Capturing Sir Dunnicliffe (The Star Elite Series) (5 page)

It took three attempts before he could get enough leverage to
hoist himself into the wet saddle. Although he tried to keep his arm immobile, at some point during his attempts to mount the horse, he jarred his arm which now hurt like the very devil himself was sawing away on it. He couldn’t withhold the low groan that escaped his clenched teeth, and did his best to ignore the stabbing sensations that shot down his arm, and the warm stickiness that congealed in his hand. He sat on the horse for a moment, trying to regain his breath. Sweat beaded on his brow and the world around him began to swirl and collide in a confusing jumble of shadows and darkness, until he knew that if he let go of the saddle, he would fall off.

His
fingers on his good hand had gone white because of the strength of his grip he used as he held on to the saddle while he turned the horse in the general direction of Padstow. Bile lodged in his throat. His arm had already gone numb, whether through cold or damage caused by his injury he wasn’t sure, but he knew that he had to get dry and take a look at it before he passed out. 

He didn’t need to n
udge the grateful horse forward; it had already begun to plod along, his hooves steady and sure as he walked across the uneven soil, clearly willing to go anywhere as long as it was out of the rain.

While he was
pleased that he had managed to get onto the horse, and was finally managing to leave the area, Hugo couldn’t lose sight of the fact that he was now sitting higher than the hedgerow and was a clearer target than before. If the assassin was behind him, Hugo’s outline would be clearly visible, even through the gloom, and would allow a clear shot. Immediately the image of the four riders on the horizon came to mind and he cursed fluidly.

H
is arm hung limply down his side and, gritting his teeth against the pain, Hugo leaned forward in the saddle and dug his heels in. He wanted to hold his gun again, if only for the added reassurance that he could at least fire back if the killer emerged behind him, but with his useless arm he would then have no way to steer the horse.

“I have just got
to get away from here,” Hugo growled to his horse. “I hope you are going to be surefooted tonight boy.”

Hugo tightened his knees and
swore as the horse lunged into action. Within moments they were tearing across the fields toward Padstow. With the wind whipping in his ears, Hugo couldn’t hear anything behind him, but as he cleared the hedge and tore through the Cornish countryside, it was the least of his concerns.

The next half an hour passed in a blur for Hugo, who struggled to keep his balance while fighting the dizziness that increased with each passing mile. He knew he didn’t have long before he would succumb to the blissful unconsciousness that beckoned, but was determined not to surrender to it until he was at Harriett’s cottage. It had suddenly become a haven to him that he simply had to get to, and was firmly locked in his mind as his final destination.

He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but he was fairly certain that once or twice during his journey he had heard the thundering
of hooves behind him. Although he glanced behind him several times, he saw nothing except blackness. Was the attacker following him, waiting for Hugo to slow down enough and give him a better shot? He wasn’t sure, but wasn’t prepared to wait around and find out.

“Thank God!” Hugo said when the wonderful
ly reassuring sight of Padstow appeared before him. Although he had hoped not to need to see the place again just yet, and had had every intention of avoiding the small sea port, he had little alternative now. Going to Harriett’s house was his only chance of surviving the night.

Taking a c
ircuitous route along the cliff top toward the small fisherman’s cottage on the top of the hill, Hugo eyed the first sliver of daylight appearing over the horizon with a scowl. He could already see several fishermen working on their boats down in the harbour, preparing for the day’s fishing, and shook his head at his bad luck. The last thing he needed was curious locals gossiping about the arrival of the injured stranger at Harriett’s cottage. They probably wouldn’t care that Harriett wasn’t in residence at the time. Knowing how isolated Harriett was from the rest of the villagers, Hugo suspected that nobody knew she had actually left the village for a while, and cursed them for their callous disregard of someone who was essentially one of their own.

Balefully e
yeing the small gathering of houses within the village, he eventually came to Harriett’s back garden. Thankfully, the high hedgerow afforded him some protection against prying eyes, and allowed him to unceremoniously dismount his horse. He lay on his back in the grass for several moments, wondering if he could actually make it the last few steps to warmth and relative safety. He opened his eyes to find his horse staring curiously down at him. The warm snort of the horse’s breath brushed over his cheeks, and his eyes met and held those of the animal. Reaching up, he stroked the soft muzzle with his good hand and lunged clumsily to his feet. He wasn’t sure if the field he was in was Harriett’s or not, but it was grassed and there was a stone building at the far end which seemed in reasonable condition. His horse had everything it would need for the next day or so.

“Sorry
, boy, you’ve got to stay here,” Hugo whispered, giving him a gentle pat.

First
though, he had to remove the saddle, which proved no mean feat given the mangled condition of his useless arm. It took twice as long as it should have done, leaving Hugo aware that, with each moment he remained outside, especially in the field, he was risking being found by the assassin, who could still be trying to find him. Hauling the saddle and bridle over his good shoulder, Hugo staggered through the hedge, ploughing his way through the neatly tended rows of plants that lined Harriett’s well-stocked garden. The scent of herbs and flowers assailed his nostrils and, had he been fighting fit, he would have taken the time to identify the sage, mint and even a flower or two, but not today. Today the scent made his stomach churn and bile rise in his throat threateningly.

Heaving a huge sigh of relief, Hugo paused at the door to Harriett’s cottage for a moment and considered the options.
While part of him hoped she had the wisdom to lock her cottage, he fervently wished she had the foresight to leave a spare key somewhere nearby. He didn’t think he had the strength in him to kick the door down, but he had little choice if the door was locked.

He was about to drop the saddle onto the floor at his feet when something made him pause. N
iggling doubt began to creep in as he studied the roughly hewn door inches from his nose. He slowly reached out with his elbow and lifted the latch, appalled when the latch lifted clear of its holding and the door swung silently inward.

Anger
warred with disbelief. Hugo staggered over the threshold, closing the door behind him with a thud and stood beside the door in appalled surprise that entry had been so easy.

Immediately dropping the saddle at his feet, he glanced out of the window, reassured to
see his horse happily munching on the lush field of grass. Now that the rain had stopped, the animal didn’t mind being outside so much, and was more than happy with his new situation. His relaxed demeanour also assured Hugo that there weren’t any strange riders approaching the area.

Despite his injuries, all of Hugo’s training kicked in and he shifted to one side, resting against the solid
reassurance of the stone wall of the old cottage rather than the wooden door. Dizziness sweep through him worse than ever before. The room spun and whirled, and once again the sickness loomed. Glancing down at his arm, he winced at the sight that met his weary gaze. The entire length of his limb was covered in blood, and realised he was in deeper trouble than he had thought. Although he had tied it as tightly as he could, the strip of black cloth was blood soaked and hadn’t been enough to stem the steady flow that continued to drip off his fingers.

He was about to push away from the
wall when a warning hiss broke the silence. Hugo’s heart pounded and his eyes sprang open in disbelief. His gaze locked with Harrold’s large yellow, feral eyes. The cat stood in the opposite doorway, glaring balefully at the intruder, his back arched, and his hackles raised. Clearly, the beast was prepared to attack.

“Harrold,” Hugo groaned
, shaking his head at the beast. He wondered if he should just draw his gun and end both of their misery there and then. “Shut up,” Hugo growled, dismissing the beast with a dark look.

Frowning, he wondered how Jemima had persuaded Harriett to leave the wretched animal at home to fend for himself.

“It’s a pity you haven’t starved to death,” Hugo grumbled, unperturbed by the loud warning rumble now coming from the angry cat. It was the size of a large toddler, with a huge stomach and large paws with wicked-looking claws that were drawn and ready for use. “Maybe you eat anyone who drops by, and is stupid enough to just walk in,” Hugo reasoned, knowing that was just what he had done.

He wondered if Harriett would realise the carcass in her kitch
en was his, and shook his head ruefully at the realisation that he had started talking to a cat.

Suddenly the beast let out a
yowl that was so loud, and so drawn-out, that Hugo wondered if it would ever end. He screwed up his face and wished he could raise both arms to cover his ears. He was about to reach for his gun, when a sudden movement in the corridor on the opposite side of the room drew his attention.

He lifted tired eyes to the stunning vision that was staring back at him in
shocked surprise. Her hair was hanging loosely around her shoulders in a wild tangle of unrestrained curls that made him itch to run his hands through it to see if it would really ensnare his wrists the way he envisioned. The plain nightgown she wore was practically see-through, giving him a clear view of her delectable feminine shape through the material. Although the cloth protected her modesty, from what he could see, the curves were in all the right, gloriously intriguing, places. The shadowy dips and hollows beneath the white material held a hint of sensual promise that called to his masculinity, tempting and teasing him with silken fingers until he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

The sight of her
all rumpled and sleepy, and clearly fresh from her bed, simply took his breath.

“Harriett,” he growled,
warring between abject relief that she was there, and horror that she was seeing him so incapacitated.

On the positive side, he now had someone with knowledge of medicines who was able to help him
. On the negative side, not only was she seeing him at his weakest, but he had now put her in danger.

“
Hugo! What on earth has happened to you?” Harriett demanded. She was shocked, not only by the fact that Hugo was standing in her kitchen, and was the man who had haunted her dreams, but who was now clearly badly injured and bleeding steadily all over her kitchen floor.

He suddenly stumbled
. Lunging forward to help him, she was too weak to halt his downward slide and found herself bending over him as he half-slumped on the floor.

“Lock the door,” Hugo gasped
, feeling sick again. The burning sensation in his wounded arm increased tenfold when his hand hit the floor, but there was little he could do except clench his teeth against the pain, and fight the urge to swear in front of a lady.

Harriett
immediately did as she was told and slid the heavy iron bolt across the door.

“Close the shutters,” he ordered, closing his eyes and praying he wouldn’t pass out. He wanted to apologise
to her, not only for his sudden appearance but for the distress he could clearly see on her face and the mess he was making in her kitchen.

He lay on his back staring at the ceiling, aware of the loud rumbling coming from somewhere above him. Cracking one eye open, he stared into the feral eyes of
a clearly annoyed Harrold, inches from his face, and wondered if the beast would attack.

“Go ‘way,” he grunted, staring the cat in the eyes.
Despite his injury, he wasn’t prepared to be overwhelmed by a crazed feline. For several long moments they stared at each other. Hugo wondered if the cat would maul him, but at least the loud shrieking had stopped, replaced by a low, warning growl that was equally as annoying.

“Oh Harrold, shut up!” Harriett snapped, shoving the cat away from Hugo on her way past.
“Leave him alone.”

Hugo watched as the wretched beast immediately quietened down, hissed once
in clear annoyance, and stalked haughtily out of the room.

Quickly working her way around the cottage, Harriett did as
he asked, returning to him in the kitchen to study him closely. Her mind was running over the contents of her workroom and what she would need to help him.

He was soaked to the skin. His dark hair
was plastered to his head, water dripping steadily down his lean, ashen cheeks. His black shirt did little to hide the heavily muscled chest beneath. Despite his poor condition, he was still the most handsome man Harriett had ever seen.

Shoving
her wayward thoughts to one side, Harriett carefully knelt beside him, letting her eyes roam freely over his prone form, although this time it was more of a visual assessment of his condition. Her measured gaze landed on the tight woollen binding which covered a wound on his upper arm that was steadily oozing blood. From his pale complexion and blood-soaked shirt, he had apparently been bleeding profusely for some considerable time.

“Help me?” Hugo pleaded with desperate eyes
that remained locked upon hers. Hugo briefly wondered if this was what it was like to die. If so, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else – or with anyone else. He frowned at the burgeoning feelings that began to form in his chest, but couldn’t summon the energy to analyse them further. Instead, with a grunt, he reluctantly gave himself over to Harriett’s care.

“Your injury,” Harriett murmured, ey
eing the black cloth once more, silently asking him for details of what he had been up to.

“I’ve been shot,” he replied bluntly, seeing no reason to try to
hide the cause of his injury; she didn’t need to know where and when. The less she knew of how he got the injury, the better. Her next question surprised him.

“Is the shot still in?”

Hugo felt his eyebrows immediately rise. Although a tiny voice reminded him that she was a healer, and had probably seen a variety of injuries, her calm logic amazed him. He could almost hear her analyzing the severity of his plight and working out how best to help him. A new respect began to blossom within him; the lady was clearly calm in a crisis.

“Yes, the shot is still there. U
nless it has come out of the back – I can’t tell.” He groaned, unwilling to consider the possibilities without the world beginning to dim. He wasn’t usually squeamish, and had seen his fair share of death and blood loss while in the army, and it had never made him feel sick, or faint, like he was now.

From the steady pool of re
d gathering beneath his hand as it lay on the floor, Harriett knew that he was in desperate trouble and, from the slurring of his words, realised that it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to the blood loss. Urgency suddenly fuelled her movements, spurring her into action.

“Help me get you to the bed.
” Her voice was firm and uncompromising. Rising to her feet, she bent over him, physically pushing him when Hugo made no attempt to move. She prodded him, unwilling to allow him to fall asleep until he was on her bed.

She hadn’t bargained on his height though. He was simply
huge against her smaller, more delicate frame. Of similar height to the Cavendish brothers, Hugo towered above most men, and was well built and very muscular. She simply didn’t have the strength to carry him anywhere, nor would she be able to drag his dead weight across the length of her cottage by herself. She needed him to help himself a little.