While the cook held the leg in position, the reverend folded a pristine cloth into a pad and laid it over the wound. His bandaging was a good deal more efficient than Delia’s had been. But then he was not trying to do it while hanging upside-down on Tiger’s back, which was a trifle consoling.
She kept her eyes on Giff’s face, willing him to wake. She wanted to pledge herself to his aid, though she had no notion what she could do. But the very thought of this hateful cousin of his hiring men to kill him made her insides curl into knots. Why? Why did the wretch want him dead? Dared she ask the Reverend Gaunt?
Was he even safe here? Giff had said he would not stay at his uncle’s for his cousin might find him there. If those men followed their trail to this place, would the man Piers not find it out?
She must at least warn the rector, though she dared not speak out before the cook. Of course the woman had heard all her story already. But how much did she know? Surely this great-uncle of Giff’s must know the whole. He had certainly known Giff on the instant. Giffard, he’d called him. At least she now knew his name. Giffard Gaunt, was it? His uncle knew that and more. But would he tell her? How much could she discover before she must leave Giff to return to her own life?
Remembrance brought her up short. Until this moment, she’d completely forgotten her predicament. By now Vowles and Scoley must have discovered her absence. Would they have set out in search of her at once? She could not believe otherwise. And what of poor Aunt Gertrude? Had she regained consciousness before reaching Weymouth? Assuming they’d continued on that far, which Delia dared not doubt.
The whole affair seemed a world away, like something from another life. Reality was in this little back room with her rescuer prince out cold on the sofa, his life at constant risk. How was she ever to settle back to normality after this?
As if he read her thought, the Reverend Gaunt rose from his knees and surveyed Delia, a little smile creasing his wrinkled features. “Well now, my dear child, I think we must see to your needs.”
Delia tried to smile. “I don’t know how, sir. But the tea is very welcome.”
“We will feed you too, I think. Are you not hungry?”
In all the flurry and excitement, Delia had forgotten the natural demands of her body. But the mention of food gave instant vent to a niggle in her stomach, and a far more urgent need.
“Yes, indeed I am. And I would be grateful for a chance to — er — to —”
“To freshen up?” The reverend cast her an understanding look and turned to his cook. “Aggy, take Miss — gracious me, I have been remiss! What is your name, my dear?”
“Delia, sir. Delia Burloyne.”
“Thank you. Take Miss Burloyne to one of the spare bedchambers and provide her with hot water.” His gaze ran down Delia’s person as she stood up in preparation. “And I think perhaps we might find you something a little more presentable to wear. I am sure there is a suitable gown or two amongst my late wife’s effects, or my daughter may have left a couple here.”
About to thank him, Delia abruptly realised she could not possibly accept. “It is generous of you, sir, but it will not do.”
His brows rose. “Are you too proud to take charity, my child?”
“Heavens, it is not that! Don’t you see? How could I satisfactorily explain a change of raiment? Indeed, it is impossible, for I dare not mention Giff. As it is, I will have to fabricate some tale to account for my condition. And I ought to be found where I was left.”
Consternation entered the elderly features. “I had not thought, but you are right, of course.” He hesitated, frowning, and threw a glance at his nephew on the bed.
Delia fretted inwardly, unable to think what she should do now the question of her own affairs had arisen. At last the rector gave a decisive nod.
“I will think on it, child. Go with Aggy and you may at least clean away the dirt of the roads.”
Feeling altogether disturbed, and not a little scared, Delia followed the woman Aggy into the passage.
CHAPTER FOUR
Seated next to the Reverend Gaunt in his phaeton, with a groom up behind, Delia struggled to re-orient herself to the present. It was hard, when her mind kept straying to her last image of Giff, still in the cot where he’d been laid, still pallid in sleep, but a deal more comfortably bestowed.
While she was busy taking care of her body’s needs, washing away the dirt from her face and hands and partaking of a bowl of sustaining broth with bread and cheese in the kitchen, the reverend and his footman had stripped Giff and put him into a nightshirt.
Upon enquiry, she learned he’d woken briefly, only long enough to drink down the draught which sent him into a more natural sleep.
“Have no fear, child. I will take every care of him. You may trust Aggy and Wilfred to deputise in my absence.”
Delia could not be satisfied. “What if those men come looking for him?”
“In my house? I hardly think so.”
“And that horrid cousin of his? Piers?”
“Ah, yes, my other great-nephew. He may come, of course, but he will not find Giffard, be sure. There is a stout lock on that door, if need be. But he would not have the temerity to demand to search my house. That would be to show his hand, you know.”