Page 22 of The Scarred Lyon

Augusta’s cheeks flushed as her insides fluttered. It had been years since she had such an obvious reaction to a man.

“There it is!” Mr. McGloin shouted, pointing to a house on the left.

Augusta’s heart sank. It was more of a shack than a farmhouse, with a small, dilapidated shed or barn next to it. Duncan pulled on the reins, and she did the same.

“Is there nowhere else?” Duncan asked. “I don’t like the look of that roof. It could blow off in high winds.”

“This is the closest place,” Mr. McGloin replied. “There was a cluster of cottages five miles down this road, but that would take us farther from Stoneheath. The sun is beginning to set. We have no time.”

“We could press ahead and return to Jemison’s,” Duncan mused, then shook his head. “No, you are correct. It would be dark before we arrived, and we do not want to be caught out in this storm any longer than necessary. And Dawn cannot travel any further. Let’s make haste.”

Duncan dismounted then helped Augusta down from the horse. McGloin secured the horses to a post, then walked over and knocked loudly on the door. When it opened, McGloin stepped inside, with Duncan and Augusta following. A woman in a worn wool gown took one look at Duncan and screamed, quickly covering her face with her hands.

“Control yourself, madam!” Duncan thundered. “I am not some monster lurking in the forest; it is a war injury. Cease that caterwauling!”

The woman grew quiet and turned away. Augusta was shocked by the woman’s overwrought reaction. Goodness, his scars were not that horrible, and Augusta did not blame Duncan for his outburst. Augusta looked about the room. The abject poverty was palpable.

“We are Mr. and Mrs. Bamford, and this is our manservant, Mr. McGloin,” Duncan declared in a calm but firm voice. “We had a carriage accident about two miles from here and need shelter for the night. My servant will be heading to Stoneheath. We also have an injured horse that needs shelter. And you are?”

The man scratched his beard. “John Hansen, and my wife, Ella.”

Duncan set the hamper on the floor, then reached into his pocket. “I am willing to pay.”

“How much, exactly?” Hansen asked, glancing warily from Duncan to Mr. McGloin.

Duncan strode to the table and dropped a handful of coins on it. “This is all I have, it’s close to ten guineas.”

Mr. Hansen snatched the coins and stuffed them into his coat pocket. “There’s a small attic room with a pallet. It’s all I’ve got. ’Tis warm enough. The chimney goes up through the middle of it. You can put the horse in the barn. There’s oats out there. What’s in the hamper?”

“Some belongings we managed to salvage,” Duncan replied quickly. “Assist my servant and take these items to the room.” Duncan handed the hamper to Mr. McGloin. Hansen sneered at Duncan but did as he was bidden.

When they returned, Duncan turned to Mr. McGloin. “Ride swiftly, but take no unnecessary risks. Return here only when it is safe to do so.”

“I will, Mr. Bamford. If not tomorrow, then when it’s safe, as you said.” The men shook hands in farewell. “Dawn is settled in the barn in a stall. I wrapped his lower leg. It will need changing. Some packed snow around the swelling will give him relief while he mends.”

“I will see to it.”

Mr. McGloin handed a cloth bundle to Duncan. “My shirts. Tear them into strips to wrap the leg. There is a mule or donkey in the opposite stall.”

“He’s my mule,” Hansen said.

Duncan ignored him.

“Take care, Mr. McGloin,” Augusta said.

“I will, Mrs. Bamford.” Mr. McGloin opened the door, and a gust of wind whipped a swirl of wet snow inside. Hansen ran to the door to secure it after the valet stepped outside. The storm was worsening, and that had Augusta worried afresh.

“My wife injured her ankle. Please set up the chair before the fire,” Duncan asked. “Do you have any more firewood than what is in that log rack?”

“Aye, outside. Around the side of the house in the log holder,” the man replied.

“You had best bring some in, and sharpish, because it is going to be a long night.”

Hansen crossed his arms. “Here, are you going to order the wife and me about?”

“I am,” Duncan replied firmly. “I paid you enough for the privilege. Think of yourself as a temporary innkeeper. Do you have any food?”

“Not much. There’s stew left in the pot.”