Miss Oliver came to his rescue when she took the ship and placed it in the water. The toy bobbed on the waves. Rising, she glanced at him, then nodded toward Lulu before she went to check on the other three. She gently herded the children closer so they were within arm’s reach.
He looked down at the little girl in front of him. What should he say to her?
“Ask her the name of her ship,” Miss Oliver whispered.
He nodded, then paused so long that she repeated her instructions. He was tempted to fire back that he had heard her the first time. Instead, he asked, “What do you call your ship, Lulu?”
“Pony.”
“Why?”
“Pony pwances.” She smiled.
He took a moment to figure out the word her lisp distorted. “Ah, I see. A pony prances like your ship does.”
She did not answer as she drew the toy closer to her before letting it drift on the current again.
Miss Oliver edged closer, but kept watching her charges. “See? It isn’t hard to talk with children.” Suddenly she gasped and sped past him.
He turned to see Bertie chasing his boat’s string, which had come loose from his wrist. The child tried to grab the end, but the waves pulled it across the flat rocks toward deep water.
Arthur did not hesitate. He ran across the slick stones. His boots slid, but he kept going. Passing Miss Oliver, whose dreary bonnet bounced on her back, he heard her shout the child’s name.
So did the little boy. He turned and teetered on the edge of a rock.
She screamed.
Arthur threw himself toward the child, grabbing his arm. His right foot skidded as he pulled Bertie to him. A hot spear pierced his knee as he fell with the boy on top of him. Arthur’s breath burst out painfully.
Miss Oliver scooped the little boy off him and hugged him. “Bertie, you must not leave the shore.”
“Boat go.”
“We have others. Let it go. Maybe it will reach Cap’s ship.” She carried him to shore where the other children were watching, wide-eyed.
Arthur winced as he pushed himself up to sit. Every bone had jarred when he had twisted to keep from falling on the boy.
Miss Oliver rushed back to him. “Are you hurt, Lord Trelawney?” She ran her hands along one of his arms, then the other. When she started to do the same to his right leg, he grasped her arms and edged her away.
“I am fine.” He was struggling to think and did not need the distraction of her jasmine-scented curls caressing his cheek when she bent toward him.
His words must have been too sharp, because she rose and wiped her hands as if wanting to clean them of any contact with him. “I am pleased to hear that, my lord. Thank you for saving Bertie.”
By all that’s blue! He was making a muddle of everything, and he could not blame his rudeness on the pain blistering his leg. As she walked away, he pushed himself to his feet.
Or tried to.
Agony clamped around his right ankle and sent a new streak of fiery pain up to his knee. He collapsed with a choked gasp as he prayed, Lord, don’t let anything be broken. I need to continue the work I promised I would do in Cranny’s stead.
Miss Oliver whirled and ran to him. “You are hurt, my lord! Shall I go for help?”
“No. If I can...” He groaned as he tried to move his right leg.
“At least let me help you up.”
“You are too slight.”
She squatted beside him. “I am going to help you, whether you wish it or not. I do hope you will cooperate.”
She put her shoulder beneath his arm and levered him to his feet. He kept his right foot off the ground and balanced on his left. As he drew in a deep breath, it was flavored with the fragrance of jasmine, the perfect scent for her.
“Thank you, Miss Oliver. If you will release me—”
“Do you intend to hop to Cothaire?”
“No, the parsonage.” Once he reached there, his brother would help him return to the great house.
“You cannot hop that far, either.”
Pain honed his voice. “Miss Oliver, has anyone ever told you that you can be vexing?”
“Many times.” She motioned with her free arm toward the shore where the children waited. “Shall we go?”
He nodded, but groaned as he took a single step.
On the beach, Bertie cried, “Is—is—is he a bear?”
The children stared at him, scared. He must persuade the youngsters that he was no danger to them. What a mull he had made of the outing! He tried another step, then halted, realizing he had an even bigger problem. How would he be able to do his work as a courier if he could not walk?
Arthur had never been more relieved to see his younger brother than when Raymond rushed out of the parsonage. Raising Arthur’s free arm over his shoulders, his brother nodded to Miss Oliver.
She stepped back with a soft sigh. No doubt she must be glad to hand over the burden of supporting him to someone else. The walk from the beach had been slow. The only pauses were when she asked the children to collect their footwear and when she had sent two of the village boys to inform his family of his injury, one to the parsonage and the other to Cothaire. She had talked to Arthur at first, urging him forward with each step, but his silence had put an end to that. After that, she spoke only to the children.
For him, any conversation was hopeless because his teeth were clenched to keep his groans from leaking out. The children were scared of him, and he did not want to frighten them more.
Raymond turned him toward the front door. His red-haired wife, Elisabeth, held it open. Dismay lengthened her face as she stepped aside to let them enter.
Arthur propped one hand against the doorjamb, but did not enter when he heard a loud rattle and the pounding of hooves. He saw Miss Oliver pulling the children onto the grass as an open cart slowed in front of the parsonage. The driver jumped down and handed out Carrie, who, for once, was not holding the baby.
That did not halt the littlest boy from running to her as he called, “My baby!”
She bent and said something to him before taking his hand. As fast as the child’s legs could move, she rushed toward the door.
“How badly are you hurt, Arthur?” she asked.
“Not bad,” he replied.
Miss Oliver quickly contradicted him. “He cannot stand on his right leg. He twisted his knee or his ankle or both.”
Carrie shot him a frown before turning to the nurse. “Twisted? Not broken?”
“I cannot say for sure, my lady. Without removing his boot, it is impossible to tell, and he wisely has kept it on.”
“Raymond, help me get him into the cart. I have alerted Mr. Hockbridge. He should be at Cothaire by the time we arrive.”
Arthur was not given a chance to protest that if he had a chance to sit quietly, he would be fine. His brother led him to the cart and, with the driver’s help, lifted him in the