Free Miss Gabriel's Gambit by Rita Boucher

yonder, who claim that untidiness is my natural state,” he said wiping ineffectually at his breeches and noticing the familiar scarlet shade of ... “Blood!” he exclaimed. “You are bleeding, Miss Gabriel.”
    Immediately crossing the space that separated them, David laid gentle hands upon Sylvia in an effort to discover the location of her wound. She stood quiescent as he examined her, finally finding the source of the bleeding.
     “’Twas where Spots scratched me I believe,” she murmured. “’Tis nothing.”
    “Your pardon if I differ, Kali.” He gently spread the hand upon his, shaking his head, his insides clenching at the sight of the jagged bite-wound. A rapid fumble through his pockets revealed no trace of a clean handkerchief. With impatient hands, he managed to unwrap the linen stock from his neck, using an end to wipe away the cake of mud and blood. Neckcloths did have some justification for existence after all , he reflected.
    “It looks far worse than it is,” David said, looking up at Sylvia in relief. To his dismay, he saw a worried look in her green eyes. “It will heal Sylvia, I promise you. The dog only nipped you, although I suspect that you may carry a scar of this day’s work.”
    “It is not my hand that troubles me, milord. It is - ” Her eyes perused him from head to foot, disturbed by the fact that she had ruined his elegant clothing. He was half covered in mud from the lawn of his shirt to the tip of his Hessians. “I am so sorry about your garments, milord.”
    “My clothes,” David said in surprise. He had been more than certain that it was the prospect of the scar that was the source of her serious expression. “Do not give them a thought, Lady Macbeth. Why, it will be but a small matter to clean them. ‘Out damned spots!’” he intoned, as Petrov rode up beside them.
    “‘Out damned spots’ indeed! Oh!” Sylvia began to giggle helplessly
    “While you are standing here quoting your Shakespeare, the evil one got away. I am losing him in the woods. Is still my thought that you should have been shooting to kill,” Petrov said as he dismounted. “Is she having the hysteria?”
    David looked at Sylvia, who was chortling so hard, that the tears were beginning to fall. “It would seem so,” he said.
    “No,” Sylvia declared, between giggles. “‘Spots’ was the name of wretched cur.”
    But David did not smile as he cut away a clean section of the neckcloth with the khanda and carefully wrapped the wounded hand. “You are right, Ivan. I should have killed him,” he said, with quiet menace as he looked at Sylvia’s blood streaked habit.
    “Could have been worse,” Petrov said. “Just as well you were not killing the rogue, though. In this country, magistrates are getting involved, such simple matters are becoming too messy.” Suddenly, his face lit with a smile that transformed his mournful visage. “A pun! I am understanding now. ‘Out damned spot,’ from the Shakespeare play, no? Hamlet ?”
    “ Macbeth ,” David corrected absently, as he finished binding the wound.
    Harjit rose to his feet, salaaming toward Sylvia awkwardly. “You have saved my life, young miss,” he said, softly in Hindi. “It is a debt which I can never repay.”
    “It is not to me the obligation is owed, but to Lord Donhill. In truth, it is I who am the greater debtor, for it was more than my life he saved. I suspect my honor was at risk as well,” Sylvia replied in the same tongue, regaining her composure at last.
    David looked at her in surprise, flushing at her praise. “You speak Hindi?”
    But before Sylvia could give the obvious answer to the question, Petrov saw the full extent of the damage to David’s attire and let out a despairing wail. “By my mother’s soul, David. Look at you! Your riding jacket,” Petrov cried. “Is mud upon it. You use your neckcloth for bandage. Your knees are bloody, ai! Muck and grass stains will be remaining upon your breeches