Free Fortunate Wager by Jan Jones

and you just keep tapping his head against the ground until I get back.’
    ‘Flood!’
    But the felled man was heaving again and it was as much as they could do to haul him inside once he had finished. The effort certainly exhausted his lordship. He lay sprawled and comatose on the ground, only the rasp of his breath indicating that he still lived.
    ‘I suppose it is at least dry in here,’ muttered Caroline worriedly as Flood left. She gnawed her lip and sank to the floor of the stable to wait. She was horribly nervous, her pulse rate far higher than normal, but the familiar, musky scent in here comforted her as it had done her whole life. Flood had doused the lamp and she heard the horses moving in the darkness. She settled a little, wishing with all her heart that she was on one of them, riding towards the heath rather than waiting here next to an unconscious, badly injured gentleman.
    Whatever had Lord Rothwell been doing in their yard? That he had been assaulted – presumably for gain – seemed clear, but why would a common assailant have been here in the first place? Or had he followed his victim and dragged him up from the road after coshing him? What would be the point? It was nonsensical. Caroline’s brain, usually sharp and analytical, was in danger of overheating with so many questions. Lord Rothwell stirred, his head shifting restlessly on the hard-packed ground.
    Instantly the timbre of Caroline’s fears took on a new direction. Dirt in the wound could be fatal. She knew that from Bertrand. Where was Flood? Why weren’t any of the stable-hands awake yet? Taking a deep breath, she inched sideways and eased Lord Rothwell’s head into her lap, the better to steady it. His skin was clammy and his clothes were wet through. She ought to at least ease his soaking shirt away from his skin and slide her own muffler around his neck and down next to his chest if she could. As she essayed this tricky task, she wondered anew why he had not been wearing a greatcoat against the rain. Had he perhaps run mad? He had seemed sane enough the previous day. She could just make out an ugly area of deeper shadow on his temple. If she had only thought for two seconds, she could have sent Flood for water first so she could clean the gash. Except, of course, she wouldn’t have been able to see.
    Then Lord Rothwell spoke, and Caroline – remembering with a start that she was dressed in male clothing – was glad it was dark. ‘Nanny?’ he said querulously.
    ‘Hush,’ said Caroline. ‘Hush and wait for the doctor.’
    ‘It was no one’s fault,’ he said. ‘The bridge just broke. It was no one’s fault.’
    Caroline’s heart skittered harder than ever. Dear heaven, he was reverting to childhood! What ever damage had she done dropping him so many times? ‘Yes, it was an accident,’ she said hastily. ‘Do lie still, my lord.’
    She saw his eyes fly open in alarm. ‘My lord? Is Papa here?’
    ‘No, no, he’s gone,’ she said, even more hastily. ‘Lie still, Alexander. Go to sleep. Wait for the doctor.’
    ‘Nice Nanny,’ he said, and pushed himself further against her belly and her thigh.
    A strange sensation surged through Caroline’s body. She could hear her heart pounding and had to force herself to breathe deeply and calmly. ‘Nice Alexander,’ she replied.
    Incongruously, he giggled. ‘You always say that.’ Then he sighed and she knew he’d fallen asleep.
    Caroline continued to take long breaths. How had she known what to say? Had she pulled the right response from his thoughts, the same way she often knew what was troubling a horse? She stifled a near-hysterical laugh, thinking Lord Rothwell in his right mind would be highly offended at being compared to a horse. And then she wondered at herself again. Because tucking her scarf around his neck and cradling him like this in the darkness, it was already quite difficult to think of him as Lord Rothwell. He was Alexander who had loved his nurse and