I breathed a whimper of relief, turning Figg toward the cabin. At the doorway, I slid from her back, nearly taking a tumble into the dirt as my foot twisted in the stirrup. Untangling myself, I stumbled into the cabin, only remaining upright by grabbing hold of the door frame. Trevor was already inside, helping Gage to his feet.
“Should he be doing that?” I gasped, rushing forward. “Should he be getting up?”
The right side of Gage’s face was blossoming into another nasty contusion, and there was dried blood at his hairline. I reached up to run a hand gently over his scalp, searching for the cut.
When I peered into his eyes, looking for any sign of disorientation, the warmth with which he regarded me arrested my attention. For a moment, all I could do was stare into them, fighting the emotions surging inside me, making me want to throw my arms around him and weep. I felt I should say something, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.
Fortunately, Gage did not seem to be similarly affected. “I’ll survive. Thanks to you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I inhaled shakily and smiled, pressing my hand against Gage’s cheek below the bruise. He might be feigning indifference to his injuries, but just the fact that he was capable of even making such an effort cheered me.
However, his tight smile quickly began to wobble and he swallowed. “I’d really like to get out of this stinking cabin.”
I wasn’t sure how I had not noticed the stench of the place until then. It absolutely reeked of urine, and sweat, and whiskey. It was enough to make a person gag. I slid Gage’s other arm over my shoulder, despite his protest, noting his sharp intake of breath. He was in more pain than he wanted to admit. Trevor and I took several steps forward to escort him from the building, but the shadow of a figure huddled behind the open door brought me up short.
Gage followed my gaze to the scraggly-haired young woman cowering there. Her green eyes were very wide in her grubby face. “Ah, meet Bonnie Brock’s sister.”
At the mention of her brother’s name, the girl’s eyes darted to Gage.
In all my worry over Gage, I’d completely forgotten about her. “Maggie?” I guessed, recollecting that was what her brother had called her.
She didn’t respond, but I could tell I was right.
“Come with us, Maggie,” I told her gently, and continued carrying Gage from the building.
While Anderley took care of our horses, Mr. Stuart accompanied the rest of us into his farmhouse and fetched water and linens. I ordered Gage to sit on the settee while Trevor and I tended to his wounds. I bathed the cut on his head and examined his facial bones for any breaks. His knuckles were scraped and his wrists were raw and bloody from the rope used to bind his hands. The little finger on his left hand was also broken, and I did my best to immobilize it with two small wooden sticks and a bandage. I also wrapped his ribs, hoping it would help with some of his pain until we reached a surgeon. There were various other scrapes and bruises, but fortunately nothing more serious than the broken finger and ribs.
Once Gage was settled back on the settee as comfortably as I could make him without the aid of laudanum or some other opiate, we could see to other matters. Mr. Stuart had made tea, and I fixed a cup for both me and Gage, turning down our host’s offer of a liberal splash of brandy, though I noticed he added some to his cup. Trevor stood by the fireplace, periodically feeding more of the scraggly bits of wood Mr. Stuart had gathered for kindling into the fire.
Everything about the house was old and moth-eaten, and I suspected Mr. Stuart had rented it only because of its isolated location. It smelled of must and mildew, a scent that seemed to particularly irritate Anderley, for he wrinkled his nose in disgust every so many minutes as if a foul wind blew his way. Or perhaps it was Maggie’s odor he was offended by. The girl perched on the edge of a chair near the door, as if uncertain what to do—whether to make a run for it or stay here, where it was at least mildly warm. She truly was young—sixteen, I believe was what Bonnie Brock had said—and she looked thoroughly lost and disillusioned.
“Now, Stuart,” Gage declared, losing none of his bravado, even reclining on a settee with a pair of broken ribs. “Perhaps you fill in some blanks for us.”
“Mm, yes,” he replied nervously, his cup rattling as he set it back in its saucer.
“We know you hired these Edinburgh body snatchers from Bonnie Brock’s crew. And we know it was your plan to ransom the bones of Ian Tyler of Woodslea, Sir Colum Casselbeck, Lord Buchan, and Lord Fleming back to their descendants.” Gage’s eyes sharpened. “What we don’t understand is why?”
Mr. Stuart stared down at his lap, where he worried his hands.
“Please don’t tell me you did this merely because of those erroneous charges of treason brought against you and dismissed back in 1817,” Gage added wearily.
“Only partially,” Mr. Stuart admitted. “I mainly did it because of my Evie.”
“Your wife?” I guessed, remembering what my uncle had told us our aunt Sarah had confided in him.