Page 20 of Not a Fine Gentleman

The woman stood with Margaret but gestured at the glass. “Who will clean this up?”

Margaret gave her a little push. “Leave it. You need to go now. Step into his hands. Up you go.”

Jackson and the rescuer from outside, both strong and reassuring, hoisted the woman out. Jackson handled the woman as if she were broken glass, a gentle side she had not yet seen.

Margaret crouched down next to the woman sitting with her hands over her face and still crying. “Are you injured?”

The woman parted her shaking hands, revealing a bruised face and a bleeding nose. “I… I don’t know.”

Firmly, in an attempt to inspire confidence, Margaret said, “Try to stand. Lean on me.” Using both hands, Margaret guided the woman to a stand.

The rescuer peeked over the edge. “Who’s next?”

“This woman,” Margaret called up.

Jackson held out his hands and addressed the distraught woman. “Your turn.” Using his laced fingers, he lifted her up into safety.

As other hands hoisted the woman out, Margaret stood on tiptoe to peer out the doorway overhead. The warm breeze blew stray hairs across her face. She pushed them back. A second carriage nearby leaned off to one side, a wheel and an axle broken. Two men shouted and gestured at each other as if they were about to come to blows. People milled around.

Jackson and the other rescuer lifted Margaret out. She clamored over the ruined vehicle and lowered herself down onto the road. Jackson landed lightly next to her. The woman who’d been sobbing sat sniffling against a tree. Her companion who’d been picking up glass started collecting small stones.

A group gathered around two men lying on the side of the road, their limbs askew. Margaret turned away. She had no stomach for such a scene.

In a subdued voice, Jackson said, “Looks like the passengers riding on top were thrown clear.”

Margaret shivered. She’d ridden on top for most of her journey before Jackson found her. Those passengers’ fate could have been hers.

She stopped herself. Now was no time to fall apart. People were wounded. She turned to a man leaning against the other carriage, holding his head. Blood seeped between his fingers.

Margaret moved to him and said firmly, “Sit before you fall.” She guided him off the road to a tree and pushed his shoulders until he sat. She loosened the knot in the colored stock around his neck and pulled it free. After folding the stock, much coarser than a cravat, she removed his hand and pressed the makeshift bandage on his head, then replaced his hand back over it. “Press hard.”

He blinked. “Thank you, ma’am.” His bruised face and cut lip, not to mention one eye so swollen that it must have sustained injuries, touched her sympathies.

She patted his arm and turned to one of her fellow passengers, the woman who’d been sobbing. “Is your nose still bleeding?”

When the woman removed her hand, her nose dripped again. Margaret tilted the woman’s head back. “Squeeze the bridge of your nose as well as pinch the nostrils.”

When the woman complied, Margaret glanced around to see if anyone else required her assistance.

Jackson stood with the men who’d been arguing and settled them. Stepping back, Jackson moved to another who worked to free the horses from their harnesses. With practiced movements and the same gentleness shown to Margaret and the others, Jackson helped liberate the remaining victims of the unfortunate accident. One of the horses danced, swiveling his ears rapidly in agitation. Slowly, Jackson moved to it with raised hands, talking in a low, soothing voice. Calm and strong, he grabbed hold of the traces and bit, holding the gelding’s head still with one hand while rubbing his neck with the other.

The horse quieted and, within moments, stood calmly. Jackson led the horse off the road and tied him next to the rest of the team.

Margaret’s heart softened and brightened, which was ridiculous. Why the sight of Jackson using such skill and gentleness with the animal caused such a reaction, she could not explain. Perhaps she’d hit her head.

She dragged her gaze off him and turned away so she wouldn’t be so foolish as to allow herself to actually admire him. He was not a gentleman. Even if he were, there weren’t any truly good men left in England outside her own family.

A few field workers arrived to help, and a private coach stopped to offer aid. Snippets of conversation drifted to her as people speculated on what had caused the accident, including phrases like a driver, passenger asking to drive, broken wheel, driving too fast.

As clouds gathered, the sky darkened, casting the landscape into gloom. A dull ache built in her head. She sat down on the grass at the side of the road with only a passing thought as to the incongruity of someone of her rank doing something so low. Of course, as a fugitive, she had no real claim to rank at the moment. She always thought if she outlived Hennessy, she’d enjoy a measure of freedom, but he’d managed to ruin that, too. An uncharitable thought, to be sure. Margaret drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them.

The clattering of a carriage and the jingle of tack announced the arrival of a physician who immediately tended the wounded. Moments later, the local Justice of the Peace and the coroner stepped out of a coach.

Jackson crouched next to her and looked her over, touching her face and brushing back a few strands of hair with calloused, surprisingly gentle fingertips. Shock and pleasure radiated from his touch and made a liquid mess of her cool reserve. In his other hand, he used a water-dampened handkerchief to wipe her face, dabbing her forehead. Pain sprang up under the handkerchief’s contact, but the long-absent, delicious sensation of being touched in such a caring way overrode her mild discomfort.

She ought to snatch the handkerchief from him, as well as censure him for touching her. But at the moment, she lacked the will. Instead, she remained transfixed by his attention.

He lowered his hand and looked her over. A gold ring glinted on the ring finger of his right hand—a signet ring unless she was mistaken.