Sturgeon was dead white with rage. 'By God, I ought to kill you, you slimy little French worm.'
'You son of a whore,' Trev said calmly. And then he repeated it in French, for good measure.
Sturgeon stood so still that Trev could see the faint tremor in his fingers as he yanked off his glove. In the slow instant, Trev felt his own blood rise with a mad pleasure. A decade of rage pressed in his chest, lost years, impotent shame that he had stood and taken that blow from Callie's father and left her to be slighted by a man like this. With a sense of fascinated doom, he watched Sturgeon fold his glove over his fingers and lift his arm.
A duel, it was to be. He was that much an English gentleman.
The major slapped him across the face, the glove a brisk snap against his skin. 'Name your weapons.'
Trev hauled back and struck with a right cross before Sturgeon's mouth was even closed. He put his full weight and five years of ringside training and all his hatred for arrogant English gentlemen behind it, smashing Sturgeon's jaw with an impact that he felt all the way to his heart, deep down in his chest.
He caught the officer utterly off guard. Sturgeon went down backwards, sprawling against a table. Men leaped up to stay clear. Someone grabbed Trev's arm, restraining him. He turned round and threw another punch, hard to the gut of the major's esteemed comrade. The man doubled over. Trev jerked free of some eager bystanders and saw his tablemate hurl a blow at Sturgeon before the major could launch himself at Trev.
People scrambled, yelling and shoving at one another. Chairs toppled and bottles smashed. The barmaid shrieked in frustration as the Bluebell descended into a drunken melee.
Eight
ACCORDING TO HOARY TRADITION, THE YEW TREE outside Callie's window had been planted at the behest of Edward I. She had never had reason to doubt this fact-its girth was a full twelve feet round, and the thick old branches were gnarled and scarred enough to have seen six hundred years. They had certainly witnessed a visit by Henry Tudor to the abbey that had once stood in place of Shelford Hall, and been singed by the f lames of Cromwell's troops. Two elopements, a sermon preached by John Wesley, and a murky incident involving the tenth countess, which could have been an attempt at burglary, an abduction, or a practical joke-all were on the list of known escapades in which the old tree had played a role.
There were a few escapades in its more recent past that were not a matter of public record. Callie was already certain, without even trying to peer down through the moaning and whipping branches, exactly who was waiting at the foot of the ancient yew. The sharp double click of two pebbles, and then the raucous howl of a tomcat: she should not remember that signal at all, but she had recognized it from a dead sleep it seemed, her eyes springing open at the first rattle against the glass. She was out of bed and pulling on her dressing gown before the hoarse yowl died away.
She paused before she pulled open the shutters, putting her palms to her face. Woken so suddenly, she could barely gather her wits. Her cheeks were hot, her heart thumping. Surely he did not truly suppose she would climb out of her window
The yowl came again, insistently. She drew a breath and folded the inside shutters back, kneeling on the window seat. Through the glass, she could see only swaying black shapes of branches in the night outside. The dark mass of the yew obscured everything else. The tomcat called a third time, ending on a muff led human note, almost a plea. Callie made a small moan and pushed open the window.
Chilly air f lowed in, sprinkled with icy drops. The damp, musty scent of the yew enveloped her as she leaned out. She could not see the ground. 'Go away!' she hissed. 'For pity's sake, are you mad?'
'Callie.' He pitched his voice low, just loud enough to be heard over the rushing sound of the branches and the wind. 'I need help.'
She squinted down, gripping the wet windowsill. She had expected him to laugh and urge her to join him on some ridiculous exploit.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I can't go…' The rest of his reply was lost amid a gust of wind in the branches. 'Would you…' Only snatches of words reached her. '…my mother. I need…'
She could not make out more. In the murk, she could just barely discern a pale shape that might have been his face. But there was distress in his voice, not taunt or coaxing. 'What is it? What's happened?'
He made no reply to that, or if he did she couldn't hear it. She sat back on the window seat, pulling her dressing gown tight about her waist. Trev had never come asking for help, not this way. It was some crisis with his mother. And she could not blame him for coming to her window instead of sending a message. He wouldn't want to wake the staff, or involve Dolly, not at this time of night. Callie wasn't eager to do so herself.
She leaned out again. The branch nearest her window, the big one with the special crook where she had always taken the first step, was impossible to see. And really, she had no intention of climbing down from her window-it was simply beyond the pale.
She thought of telling him to meet her at the cow barn, but one of her farm lads would be sleeping there. The boxwood maze would be miserable on a night like this. The gamekeeper would be on alert for poachers in the wood, and a groom was always on night duty in the stables.
Truly, the range of possibilities had not altered much in the past nine years.
She cupped her hands around her mouth and called down as softly as she could. 'The carriage house.'
'Bless you!' he responded instantly. The vague shape below her vanished.
Callie wore her oilskin overcoat and work boots. She had made her way out the servants' entrance, locking the door behind her, prepared to say that she was going to tend the orphan calf if she'd encountered any of the staff. But no one stirred, not even the hall boy snoring on his cot by Dolly's bell.
It was all too easy, as it had always been. She should have been born a housebreaker.
The door to the carriage house was closed. She could see enough by the light of the lowering clouds to let herself in, but it was utterly black inside.
'Trev?' she whispered. 'Are you here?'
She heard the carriage springs squeak with some sudden move.
'Callie?' His voice sounded muff led and shocked.
'Of course,' she said. She had no idea why he had mounted into the carriage itself. 'What's happened? Is it your mother?'
There were more sounds, and then the creak of the door opening. 'Callie. You didn't have to come out.'
She paused in consternation. 'I thought you needed help.'
She heard him moving on the steps, and then suddenly he bumped against her in the dark. He sucked in a swift, sharp breath and then touched her arm, resting his fingers there as if to steady himself.
'You're not hurt, are you?' she asked, uncertain of the sounds.
'Ah,' he mumbled. 'A little.'
She could smell strong drink on his breath, some thing she had never noticed with Trev before, though it was common enough among the older gentlemen of her acquaintance.
'I only need a place to sleep,' he said, enunciating his words carefully. 'I can sleep in the carriage.'
'What's happened?' She pulled off her gloves and fumbled in the deep pocket of her overcoat where she always kept a cache of useful items. 'What have you done to hurt yourself?'
He blinked and squinted at the f lare of her brim stone match. 'I fell.'
'Fell?' She peered at him. He was holding his hand up against his chest. Even in the f lickering light she could see that it was badly swollen. He had a bloody cut on the side of his jaw.
'From my horse,' he said, standing back from her. He leaned against the carriage wheel. 'I'd… rather not go back to Dove House just now. Need a place to rest until morning.'
She could see that his coat was torn at the collar, and his neck cloth hung down in complete disarray. She frowned, trying to discern if he had any other injury.
'I don't want Maman to see me like this,' he said thickly.
'I suppose-yes.' She looked at him in consterna tion. 'It might frighten her.'
He ran his good hand through his hair, disheveling it even further. 'The doctor from London attended her this morning.'
'What did he say?'
The light f lickered, casting shadows on his face. 'He said she has a week or two, perhaps.' His voice was not quite even. 'A month at most.'
Callie tilted her head. 'I'm sorry,' she said softly.
The match went out. They stood in the dark. She could hear him breathing almost as if he were laughing. 'God damn it,' he said. 'God damn me to hell. I ought to shoot myself.'
'Nonsense,' she said stoutly. 'You've only had too much drink. No wonder you took a tumble. You'd no business going mounted, not in this state.' She fished again in her pocket for a candle stub. 'Let me look at your hand. I'm sure once it's bound up, and you're set to rights, your mother won't be upset to see you. Did you take any other hurt?'
'No,' he said. He paused. 'I don't know. A little bruising. I may have cracked a rib.'
She touched the candle to another match. 'I'd best send a boy for the surgeon.'
'No,' he said strongly. 'No surgeons.'
'Only to bind you up. I won't let him bleed you.'
'No surgeon,' he said.
'But-'
'I haven't taken any serious hurt.' He scowled, turning from her candle. 'If I can just rest a few hours, I'll be off in the morning.'
She held the light over a metal trunk. 'Sit down. Let me see your hand.'
He blew out a breath of air and sat. Callie set the candle stub in a rusty sconce and sat down beside him. He allowed her to open his fingers and moved each of them in turn for her. She was no surgeon, but she had dealt with enough animal injuries to have a good deal of experience in judging their extent. He tensed a little,
