When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,2

the earth, then disappeared into the bracken.

“Warning his mates,” Duncan said, tugging one-handed at his cravat. “Some thanks for a heroic rescue.”

“Let me.” The woman batted his hand aside. She withdrew the pin from Duncan’s linen and soon had his neckcloth off. “Was your knife clean?”

“Yes. Though if your concern is infection, I should probably pour the contents of my flask over the wound before you bind it.”

His flask was in the inner right-hand pocket of his coat, which meant her assistance was necessary to produce it, lest Duncan get blood all over his London tailoring. He didn’t give a damn for fashion, but wasting money was, in his estimation, among the deadliest sins. Wasting time surpassed even that offense.

The lady knew what she was about with an injury, and applied a quantity of brandy to the wound. Duncan’s vision dimmed and his ears roared, though the sensation of her hand on his shoulder, and her quiet “Steady on,” penetrated the fire raging along the wound.

“Considering that you’ve arguably saved my life,” Duncan said, as she wrapped his cravat about his wrist, “might you spare me your name?”

She used his cravat pin to secure the bandage tightly enough to suppress further bleeding without causing discomfort. His blood stained the white linen, though the stain wasn’t spreading. A flesh wound, thank God. If Duncan had lost his life to an ungrateful rabbit, his cousins in Mayfair would have laughed at his graveside.

“You should thoroughly clean that wound,” the lady said. “Strong spirits are helpful, but honey is more effective. Promise me you won’t neglect it.”

“The wound will be healed before I can neglect it.” Wentworths were tough. They healed well and quickly, on the outside. “You’re in my woods, alone, where all manner of ruffians apparently lurk. Might I escort you to your destination?”

She collected her pistol and the shorter knife, passing the longer one to Duncan. “That won’t be necessary. Tell your gamekeepers what you came across this morning. Those were professional poachers, not a pair of farm lads trying to add a little meat to their mama’s stores.”

Just like that, she was prepared to leave him in the middle of the woods.

“My thanks, then, for your timely intervention, but I truly must have a name for so brave a rescuer.”

“No, you must not. You are the owner of Brightwell?”

“I have that honor.” Or that challenge. Cousin Quinn’s sense of humor was complicated and given to irony.

Duncan’s ownership of Brightwell looked to be a further annoyance to her, as if she’d found not one but two sets of poachers in her woods. She shoved her pistol into a pocket of her cloak, shook out her hems, and—incongruously, for a woman possessed of both a knife and a gun—bobbed a curtsy.

“I’ll bid you good day. Please see a physician for that wound.”

Duncan would do no such thing. The damned scratch had bled copiously, which always boded well for a swift recovery, and physicians cost money.

“Before you abandon a wounded man alone in the wilds of Berkshire,” Duncan said, “won’t you tell me if I’ve found the ghost in my gatehouse?”

* * *

A lady’s education was a sore hindrance when she needed to curse. Duncan Wentworth was the soul of courtesy, though, so even if Matilda had known some vile oaths, she might not have used them in his presence.

Might not. Life had become unpredictable, and Matilda’s reactions and choices unpredictable as well.

“Both your gatehouse and your woods are haunted?” The compulsion to flee had her heart beating like the snared rabbit’s, but she’d seen the speed with which Mr. Wentworth could move. One moment, he’d been a gentleman at his leisure, lounging against a tree. The next instant, Treacher’s knife had flown through the air, and Treacher had been facedown in the bracken.

“I cannot speak for the spirits inhabiting my home wood.” Mr. Wentworth picked up his battered felt hat and slapped it against his thigh. “If I were a clever poacher, I’d put about word that Brightwell’s forest was haunted, and then add credence to the rumor by carrying a lit torch down the game trails on a moonless night. Some truant boy tippling his papa’s brandy would recite a tale of ghosts to his friends in the schoolyard, and lo, my woods are haunted.”

He’d more or less divined Matilda’s scheme. “And your gatehouse, Mr. Wentworth?”

He ripped the leather noose from the stake, stuffed the cord in his pocket, and threw the stake in the direction of the river. A