Free The Prodigal Daughter by Allison Lane Page A

pressing his shoulders into the ground when he tried to rise. “Do not move. Is there any damage aside from your head and thigh?”
    Opening his eyes, he winced. “You!”
    “Yes. We meet again. Have you always been so accident prone?”
    “Never,” he denied weakly.
    “What happened to your leg?”  She was removing the bandage, which had slipped, allowing mud into the wound.
    “I fell.”
    “Obviously. And cracked your head. What about this?”  She touched the bandage.
    “I fell down a hill..” He sounded sheepishly sullen.
    “Men!  Why did someone not accompany you back to the house?” 
    Without water, there was not much she could do, but she wiped away the worse of the mud and blood.
    “It is not that bad,” he protested.
    “Stubborn, aren’t you?” she observed caustically. “It is severe enough that you could not control your horse. Men routinely forget that riding astride requires strength in the thighs. I knew at least four who perished because they lost control of their mounts after returning to battle with just such a wound.”
    Norwood closed his eyes, refusing to comment on her words.
    The gash was bleeding only slightly, so Amanda left it open for the moment. “Can you sit up?” she asked.
    “Of course..” He glared.
    “There is no ‘of course’ about it. You were unconscious when I found you. Move slowly or you risk nausea.”
    He flushed, obviously recalling the last time they had met, and undoubtedly ashamed of losing control of himself that night. But this time he managed it. His face paled alarmingly and she could see him swallowing hard several times, but he finally lurched to his feet and stayed there.
    “Excellent, your grace,” she murmured. “Now we walk.”
    “Where?”
    “My gig is on the road..” She nodded toward her horse, grazing about three hundred feet away. “You might as well swallow your pride and lean on me. It is less embarrassing than falling.”
    “Forthright, aren’t you?” he muttered, reluctantly draping an arm across her shoulders when his knee again threatened to collapse.
    “If one wishes to survive a military campaign, one learns to be practical,” she countered.
    “How do you come to be here?” he asked when they finally reached the road.
    “I live in Middleford. Stay there,” she ordered when he would have climbed into the gig. She pulled a bag from under the seat and rummaged inside.
    “What are you doing?”
    “That leg needs attention.”
    “Do you always carry medical supplies around with you?”
    “Of course. Many people come to me for help. I never know when I might need something..” Widening the tear in his fawn breeches, she poured brandy onto a cloth and washed away the last of the mud.
    “Devil take it, woman!” he growled, flinching. “That is deuced uncomfortable!  Leave it be.”
    “You haven’t changed much,” she observed tartly, drenching the cut with wine. “Still as ornery and arrogant as ever.”
    “Nor have you,” he responded shortly. “Still as dictatorial and unreasonable as before.”
    “Unreasonable, your grace?  Neither propriety nor toadeating is of any use when lives are at stake.”
    He had the grace to look ashamed. “Are you deliberately irritating that leg to pay me back for my arrogance?”
    “Never!  But mud never did any wound much good. I must clean this gash and I have no water. Brandy seems to work better, anyway. There. We’ll leave the remains of these breeches in place to protect your modesty. Your valet can replace the bandage when you get home..”
    Dusting the cut with basilicum powder, she wrapped a strip of linen around the thigh.
    “You seem to be making a habit of patching me up,” he groused.
    “Be grateful you are not now trying to walk home. And you should also thank the Lord that nothing is broken – like your stiff neck.”
    He made a sound that could have been anything from a snort to agreement.
    * * * *
    Norwood settled into the gig, his head swirling in