The icy rain continued to pummel them. Mr. Gwynne held his lantern high, but it offered very little illumination against the unrelenting sheets of rain. Thunder rolled and another bolt of lightning struck too close for comfort. Ian quickly secured Abner on his shoulder and then he and the search party walked as fast as they dared in the treacherous conditions, no one uttering a word until they reached the safety of the inn.
One of the maids must have been on the lookout for them. She opened the door as soon as they entered the inn’s courtyard, ushering them in as they trudged up the two steps to the entry. “Lud! Is he alive?”
“Barely,” one of the searchers muttered. “Pray for ’im, Louisa.”
Ian shifted Abner off his shoulder and carefully stretched him out on one of the sturdy wooden tables in the common room close to the fire. He ordered Louisa to boil water and bring clean cloths. Then he turned to Mr. Gwynne. “I’ll need slats of wood to bind his leg. It’s easiest done down here. We’ll move him up to my quarters afterward.” He’d already given up his first room to Dillie and would give up the second to Abner.
Mr. Gwynne appeared surprised. “Yer quarters, Yer Grace? To a coachman?”
Ian frowned. “Is it a problem, Mr. Gwynne?”
“No, Yer Grace. Never ye worry. We’ll rearrange things.” Ian suddenly realized that all the rooms at the inn were likely occupied due to the foul weather, and he might very well be forced to spend the night in the common room, stretched out on a makeshift pallet by the hearth. Or rather, some poor sod who’d just made himself comfortable in one of those upstairs chambers would be tossed down here while he took over that sod’s quarters.
“You needn’t move anyone on my behalf,” he called out as the innkeeper was about to leave to gather the slats of wood he’d requested. “I doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight.” He also knew that the Gwynnes would give up their own bedchamber to accommodate him, if it came to that. He wouldn’t accept, of course. Even a duke could survive one night on a hard floor. He’d survived far worse.
After quickly stoking the fire, Mr. Gwynne scurried off to find pieces of wood suitable to fashion a splint. Ian took a moment to examine Abner again. His first attempt had hardly been sufficient in the dark, amid pelting ice and rain. He’d do a better job of it under the amber glow cast by the fire’s leaping flames.
He studied the old man lying so still upon the table and frowned. Had he suffered more than a broken leg? It didn’t appear so, but Ian couldn’t be certain, for he wasn’t properly trained. His medical knowledge had been gleaned over the course of many battles against the French during Napoleon’s war. The Peninsular battles had been particularly bloody. Lots of broken bones suffered by his soldiers.
Fortunately, Ian knew how to set and securely bind a break. Apparently, he was the only man in this establishment who did, for no one else stepped forward to volunteer for the task. He removed his oilcloth and wet jacket, rolled up his equally wet shirt sleeves, and took a step back while the innkeeper’s men removed Abner’s cloak and jacket. “Careful. Be gentle with him. Better cut open that left boot,” he instructed. “His foot must be swollen to twice its size. Don’t tug on it. Go easy. He’s an old man.”
Abner let out an anguished groan.
Ian heard a soft gasp come from behind him. He turned, as did the other men in the common room, and saw Dillie standing in the doorway, barefoot and wearing his nightshirt, with a blanket carelessly wrapped about her shoulders. Her dark hair was still damp, left loose and falling to her waist. His heart began to hammer within his chest. She was an intoxicating mix of waif and angel. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and... Bloody hell. “What are you doing down here?”
Her eyes began to tear. “Is he alive?”
Ian nodded, unable to take his gaze off her. She looked beautiful. Bedraggled, but beautiful. “Let me take you back upstairs.”
“No. Please. I must see him.” She began to hobble toward Abner.
Ian let out a soft oath and strode to her side, uttering another soft oath as he lifted her into his arms over her tepid protest. She felt soft and warm. He was soaked to the skin, but her blanket was between them and would keep her dry enough. “Put your arms around my neck.”
She did as ordered, and then leaned her head against him so that her cheek rested against his shoulder and her lips nuzzled his throat. Had he been cold a moment ago? Not anymore. His body was as hot as those flames blazing in the hearth.
“Sit quietly,” he warned Dillie, more annoyed with his body’s immediate and intense response to her nearness. Would it always be like this? He fervently hoped not. He hated this lack of control, wasn’t used to it at all.