When they reached the children, Mary slid from the horse and hoisted Toby up to the saddle. It was a struggle. Toby, at five years old, was a sturdy little chap, but he took a pragmatic approach to life and, instead of making a fuss, he made every effort to help and scrambled on to the saddle. Emily began to wail and Mary hastened to pick her up and lift her in front of Toby. She put her cloak back on, retied her bundle, then positioned the gelding alongside the fallen tree and climbed on to it to help her to mount behind Toby.

She glanced back across the clearing, but could see no sign of the man. He was, presumably, still sleeping off the drink. She manoeuvred the grey on to the track leading from the clearing. No further shout sounded and Mary’s tension eased a fraction. When they found a farm, or a village, she would release the horse and walk in with the children. No one would ever know she had ‘borrowed’ him. Like both her father and also her late husband she had no doubt the ‘gentleman’ would be unable to remember anything that had transpired that afternoon.

‘Try to sit still, Toby,’ she cautioned, as he squirmed in front of her, reaching to touch the horse’s neck.

‘I’m patting the horse to tell him he’s being good, Mama.’

‘He is, isn’t he?’

‘Mama? Look.’ Toby held up his hand, showing fingers discoloured with a dark stain.

Mary took his hand and put her finger on the stain. It came away wet and sticky. She brought it closer to her eyes, but couldn’t make out the colour. However, it smelled and felt suspiciously like...

‘Toby! Are you hurt? Are you bleeding? Where did this come from?’

‘Not me, silly Mama. The horse, I think he’s hurt.’ His voice wobbled.

‘But...he can’t be. I would have seen if there was blood on his neck.’ A knot of dread formed in her stomach. If it wasn’t Toby and it wasn’t the horse, then it must be...

She reined in. What if he was hurt? Drunk or not, she couldn’t leave an injured man lying in the woods all night. Muttering unladylike curses, she turned the grey. Immediately, his ears pricked up and his stride lengthened. To Mary’s chagrin, they covered the distance back to the clearing in half the time.

‘You old fraud,’ she grumbled to the horse as she slid down from the saddle by the same fallen tree.

She tied the horse to a sapling. Injured or not, if the drunkard proved a threat they must be able to get away. Again, she went through the process of untying her bundle and spreading her cloak for the children to sit on. A breeze had sprung up, penetrating her thin woollen dress, and she shivered as she lifted the children down and sat them on the cloak, pulling the edges up around them once again.

‘Don’t move,’ she whispered, ‘and stay quiet. It’s very important you don’t make a sound. Do you understand?’

Both children nodded. Toby wrapped his arms around his little sister, who gazed up at Mary, her eyes huge in her face. Mary closed her eyes as the responsibilities weighing on her threatened to overwhelm her. Her stomach clenched, twisting into sick knots. What would happen to them all? She gritted her teeth and gave herself a mental shake. She forced a smile for the children as she stooped to plant a kiss on each of them.

‘I won’t be long,’ she said.

Cautiously, she approached the track where she had left the man.

‘You...you...came...’ The voice rasped out from the shadows.

Mary gasped. The man had roused from his stupor and now sat facing the track, his back propped against a tree. She shot a quick glance over her shoulder to where she had left the children, but they—and the horse—were safely out of sight. Warily, she picked her way towards the man, who watched her from under dark brows, his glittering eyes visible even in the gloom.

‘Th...thank you. Shot...’ His breaths were harsh and laboured.

‘Shot? Oh, my goodness!’ Mary forgot all caution and hurried to the man’s side. ‘Then it was your blood. Where are you injured?’ She knelt by him.

‘Shoulder...leg...careless...’ He shifted and indicated his left shoulder.

‘What happened? Who shot you? Was it an accident?’ Mary glanced over her shoulder, at the surrounding woods. What if whoever had shot him was still out there?

He shook his head. ‘Not here...safe here...please...take horse...get help...hurry...’ Mary pulled his jacket open. ‘No! Be careful! Aargh...’ His right hand shot out and gripped her wrist with surprising strength, forcing it away from his shoulder. ‘Just...go...get...help!’ he gritted out.

Mary froze, her thoughts scrambling. The children! She couldn’t leave them out here, alone with an injured man. She would have to take them with her, but they would slow her down. How long had he been bleeding?

‘How far is it to find help?’

‘Rothley...two miles...maybe more.’ He seemed more alert, his breathing a touch easier.

Rothley. She knew the village, although not well. She had known it was on her route. She had her own reasons for avoiding it. ‘Two miles? Is there nowhere nearer?’

He snorted. ‘This is Northumberland. Sultan knows the way...won’t take long...you can ride?’

‘Of course I can.’ Mary twisted her wrist, trying to work it free. ‘But, first, I must look at your wounds. How long ago did it happen?’

‘Not sure...lost track...but—’ he squinted up through the branches overhead ‘—possibly...a couple of hours?’

‘Are you still bleeding?’

‘Never mind that...please...go...’

Mary eyed him with exasperation. If he was still losing blood, she must try to staunch the flow before leaving him. It would be an hour or more before help arrived. Three hours of blood loss could prove fatal.

‘Please,’ she said, ‘let me see?’

He scowled, but he lifted his jacket away from his left shoulder. She leant over him, grasped the lapel and opened it wider, reaching inside and placing her hand on the huge patch of blood that stained the front of his white shirt. It was wet. He hissed with pain.

‘Sorry,’ she said as she lowered his jacket back into place. She had seen enough. He had lost a great deal of blood and she knew she must bandage the wounds before she left.

‘You’re still bleeding,’ she told him. ‘I shall have to remove your jacket, no matter how much it hurts, I’m afraid.’

‘Any...other time...a pleasure.’ His eyes glinted and a brief smile twisted his lips.

She narrowed her eyes at him, steadfastly ignoring the frisson of pleasure that skittered down her spine at his expression. A typical male, she thought. Not even a serious injury could curb his rakish tendencies.

‘I’ll need to check your back, too,’ she said. ‘If the bullet went straight through, you will need padding there as well. Have you a knife?’

‘A knife? What...? You’re not...?’

‘No.’ Despite the circumstances, she had to laugh. ‘I only want it to cut your coat. I shall make no attempt to remove the bullet, if it is still in there. After all, you almost swooned when I barely touched your shoulder just now.’

His dark brows snapped together. ‘I do not swoon,’ he said. ‘Passed out...pain...hardly the same.’

‘Well, that’s as may be, but removing your jacket will hurt a great deal more, I promise.’

‘Hard woman...’ he grumbled, but fumbled in his pocket and produced a clasp knife, which Mary took and opened, using it to hack at the edge of his jacket.

‘Careful!’ he gasped.

‘The quicker I do this, the better,’ she said as she grasped the cut edges of the cloth and ripped with a quick, steady motion. She repeated her actions with his blood-soaked shirt. ‘Lean forward, if you please.’

He obeyed and she cut again, then eased the clothes away, exposing his left shoulder. His skin was warm to her touch, warm and smooth. She was close enough to register the male, spicy scent of him, overlaid with the coppery smell of fresh blood. She shook her head. What was wrong with her? Concentrate, Mary, she admonished herself.