Free Never Less Than a Lady by Mary Jo Putney Page A

crutch.”
    “I’ve hauled around other men who were too pig-headed to know when they were injured,” she retorted.
    Randall gave a ghost of a laugh as he straightened and let go of his saddle. “Your rudeness is refreshing. You’re usually so ladylike.”
    “You have an odd sense of humor.” Moving slowly, Julia helped Randall up the steps into the building. He was limping heavily, and she guessed he was dizzy with pain.
    Inside, a capable woman in an apron came out to meet them in the hall. “I’m Mrs. Ferguson, the landlady,” she said with a broad Scots accent. Her gaze went to Randall’s bloody leg. “Trouble?”
    “My husband, Major Randall, needs a surgeon,” Julia replied. “Is there one near?”
    “In Gretna Green.”
    Julia uttered a mental oath. They should have stopped in Gretna. “We need a room, hot water, clean linen, honey, laudanum if you have it, a couple of sharp knives, and a bottle of the strongest spirits in the house.”
    “That would be the local whiskey.” The landlady took some of Randall’s weight as she guided them along a passage toward the back of the building. “There’s one room empty here on the ground floor. How did your husband injure himself?”
    “The French did it for him.”
    “Och, the poor man. My youngest is with a Highland regiment.” Mrs. Ferguson released Randall and moved forward to open the door to a small bedroom with plain whitewashed walls. “Give me a moment to cover the bed.”
    The landlady pulled two heavy old blankets from a wooden chest and shook them over the coverlet while Julia peeled off Randall’s coat. He more or less collapsed onto the bed. His blond hair was damp with sweat.
    “I’ll be off for your supplies, Mrs. Randall.”
    “Thank you.” Julia pulled off her cloak and bonnet and tossed them over the back of the chair that stood near the bed. Technically she had also been Mrs. Randall when she was married, but she’d always been called Lady Branford. She liked being Mrs. Randall a good deal better.
    “Your invisibility has vanished,” Randall said, his eyes closed. “You sound like Lady Julia Raines.”
    “Actually, I sounded like Mrs. Bancroft, well-trained midwife and de facto physician and surgeon.” She pulled off Randall’s boots, grateful that they were well broken in instead of fashionably tight.
    “You asked for a knife. Are you going to perform field surgery?”
    “If necessary.” She examined the right boot. “I see you have a rather wicked little dagger sheathed here. Why am I not surprised?”
    “I assume that question is rhetorical.”
    “Quite. I’d be shocked if you weren’t armed to the teeth.” She stripped off his buckskins, then used the knife to slit the gore-saturated right leg of his drawers. Blood was oozing from a wound on the outside of his thigh. She touched it very carefully, jerking her hand away while she muttered something unladylike. “You were right about the shrapnel cutting its way out. I can feel sharp edges.”
    “This isn’t the first time shrapnel has emerged.” His fingers clutched the blanket spasmodically when she folded a thin towel from the washstand and pressed it over the wound to stop the bleeding. He drew an unsteady breath. “You might want to use the razor in my saddlebags.”
    That sounded better than a knife. The ostler arrived with the baggage then, so she thanked him and knelt to dig through the saddlebags. She had just located Randall’s shaving kit when Mrs. Ferguson entered with a tray of supplies, followed by a maid with a canister of steaming water. “There’s a full bottle of whiskey, along with large and small knives and plenty of bandages. Do you need anything else, Mrs. Randall?”
    Julia glanced up. “This should do. Thank you.”
    Mrs. Ferguson looked at Randall uneasily. “Do you need my help?”
    “We’ll manage,” Randall said hoarsely. “My Lady Julia is most competent.”
    Looking relieved, Mrs. Ferguson and the maid escaped. Julia