Not that he thought the second speaker an old woman. About his age, he would hazard to guess. More curiously, neither voice sounded like that of a Lincolnshire farmer’s wife or daughter, he was quite sure. These women were educated, and their voices close enough in tone and timbre to suggest that they were related.
Which woman had been in here before, with the man? Not the first, he ventured. The second.
Perhaps the man was her husband.
A husband was always a problem. Or maybe he was her father--a far more congenial notion.
He heard the rustle of garments as they apparently moved closer, and then the scent of something hot and made of beef assaulted his starving stomach. Probably a good English stew. His mouth started to water and he almost opened his eyes, yet caution--something, he thought wryly, Adrian would believe he did not possess--told him to wait a little while more.
What kind of a man sent women out to tend a stranger? Either he was naive or stupid.
Maybe they had slipped out here without his knowledge. It could be the fellow didn’t even know there was an unknown man in his shed. Now that was a very interesting idea.
Adventurous young women always thrilled Elliot, and as he waited for the women to speak again, he wanted very much to open his eyes and see what faces and forms accompanied the voices. Perhaps they were wholesome, pretty country girls. That would be a welcome relief from the colonials of Muddy York always seeking to impress him with their version of fine manners, or the haughty noblewomen of his former acquaintance, whose cool masks quickly slipped when they had him alone.
“Who is he?” the younger woman asked quietly.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“He didn’t wake up.”
“Didn’t he walk here with you?”
“I had to drag him.”
That was an unexpected admission. Perhaps she was a farmer’s wife after all, with brawny arms, wide hips and double chin. And what had happened to the nag?
“His trousers are thick with mud, but there was nothing else I could do.”
Probably the horse wandered off, the stupid beast--with his few belongings, too.
“You should have come home and fetched me to help you,” the younger voice said.
Why didn’t she suggest asking the man for help? Why fetch another woman for assistance?
“It was getting late and the rain was worsening.”
Maybe he hadn’t heard a man’s voice, after all. In his previous state, he might have mistaken the older woman’s deeper tones for that of a man.
“Perhaps we should wake him,” the younger one said in a tentative tone. “The supper will be cold if we don’t.”
“Rest might be the best thing for him,” the other replied. “We could leave the food here for him to eat when he wakes up. I daresay he’s had worse.”
She sounded practical and matter-of-fact. Like Adrian.
“Don’t you think we should invite him inside the--”
“No, I don’t. He must not come into the house,” the huskier voice said, and Elliot was suddenly sure she must be an elder sister, by domineering manner as much as tone. What was it about older siblings that made them think they had the right to order others about? “We don’t know anything about him, who he is or where he’s from. Not only would allowing him inside our home be a foolish and risky thing to do,
Mercy, but think how bad it would be if somebody were to discover we had taken a complete stranger into our house! Why, imagine what the Hurley twins would say!”
Another older sibling also worried about gossip.
“But Grace, they wouldn’t have to know, would they?”
“You would have us harbor this man in secret? For how long? A few hours? A day? Mercy, you have to stop letting your tender heart overrule your intelligence.”
The woman named Grace might have the more fascinating voice, but it was obvious Mercy would be the more sympathetic.
Then the full realization of his situation hit home, and Elliot subdued a smile. Apparently he had been rescued by young women who lived alone. To be sure, the older one was suspicious, but he could surely win her over. Why, if he worked this right, he could stay here for a while, safe from Boffin and probably very well fed.
He couldn’t have asked for anything better, and he dismissed Grace’s distrust. Young women always liked him, and often rather more, and it would surely not be difficult to charm a country lass, even a skeptical one.
“Didn’t Sir Donald see him?”
“No, thank goodness.”
So, there had been a man--a Sir Donald. Not a relative, Elliot gathered, and not a lover, or even very well liked, to judge from the slight alteration in Grace’s tone.
He heard one of them move closer. “What’s that smell?” Mercy asked.
“Wine.”
“Is he…is he…?”
“Drunk? He may have been, but he’s hurt, too.”
One of them came close enough for him to discern the slight scent of lavender, and to feel her warm breath on his cheek. “It’s not terribly serious. The cut is not deep, and there’s no bump.”
It was Grace, and her soft and surprisingly gentle words made him want to open his eyes more than ever.
He was about to, when Mercy spoke. “We should not leave him in those damp garments.”
As tempted as he was to see the women who were discussing him with such tender concern, Elliot thought it would be more amusing to wait and see if they were going to try to strip him. As he did so, it occurred to him that he was feeling somewhat better.
“I suppose you’re right,” Grace said reluctantly. “I wouldn’t want him to become ill. I’ll take off his boots. You loosen his cravat.”
He thought both of the women had come near him.
“My, doesn’t he smell?” Mercy whispered with obvious disgust. “Maybe we shouldn’t touch him.”
Elliot decided it was time he woke up. He moaned softly and opened his eyes, to behold a pair of surprised and worried gray eyes in a very pretty, almost childlike face topped with a tousle of blond curls. The young woman wore a lace shawl over a pink dress of plain, albeit good quality fabric.
He gave her a wan smile, and then looked behind her to the person who was obviously the older sister. Both women had fine and delicate features, as well as smooth, satiny complexions and blond hair. Yet while the girl kneeling beside him looked like a concerned cherub, the older one, with her smooth, golden hair, ringlets, suspicious brown eyes, frowning full lips, and severely plain navy blue dress looked more like a judgmental angel.
A strikingly lovely judgmental angel. Her form was astonishingly fine, quite as shapely as any Elliot had ever seen, even in that hideous dress that looked like something the leader of a strict religious sect would design. Her features were flawless, and her complexion such as one only found in England. Indeed, she had the potential to be a rare beauty, if she had the proper clothes and hairstyle, whereas the younger one would never be anything more than wholesomely pretty.
Nevertheless, Elliot realized that it was going to require considerably more effort and charm to secure the older sister’s aid, and he was absolutely certain she would be the one to decide his fate.
“Where…where am I?” he murmured, putting a hand to his head and contriving to make it sound as if the very act of speaking was an incredible ordeal.