Sam stumbled, his left foot catching. But he didn’t go down. He didn’t fall. Instead, he half whirled, sobbing with pain, the stars overhead blurring.
Keep running. Don’t give up.
Craddock had given up. Craddock had succumbed to the blackness that seeped into his mind in odd moments, the nightmares that tore apart his sleep, the thoughts that he could not keep away. Craddock slept now. Peacefully. Without nightmares or fear for his own soul. Craddock was at rest.
Don’t give up.
EMELINE DIDN’T KNOW what woke her late that night. Certainly Samuel moved without a sound, silent and secretive like a cat returning home from the hunt. But she woke nevertheless when he entered his room.
She straightened in the chair by the fireplace. “Where have you been?”
He didn’t seem startled to see her in his room. His face was pale and unreadable in the candlelight as he walked toward her, oddly stiff. She looked down. Dark stains on the carpet followed his footsteps. She almost took him to task for not wiping the mud from his feet, but then she understood. And in that moment came fully awake.
“Oh, dear Lord, what have you done?” She stood and grabbed his arm, thrusting him urgently into the chair she’d occupied. “You stupid, stupid man!” She whirled to pile more coal on the fire, then brought a candle closer. “What have you done? What could have possessed you?”
She closed her mouth because what she saw in the candlelight nearly made her ill. He’d run through his moccasins. They were merely tattered leather strips about his feet. And his feet, dear God, his feet. They were nothing more than bloody rags, the stumps that Jasper had told her about only hours ago. But now they were real and in front of her. She looked wildly about the room. There was water, but it wasn’t hot, and where could she find cloth to use as bandages? She started for the door, but his hand flashed out to catch her arm.
“Stay.”
His voice was guttural, raspy with exhaustion, but his eyes had focused on her. “Stay.”
How many miles had he run? “I need to get water and bandages.”
He shook his head. “I want you to stay.”
She pulled away from him roughly. “And I don’t want you to die of infection!”
Emeline was scowling down at him, and she knew the fear showed in her eyes. But despite her harsh tone and unlovely face, he smiled. “Then come back to me.”
“Don’t be silly,” she muttered as she went to the door. “Of course I will.”
She didn’t wait for an answer but took the candle and almost ran into the hallway. She paused there only long enough to verify that no one was about; then she made her way as quickly and as quietly as possible to the kitchens. House parties were notorious for clandestine assignations. Most of her fellow guests would turn a blind eye if they saw her scurrying about the place in the wee hours of the night, but why chance the gossip? Especially as she was quite innocent.
The Hasselthorpe House kitchens were vast, with a great vaulted main room that probably dated back to medieval times. Emeline was satisfied to note that the cook obviously was a competent woman: She kept the fire banked at night. Emeline hurried across the room to the great stone fireplace and nearly stumbled over a small boy sleeping there.
He uncurled from a nest of blankets like a little mouse. “Mum?”
“I’m sorry,” Emeline whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
There was a huge earthenware jar in the corner, and she lifted the lid to peer inside. She nodded in satisfaction. It contained water. As she dipped some out into an iron kettle, she heard the boy rustle behind her.
“Can I help you, mum?”
She glanced at him as she set the kettle on the fire and stirred up the coals. He sat on his blankets with his dark hair standing on end. He was probably all of Daniel’s age.
“Does Cook have a salve for burns and cuts?”
“Aye.” The boy got to his feet and went to a tall cupboard and pulled out a drawer. He rummaged inside and brought back a small jar to hand to her.
Emeline lifted the lid and looked inside. A dark, greasy substance filled half the jar. She sniffed it and identified the odors of herbs and honey.
“Yes, this will do. Thank you.” She recovered the jar and smiled at the boy. “Go back to bed now.”
“Aye, mum.” He settled on his pallet and watched her sleepily as she waited for the water to boil and then poured it into a metal pitcher.
There was a pile of neatly folded cloths in a basket on the cupboard. Emeline took several and grasped the pitcher with one. She smiled at the boy. “Good night.”
“’Night, mum.”
His eyes were already drooping as she left the kitchen. She hurried from the kitchens and back up the stairs, the heavy pitcher in one hand, the jar of salve in the other, and the cloths over her arm. The candlestick was left behind. She knew the route now, anyway, even in the dark.
She thought Samuel might be asleep, but his head turned alertly at her entrance, although he didn’t say anything as she crossed the room. She poured the hot water into a basin, added just a little of the cold water from the pitcher on the dresser, and brought the basin over to him.
Emeline knelt at his feet and frowned. “Have you a knife?”
In answer, he pulled a small blade from his waistcoat pocket. She took it and carefully cut away what remained of his moccasins. Some of the leather stuck to the drying blood, and careful as she was, there were bits that pulled and started the bleeding afresh. It must have hurt, yet he didn’t make a sound.
She rolled up the embroidered edges of his leggings and placed the basin under him. “Put your feet in here.”
He complied and hissed softly as his feet met the hot water. She glanced up, but his face merely showed weariness as he watched her.
“How long did you run?” she asked.