At her question, he looked up and she caught relief in his face. He was pale and streaked with mud. Water dripped off his greatcoat and he’d lost his hat. “Eleanor, you’re here. Good. You can help. Crane’s horse took fright at a stray dog and bolted.”
Nell collected a lamp from a table and raised it high. “John, be careful. If he’s hurt his back, you’ll do more harm than good.”
She spoke clearly and slowly and the young man immediately settled. The marquess’s temper was understandable, but unlikely to get the best out of the nervous junior footman. Inevitably she was reminded of the night she’d met Leath. He’d been in a temper then too.
Thank goodness, the library wasn’t far away. She carried the lamp ahead as Leath and John juggled the injured secretary. Despite their care, Mr. Crane moaned. He did, however, come back to himself enough to protest when they placed him on the sofa. “My lord, I’m not fit for indoors.”
“Damn it, Paul, as if I care.” Leath straightened the young man’s limbs with brisk, gentle efficiency.
John stood back and stared helplessly at the injured man. Nell sighed. “John, light the fire. It’s a cold night.”
“Yes, miss,” he said, although Nell had no real authority. Within moments, flames licked at the kindling.
“I’ll wake Mr. Wells and have him send for the doctor.” She took a spill and moved around the room lighting candles.
“No need. I sent a groom.” Leath set a cushion behind Mr. Crane’s head. “But it’s a devil of a night. I don’t envy him the ride there and back.”
“Did Mr. Crane hit his head?”
“Yes.” Leath brushed wet black hair back from his forehead.
“And lose consciousness?”
“Briefly.”
“It’s my arm,” Crane said unsteadily. His face was drawn with pain and he clutched his right arm across his chest. “I think I’ve broken it.”
“You took a hell of a tumble.” When Leath helped him to sit, Nell saw that movement was agonizing. She jammed more cushions behind Mr. Crane to support him.
“Get blankets and pillows. And towels,” she said to John, who still hovered. The young man snapped to attention and rushed out.
“I’d rather go to my room,” Mr. Crane said faintly.
“Better not to move, old fellow. Miss Trim is right. You may have spinal injuries. God knows what damage I’ve done hauling you across the moors.”
“It would have been easier to leave me there.”
“No, the cold would have got you.” Leath pressed a brandy glass to the secretary’s lips. After a couple of sips, Mr. Crane choked. “But I curse myself for
making you ride through that gale. We could easily have stayed in York.”
Nell paused on her way to the kitchen and cast a searching glance at the marquess. His willingness to take the blame for this accident impressed her. Again, he defied her preconceptions. Could this be the man who had left Dorothy to bear his child in disgrace?
“You weren’t to know the damned—dashed—nag would bolt.” Mr. Crane cast Nell an apologetic look, polite even in his suffering. She liked Mr. Crane. When she’d imagined a husband, the man had been someone like the young secretary. Now, compared to the marquess, he seemed a nonentity.
Nell had developed a taste for the dark and dangerous since arriving at Alloway Chase. Heaven help her.
Alarmed at the admission, she headed for the kitchens. She poured warm water into a bowl, refilled the kettle, then set it to heat on the hob.
When she returned to the library, she heard Mr. Crane saying, “I don’t want to cause any fuss.”
“My good fellow—” Leath’s impatience melted into a smile when he saw Nell. “Oh, bless you.”
He stepped back to allow her to place the bowl on a table. He’d undressed down to shirtsleeves. Despite the fraught circumstances, she couldn’t help inhaling his scent. Clean male and rain and horses. After their encounter in his bedroom, the scent was perilously familiar. And as heady as wine.
Nell struggled to concentrate on poor Mr. Crane as she kneeled at his side. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”
The gallantry in Mr. Crane’s smile touched her and he bore her ministrations without complaining, although the lines bracketing his mouth indicated discomfort.