"What are you talking about?"
"I overheard them in the forest," she said.
"We will speak about the fact you were in the forest at length when I am in better condition to deal with you," he said.
"We are speaking now." She tugged the bandage tight.
"Don't be obtuse, Phoebe."
She ignored him. "Reference was made to an employer who wouldn't like being double-crossed. Who is after you, my lord?"
Kiernan shrugged. "Not everyone understands how delightful I am."
"So it seems." She ran her hand along the makeshift bandage, satisfied it was the best she could do, then looked at Donald. “He has lost a substantial amount of blood.”
“Aye,” he agreed.
“Don't talk about me as if I'm not here,” Kiernan complained in a whisper.
“If we don't hurry, you are likely not to be with us much longer.”
“I would think that would solve your problem, Miss Wallington,” he replied.
“Had I known you would be fool enough to get yourself shot, I wouldn’t have bothered to come back and warn you.”
Kiernan grasped her hand, his grip still quite strong, she noticed with relief. “Why did you turn back?”
Phoebe shook him off. “You owe me for this, Ashlund. I deduced that it would be easier getting you to repay this debt my way, than trying to fight you—and your father.”
He took a slow breath. “It doesn't signify. Neither my father nor your uncle would allow that, even if I agreed. Which—" he broke off, glancing at his two men, who had reappeared "—I do not.”
Phoebe looked at Donald. “Where are our horses?”
“I last saw them when you hit me,” he said.
“Had you done as I told you and helped Lord Ashlund, I wouldn't have had to brain you. If luck is with us, they're still there. Please retrieve them.”
If luck were with her, she would reach London before the announcement reached the papers—and before Kiernan MacGregor had a chance to recuperate. God willing, he did recuperate.
A little over an hour later, they reached the inn. Donald was off his mount and at Kiernan's horse as Phoebe stepped to the ground. Kiernan had managed to stay in the saddle, but his eyes were closed and he had grown pale. Aaron had dismounted and reached Kiernan as Donald helped him from the saddle. Each man grasped one of his arms and slung it over a shoulder, then started toward the inn. Phoebe hurried ahead of them as the remaining two MacGregor men pulled the injured brigand from his horse. The man she had shot looked worse than Kiernan, but she prayed he would live. As suspected, Bob hadn't lived. If they were fortunate, this man would name his employer.
Phoebe held the door of the inn as Donald and Aaron crossed the threshold with Kiernan between them. She frowned when Kiernan’s head lolled to one side. Blood had soaked the white cotton of his makeshift bandage, as well as the pant leg that flapped about his calf. A wave of panic swept through her. She had never dealt with a wound that bled so much. Perhaps she had bandaged it improperly. She hurried past them into the wide foyer. A long hallway lay straight ahead and to her right was the drawing room. She entered and a young, brown haired serving girl and the two guests seated at a corner table looked up.
“We need three rooms,” Phoebe said, “and send for a doctor immediately.”
The girl hurried past her, eyes widening when Donald and Aaron entered with Kiernan.
“Put Lord Ashlund in that chair.” Phoebe pointed to a chair positioned in front of the fireplace.
The men complied and she bent and felt Kiernan’s forehead. He had developed a fever. She straightened when a tall man entered the room.
“You are the proprietor, sir?” she inquired.
“I am,” he replied. “What’s all this?”
Phoebe followed the man’s gaze to Donald and Aaron. Their kilts, she realized, held his attention and not the bleeding man.
“This is Lord Ashlund.” She motioned toward Kiernan. “We were set upon by highwayman, and His Lordship was shot.”
“Lord Ashlund?” came a nasally feminine voice from behind the man.
The proprietor stepped aside, allowing a short, plump woman to enter. She gasped as her gaze fell upon Kiernan. “The man’s indecent.” She jerked her attention to Phoebe. “How dare you bring a half dressed man here. This here’s a respectable establishment.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Phoebe snapped. “He's wounded, and he's the Marquess of Ashlund.”
“A Scot,” the woman said with derision, then added with a sweep of her gaze across Phoebe, “And you’re no more a fine lady than Mildred down the lane.”
Phoebe faced the proprietor. “I would advise you, sir, to take quick action. His father is the Duke of Ashlund.”
“Another Scot,” the woman repeated with outrage.
“You do not wish this duke’s son to die on your carpet,” Phoebe said without taking her eyes off the proprietor.
“Sally,” he called. The serving girl rushed into the room. “Ready the room at the end of the hall.”
“Now, Roger,” the plump woman began.