In a few minutes they would be home. Hippocrates had already picked up his pace. He knew better than to start trotting, except tonight Ned found himself ready to be home, as well. He might let the horse continue to have his head—
The front door of The Garland was thrown open. A dark figure of a man with a hood over his head charged out the door and ran right into the horse’s flank.
The man reeled back as if stunned to find someone blocking his escape—and Ned recognized him. It was hard to disguise the lanky awkwardness. “Fitzsimmons?”
The answer was a shocked gasp at the recognition. Fitz backed away just as a woman’s feeble cry went up from inside the tavern. “Help, please, someone help me.”
Fitz looked back at the doorway and then went tearing off.
In the next moment the woman herself appeared at the door and leaned against it. She wore her nightdress and little else. Her red hair was in a long dark braid over her shoulder.
A cloud blocking the moon shifted and Ned could see the stain of blood running down her face.
Chapter Ten
Ned immediately jumped to the ground. Dropping Hippocrates’s reins over his head, he untied his medical bag from his saddle and hurried to Gemma. The horse would meander where he wished. Ned’s first concern was for the woman.
When he reached the door, she fell into his arms. “Someone attacked me.” Her voice was breathless, panicked. Her eyes met his and then, recognizing him, she started to struggle as if afraid he would hurt her.
“Please, please,” he said. “It is all right. It is me, Ned Thurlowe. You are safe. But I need to stop the bleeding.”
She frowned fiercely as if not believing him.
“Gemma, I want to help. Come, please.” She didn’t relax but she let him walk her back through the door.
All was dark. “Where is a candle?”
“The . . . k-kitchen.” Her speech was slowing. She was going to faint.
He swept her up in his arms.
She stiffened. “What are you doing?”
“Making it easier for both of us. Do you know what he hit you with?”
“No,” she said softly and then leaned her head against his chest, her braid falling over his arm. Good. She’d given up the fight.
Moving in the dark, he trusted his instinct, and years spent in The Garland, to find the taproom door. From there, he could see the burning embers in the kitchen hearth.
“Can you sit?” he asked.
“Of course.” Her voice was still weak, but slightly cranky. He interpreted it as a good sign.
After sitting her in the nearest chair at the table, Ned placed his medical bag on the table and went over to stir the fire. The flames came to life, adding more light to the kitchen. He looked around for the candle and saw it on the table beside her. A beat later he had the candle lit. The room filled with a thin, golden glow.
“My embroidered bag . . . my herbs. In my room.”
She was giving him orders. Yes, she would be fine.
“I have salves for cuts.” His foot kicked a log that was on the floor.
“That is what he hit me with,” she murmured before slumping. He caught her before she tumbled to the floor.
“Come, Gemma. Be strong.”
Her lids fluttered and she tried to smile. “He hit . . . me.”
“That he did.” Bracing her with one arm, Ned held the candle up to take a closer look at her injury. The cut was high on the temple, just at the hairline. “Clean rags?”
She shook her head, sitting back on her own in the chair. Her breathing was still shallow.
Ned removed his neck cloth and dabbed one corner of it on the wound before holding the candle up to see better. The cut was not as deep as he feared. The skin was broken and she’d have a good bruise. To his relief, her eyes were clear. Her confused reaction had more to do with shock than anything else.
“I need you to stay sitting up, Gemma.”
She nodded and leaned a supporting arm on the table.
He backed away to be certain she wouldn’t fall. She gave him a wan smile. “I’m all right.” Her speech was gaining strength and she made eye contact.
Ned went over to the fire. There was water in the kettle. Taking a bowl from the cupboard, he poured water into it, dipped his neck cloth, wrung it out, and started to clean her wound. His voice gentle, he warned, “This may hurt—”
She flinched.
“Still, it must be done. You know that.”
She nodded. A tear ran down her cheek. She’d been given quite a fright.
And it made him furious at Fitz. And whomever else was behind him.
She lifted her head, turning it for him to have better access to the light.
“The cut is right on the temple,” he explained. Her brows came together. She reached up and took his neck cloth from him, pushing it against her wound herself.
He threw the water he had used out the back door and poured more. It was his habit to tell his patients what he planned. He found it reassured them. “I will make certain the wound is clean. Considering that you were hit with a log, I don’t want splinters or dirt. That could lead to infection.”
She nodded.
He took a flask out of his bag and unscrewed it. “Here, sip this.”
“What is it?”
“The best medicine in the world. A good brandy—”
The sound of bootsteps scuffling on the taproom floor interrupted him. Ned looked to the doorway, braced for anything.
Jonathon Fitzsimmons stepped out of the darkness. He held the hood in one hand at his side. His manner was that of a chastened ten-year-old. “Is she all right?”
“No thanks to you. What was this about?”
Instead of answering Ned, Jonathon entered the kitchen and fell to one knee on the brick floor beside Gemma. She recoiled while Ned put a protective arm out to block the man from touching her. “Fitz—”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Fitz’s tone was stark, repentant.
She didn’t answer him.
His face crumpled. “Please. I didn’t mean it.”
“What were you doing here?” Ned asked.
Fitz acted relieved to take his attention away from Gemma’s pale face. “I thought I would find the will that gave The Garland to her. I—”
His voice broke off, and then he finished, “It was an idiot’s idea. I just thought it would be a way to do something for the lads.” Again, his gaze sought Ned’s for understanding and then dropped to the floor. “To fit in.”
And Ned remembered the conversation in the stables where he had said clearly not to attempt a stunt like taking her proof from her. “Did the others egg you on?”
“I’d rather not say, sir.”
“Did Winderton promote this idea?”
“He did not tell me to do it.”
“Did he imply it?” Ned had to ask.
Fitz’s expression grew pinched. “I should be able to think on my own, sir.”
“Yes, you should,” Ned readily agreed, convinced that the lot of them had cooked up this scheme. Fitz was just the messenger.
The man had the good sense to look ashamed. He turned back to Gemma and caught her staring at both of them, her expression wary.
Wary. The word described her manner from the first moment he’d met her. She didn’t trust men. It was clear to him now.