George grimaced and did. The pounding brought footsteps flying. Bolts were thrown back; the heavy doors swung inward. George melted into the shadows at the bottom of the steps. Jack strode boldly over the threshold.
“Your mistress has had an accident.” Jack searched the four shocked male faces before him, settling on the oldest and most dignified as being the best candidate for Cranmer’s butler. “I’m Lord Hendon. Wake Lord Cranmer immediately. Tell him his granddaughter has been wounded. I’ll explain as soon as I’ve taken her upstairs. Which is her room?” During this exchange, he walked confidently toward the stairs. Turning back, brows lifting impatiently, he prayed the butler would hold true to his profession and not panic.
Jenkins rose to the challenge. “Yes, m’lord.” He drew a deep breath. “Henry here will show you Miss Kathryn’s room. I’ll send up her maid immediately.”
Jack nodded, relieved he wouldn’t have to deal with dithering servants. “I’ve sent my man for Dr. Thrushborne. He should arrive soon.” He started up the stairs, Henry hurrying ahead, holding a candelabrum aloft to light the way.
Jenkins followed. “Very good, m’lord. I’ll have one of the men watch out for him. I’ll inform Lord Cranmer of the matter directly.”
Jack nodded and followed Henry down a dark corridor deep into one of the wings. The footman stopped by a door near its end and set it wide.
Worried by the chilled dampness of Kit’s clothes, Jack’s eyes went immediately to the fireplace. “Get the fire going. Fast as you can.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Henry bent to the task.
Jack crossed to the four-poster bed. Kneeling on the white coverlet, he gently placed Kit upon it, carefully easing his arms from under her then arranging the pillows beneath her head, pulling the bolster around to cushion her injured shoulder. Then he stood back.
And tried to hold his thoughts at bay. He’d experienced war firsthand; he’d nearly perished twice. But the mind-numbing fear that threatened to possess him now was beyond anything he’d previously felt. The idea that Kit might not live he blanked from his mind; that was a possibility he could not face. Drawing an unsteady breath, he fought to focus his mind on the here and now, on the tasks immediately before him. The next hours would be crucial. Kit had to live. And she had to be protected from the consequences of her actions. First things first. He had to get her out of her wet clothes.
Jack turned to survey Henry’s handiwork. The fire blazed in the grate, throwing light and warmth into the room. “Good. Now go shake that maid awake.”
Henry’s eyes grew round. “Elmina?”
Jack frowned. “Miss Kathryn’s maid.” He nodded a curt dismissal, wondering what was wrong with Elmina.
Henry swallowed and looked doubtful, but went.
Jack paced before the fire, rubbing sensation and strength back into his arms. When Elmina failed to materialize, he swore and returned to Kit’s side. Carefully, he untied their makeshift bandage. The wound had stopped bleeding. He started the difficult task of easing Kit from her wet clothes.
He’d removed her coat and was fumbling with the laces of her shirt when the door behind him opened and shut. Quick footsteps and stiffly swishing skirts approached.
“Man Dieu! Ma p
auvre petite! Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?”
Jack blinked at the torrent of French that followed hard on the heels of that beginning. He stared at the small darkhaired woman who appeared on the other side of the bed to lean over Kit, laying a hand on her forehead. Then she noticed what he was doing and slapped furiously at his hands.
Jack recoiled from the ferocious attack and her equally ferocious words. Glancing toward the end of the bed, he saw two young maids hovering uncertainly. From their blank looks, Jack surmised they couldn’t understand French. The virago, presumably Elmina, was dividing her time between verbally wringing her hands over Kit and hurling insults at him. What loosely translated as “black-guard” and “mountebank” were the least of them.
When Elmina bustled around and tried to shoo him from the room, Jack came to his senses. “Silence!” He spoke smoothly in French. “Cease your wailing, woman! We need to get her into something dry immediately.” Jack leaned back over Kit and started on her laces again. His idiomatic French had set Elmina back on her heels. “We’ll need bandages and hot water. Can you manage that?”
His sarcasm flicked Elmina to attention. She drew a fulminating breath; Jack looked at her and imperiously lifted one brow. Elmina’s glance fell to the still figure on the bed, then she swung about and addressed the two maids. “Ella—get all the old sheets you can find. Ask Mrs. Fogg. Emily—run to the kitchen and fetch the kettle. And tell Cook to prepare some gruel.”
Jack shook his head. “She won’t be able to eat. Not until we get the bullet out of her.”
“Man Dieu! It’s still there?”
The last lace unraveled. Jack looked up into Elmina’s black eyes, pieces of coal in a face pale with anxiety. Despite her sprightly movements, she was a lot older than he’d expected. And, judging from her tirade, hellishly protective of Kit. How had his kitten escaped this mother cat? “Your mistress is lucky to be alive. She’s going to need help to stay alive. Now help me get this off her.” He pulled his sharp knife from its sheath in his boot and quickly slit the shirt. “Come around here. Bring that towel with you.”
Picking up the small towel lying folded on Kit’s washstand, Elmina hurried to obey. Jack freed the wound of torn fragments of shirt, then covered the angry flesh with the towel. “Help me ease off this sleeve.”
With Elmina’s help, the sleeve was removed without jarring the wound. Picking up his knife, Jack reached for Kit’s wet bands.
“Monsieur!”
Jack all but snarled. “What now?”
Elmina’s eyes were huge black orbs. Under Jack’s glare, she clenched her hands tight. “Monsieur, it is not proper that you should be here. I will take care of her.”