“Sir?” she said quietly, setting down her basket and taking another step nearer. “Sir?”
He didn’t stir, so she ventured even closer, moving slowly around his long, lean legs until she could see his face.
He was a young man, probably no older than she, and his profile revealed remarkably handsome features, including a shapely nose, strong chin, and long lashes, for a man. His complexion was quite brown, as if he spent time out-of-doors, and his blond hair clung to his brow. She wondered what color his eyes would be.
She bent down, prepared to rouse him with a slight shake, when the overpowering smell of wine drove her back.
Why, he was drunk! Handsome prince indeed! He was just a common…common…drunkard!
What a waste! she thought as she turned on her heel to leave, even as she wondered what had brought a young man to such a pass.
Then she told herself it didn’t matter. She had enough troubles of her own without worrying about a drunkard who didn’t even know enough to get out of the rain.
She grabbed her basket and started to march away, once again aware that she was far from physically comfortable herself. Her skirt was muddy, and her cloak getting wetter every moment.
Then she noticed the hoofprints fast dissolving in the mud. There was no sign of a horse nearby. None of their usual visitors had saddle horses, only the heavier draft animals. Had he been mounted?
If so, it was possible that he had been attacked. She recalled Miss Myrtle’s tale of a band of brigands robbing travelers. His less-than-sober state would have made him an attractive target for thieves who could have robbed him of his horse and money, too. Perhaps this poor man was not asleep, but unconscious.
She glanced back at him again, noting that the rain was falling harder now. He would soon be soaked to the skin.
Victim or not, he was none of her concern, and if she were smart, she would leave well enough alone.
She started to walk again. She should be thinking about Mercy, who was her responsibility. Mercy had been unwell this morning. When questioned, she had dismissed Grace’s fears and told her not to worry so much.
But it was Grace’s nature to worry, about her sister, and the rent and the village and strange men lying on the side of the road…
She halted again. Perhaps the smell of wine was strong because he was damp. Maybe he had spilled some on himself the last time he had a meal, and his condition had another cause entirely.
Grace emitted a sound that was both a sigh of dismay and admission of acceptance. She couldn’t leave him, or her conscience would give her no peace. At the very least, she could get him to shelter, someplace that wouldn’t put Mercy or herself at risk. A good Samaritan she would be, but not a fool.
The cow shed. They had only one cow, and there were three empty stalls. Surely Daisy wouldn’t mind a visitor, and there was nothing except Daisy he could steal, if he was a thief. But Daisy was better than any dog when it came to keeping watch. If someone other than Mercy tried to lead her--even Grace--she mooed so loudly and so long, it would wake the household.
Grace turned back and approached him again. “Sir?” She set her basket down on the driest patch she could find, reached out and shook his shoulder. “Can you hear me, sir?”
She continued to shake him, but with increasing urgency when he did not respond. “Sir!” she repeated loudly.
He moaned softly and rolled over, and she gasped again, for there was blood on his forehead. She carefully brushed back a lock of hair to reveal a very nasty gash.
He must have been attacked and robbed, and left to die on the side of the road. Thank heavens she had followed her conscience!
The stranger opened his eyes, which were a shade of blue so brilliant Grace drew back in astonishment. He looked about confusedly. “Where…?” he mumbled.
“You are--” Grace didn’t finish, because by the time she had opened her mouth, he had closed his eyes again, apparently to relapse into an unconscious state.
Grace regarded the recumbent man and wondered how she was going to get him to the cow shed. He wasn’t going to be much help.
Maybe she could get him to stand. Grace stood behind his head, leaned over and put her hands beneath his shoulders to try to hoist him to a standing position. The man was heavy and limp, and he did not wake up again.
She straightened and wrapped her arms around herself as she shivered from the cold and her rapidly dampening clothing. It was getting dark, too. Mercy would be very worried and, Grace thought ruefully, not without some cause. If she escaped this adventure with nothing more serious than a cold, it would be a miracle.
And wouldn’t Mercy be surprised to see what Grace had brought home! Usually it was Mercy who collected strays and wounded animals, her tender heart making her particularly susceptible to such creatures. She would finally be able to make sport of Grace for an even more outrageously generous impulse.
Well, there was no help for it, and once Grace made a decision, it generally stayed made. She would just have to endure, and so she was going to have to drag him. With a determined frown, Grace tucked up the hem of her skirt into her belt to keep it out of the mud as much as possible-for at least there was no one here to see her immodesty-put the handle of her basket as far up her arm as she could, and taking hold of his shoulders again, she turned him around and began the slow process of dragging him home.
Bob Boffin took a long pull on his mug of ale, then wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand and surveyed his comrades as they sat together in the dimmest corner of The Three Crowns. “I say we stay another couple o’ days,” he growled.
A tall, thin man with a narrow scar on his cheek glanced around at the few other patrons who were enjoying an evening’s repast. “What for?” Treeg muttered. “He’s long gone by now. Probably in London. And your money with him!”
Boffin’s gaze took in the other two men seated at the battered table, one young, one old, before coming to rest on Treeg. “He didn’t get to Lincoln. Nor Stamford, neither. He couldn’t ’a traveled that fast, not on that nag.”
“That’s true,” confirmed young Skurch, whose face was ruined by smallpox scars.
“He could’a gone another route,” Treeg said. “Or took the train.”
“Or he could be dead,” Boffin replied. “But I don’t think either one’s true. He’s around here somewheres.”
The old man, who looked as if he had spent several years at Her Majesty’s pleasure, which was indeed the case, raised his eyes to Boffin. “It’s only a matter o’ ten pound,” Wickham said in a low, hoarse voice. “I say, why hang about lookin’ suspicious?” He nodded at the other people in the tavern. “They knows we ain’t no sheep men.”
“Aye!” Skurch said. “And there’s no women worth lookin’ at, neither.”
“‘Ceptin’ that one we seen, eh?” Boffin said with a jovial gleam in his eye that made Skurch smile, until Boffin reached out to grab him by his thin throat. “You’re goin’ to get yourself in trouble agin if you don’t keep it in your trousers,” Boffin snarled. “I don’t want nobody doin’ nothin’ that’d make folks more suspicious than they are.”
He let go of Skurch, who coughed and rubbed his throat, while Boffin’s eyes narrowed and he leaned toward the old man. “I’d be careful ’bout usin’ the word hang if I was you, Jack Wickham. Might give people ideas.”
Wickham’s hand tightened on his mug, and his other went toward his belt, where a knife’s handle was barely visible. “I ain’t gettin’ hanged for no ten pound,” he whispered forcefully. “Not on your say-
so!”