martha made an effort to infuse more gentleness into her tone this time than she had previously shown. She still had grave doubts about the wisdom of sheltering the rebel, but she also recognised that Rosie’s instant preoccupation with him would need careful handling. Mr. Delacourt was right when he said a chaperone would be needed, more to guard Rosie from her own feelings than from any ill intent from the Jacobite. As if to confirm these thoughts, Rosie nodded in response to Martha’s words, but did not raise her eyes from the pale face on the pillows. Martha followed Tom from the room, holding her candle aloft as she accompanied him down the stairs.

“I question the wisdom of leaving the care of a handsome hero to an impressionable and very softhearted young lady,” she said. “Indeed, this man has the power to turn our lives upside down before he even opens his eyes. What happened at Swarkestone Bridge, Tom? The rumours are plentiful, but I cannot for the life of me pluck the grains of truth from the make-believe.”

“It’s the speed of the advance that has us all in shock. The prince was on his way to London, prepared to take the crown. It is said that King George had his bags packed and was ready to flee back to Hanover. Swarkestone Bridge is the main crossing over the Trent and onward to the south, into London town itself. Once the Jacobites were across it, nothing could stop them. The king’s men had been ordered to blow up Swarkestone, but the prince sent an advance party of highlanders to seize it. A battle ensued and the highlanders held the bridge.”

“Yet the prince did not cross, even though his way was clear?”

“No, the Jacobites have retreated back toward Scotland with the king’s men in pursuit. The prince’s advisers were misled about the scale of support in London. The bridge was his, the road to London was his and the crown was his as well. But no-one could believe it was so easy. The prince lost the most important battle of all—the one with his own council. I doubt we’ll see the Stuarts back on the English throne again, Miss Martha.”

“Do you have any idea who this man, the one in my back bedchamber, may be?”

“I have not heard any specific stories. He is clearly noble and that worries me.”

“If it is known a nobleman was at Swarkestone, the soldiers will already be looking for him. The law will not deal kindly with these rebels.” Martha cast a wary glance up the staircase.

“He has managed to travel twenty-five miles from Swarkestone Bridge. How he accomplished that alone and with a bullet in him, I don’t know. But we must hope the redcoats will not look this far afield.”

“Do you place much dependence on that?” Martha asked.

“I don’t,” he said, with brutal honesty. “The king will be vindictive toward any who have gone over to the prince’s side. It is the highland Scots who will pay the heaviest price for this rebellion. Although the prince may yet win the next round of battles across the border.” His tone did not hold any great optimism about the chances of such an event. He opened the heavy, black-oak door. The night was wintry, and his breath plumed the next words out into the darkness ahead of him. “Lock your doors and windows. Word in the town is that several rebels have deserted the prince and still roam the area. They will be hungry, tired and desperate.”

“Thank you for those words of comfort, Tom. It appears I have one of the dangerous ruffians you describe ensconced in my back bedchamber. It’s just as well he is wounded since, with your departure, there will be only two defenceless women in the house.” Martha drew her shawl closer about her shoulders, although whether the chill that ran down her spine was due to the icy breeze or the fear of what was to come, she could not have said.