As if he heard the thought, Sattar spoke again. “That whom you brought here? The uncle has taken her, one told me.”
Giff remembered where she had been headed when the coach was waylaid. “To Weymouth?”
“I know not. What I know is I will have this tale of your tomfoolery from you, but not now. I go, sahib. Pray you, stay safe. I will return after I find where are these men hid when they go to ground. If I can keep them in sight.”
With a word of farewell, he was gone, leaving Giff with a tumble of images in his head wherein the girl figured strongly.
He’d thought her a nuisance at first, demanding the ordinary chivalry of any man who knew himself to be at fault in her predicament. He’d approached her when he saw her hiding with the object of ensuring she did not alert his pursuers. A sound would have brought them down on his head again just when he’d managed to evade them.
If that fool Sam had not fired his pistol, Giff would not have stopped and looped back. He’d heard the rumbling of the coach. What the deuce the fellow meant by firing on bystanders was a mystery. According to Delia’s account, he supposed his quarry might have taken refuge within the coach. Madness! And then to strike down an elderly woman and leave her senseless? By God, if they were his tools, they would know his wrath for such bungling!
Yet the fellow Sam had managed to find his mark. Another mistake. It could be no part of Piers’s plan for his fellows to make such a stir. And had he not seen he had the girl up before him? What if his bullet had taken her instead?
The thought sent ice slicing through his veins. Bad as it was to have put her through what he had done, at least he was spared that. Though his flower girl had proved more than equal to the challenge. Exulting, he recalled how she’d refused to be set down, instead turning the tables. Binding his wound, by God, and taking the reins! Espousing his cause, turning all her energies to securing him. And never a word of complaint. What a woman!
Sattar had claimed he’d the devil’s own luck, and he was right. To have lit upon one such in his circumstances was a miracle. The petticoats he’d known would have swooned or fallen into hysterics. But not his flower girl. She’d shown courage from the start, now he thought about it. Accosted and secured by a strange man in a situation fraught with danger, she’d behaved with remarkable calm. She’d obeyed his commands without question too, no doubt recognising the wisdom of silence. Not a word, not a whimper to give away their position, plucky wench. He owed her his life.
Warmth swept through him. He must find means to thank her. If his uncle was taking her back, he would know where she was to be found. When this cursed wound was enough recovered to enable him to ride again, he would reconnoitre the place and see what was to be done. He must not embroil her further in his chaotic affairs. That was a given. But equally, he was too indebted to allow her to pass out of his life, unrewarded, un-thanked.
Besides, he thought as sleep began creeping over his mind again, she was his flower girl, bonded now by their shared adventure. Not to meet her again was out of the question.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Sit you down, Miss Delia, do, before you fall down, and let me manage all.”
Pushed onto the bed by her determined maid, Delia gave in without protest. Truth to tell, she felt as weak as a kitten and tired enough to obey her great-aunt’s dictum, once Captain Rhoades had departed, that she remove her soiled clothing and rest until the dinner hour. The wine had made her head woozy, making it hard to say what she wished when she bid the Reverend Gaunt farewell. She’d been obliged to content herself with profuse thanks and a speaking look, which he answered with an understanding smile. Delia hoped he would not forget to give her messages to Giff.
Her eyes pricked as remembrance hit, and she hardly noticed as Sally undid the strings of her bodice and drew the garment down her arms, so that it fell open and slid to her waist.
“Dearie me, Miss Delia, this gown is fair ruined! I’ll have a task to make it good, that I will.”
“It doesn’t matter. I have other gowns.”
“That you have, but there’s no need to let this one go to waste, if I can mend it. Stand up a moment, dovey, so I can slip it off.”
Delia dragged herself up and Sally deftly slid the gown down. It pooled at her feet as she sank back onto the bed, but her maid did not pick it up as expected. Instead, she was staring at the bottom of Delia’s under-petticoat, eyes wide as her mouth dropped open.
For an instant, Delia was confused. Then the penny dropped. Heavens, Giff’s bandage! She’d forgotten how she’d ripped off strips to bind him.
“Lordy, Miss Delia, what have you been doing?”
Her mind jumped this way and that, seeking an excuse. Any excuse! The maid fixed her with a fulminating eye.
“You never did that running through the forest. That’s been torn off proper, that has.”
Distracted and trembling, Delia seized on this. “How do you know I was running through the forest?”
“I was listening at the door when you told her ladyship, of course,” said Sally, unabashed. “’Sides, we knew you’d been left in the midst of the trees an’ all. What else was I to think?”
“I had to hide too. There were brambles and Lord knows what. You can see I’m scratched.” Which was true enough, for her bared arms showed several scratches and a few weals too. “I must have done it then.”
Delia’s fingers quivered as they clutched the petticoats, pulling them away in a bid to conceal the damage.
The maid set her arms akimbo, standing over her in rising wrath as she’d done so often when Delia was a girl. Sally had begun to maid her before she emerged from the schoolroom, and their relationship had the ease of long intimacy.
“That there petticoat never lost its flounce by accident, Miss Delia. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s clothing, and you won’t fool me with such taradiddles. What happened that you needs must go tearing your clothes to pieces?”
Glancing past her at the closed door, Delia put a finger to her quivering lips. “Quiet, Sally, or you’ll be heard!”