to it, Claire felt her spirits lift for the first time and suddenly the future seemed less threatening. Smiling, she walked on, revelling in the fresh air and exercise.
She had followed the track for another mile or so when she saw the figure lying on the path. It was a man and he was lying very still. Claire frowned. What on earth was he doing there? How had he got there? She approached with caution but he did not move. Her gaze took in boots, breeches and coat and the dark stain on the shoulder. It was unmistakably blood. Swallowing hard, she drew nearer and then gasped.
‘Mr Eden!’
In a moment she was beside him, her fingers seeking his wrist for a pulse. For a moment she couldn’t find one and her heart sank. Her fingers moved to his neck and in trembling relief she found it at last, a slow and feeble beat. His face was very pale, the skin waxy where it showed above the stubble of his beard. When she spoke to him again there was no response. Claire gently lifted the edge of his coat and her eyes widened.
‘Dear God,’ she murmured.
Shirt and waistcoat were soaked, as was the wadded handkerchief thrust between. He had been shot. Shocked to the core, she stared a second or two at the scarlet stain. Who could have done such a thing? Unbidden, the memory of their first meeting returned and she heard Stone’s voice: ‘You’ll get yours, Eden, I swear it.’ Feeling sick and guilty, Claire bit her lip. Was this her fault? Had his earlier action brought this on him? There was no time for further reflection; he needed help and soon. She looked around in desperation, her mind retracing her route and the length of time it would take to get back and wondering if she would find Ellen or her brother returned yet. In the midst of these thoughts her eye detected a movement further down the track. Straightening, she shaded her eyes and strained to see, praying it might be a rider. In fact it was several riders and in their midst a cart. Almost sobbing with relief, she waved frantically.
‘Help! Over here!’
It seemed to take an age before they heard her. Then two of the men spurred forwards to investigate. Claire stood on the track and watched them come. They reined in, regarding her with open curiosity. Then they noticed the still form lying at the edge of the path.
‘What’s happened here, lass?’ demanded the first.
‘He’s badly injured. He needs a doctor and soon.’
‘Have no fear. Help is at hand.’
The first rider dismounted and hastened over to the injured man. Then Claire heard a muffled exclamation.
‘Merciful heavens, it’s Mark Eden.’
‘What!’ His companion edged his mount closer. ‘I heard he was missing, believed dead.’
‘He soon will be if we don’t get him to a doctor. Help me get him onto my horse.’
Claire eyed the approaching vehicle. ‘Would it not be better to put him on the cart?’
The men exchanged glances, then shook their heads.
‘Better not, lass.’
‘I don’t understand.’
They gave no further explanation and she could only watch in helpless bewilderment as they lifted Eden and put him on the horse. Then one mounted behind, holding the inert form so it could not fall. They had no sooner done so than the lumbering wagon drew nigh. Seeing what it contained, Claire went very pale.
‘Come away, lass, it’s no sight for a woman’s eyes.’ The man’s voice was gruff but kindly. ‘I’ll take thee up on t’ horse behind me.’
‘Those men in the cart, are they…?’
‘Dead? Aye. Killed last night in the attack on Harlston’s machines.’
Claire drew in a deep breath and then glanced at the slumped form on the other horse, praying they had not come too late.
When Eden came round it was to the sound of voices and hurrying footsteps. Through a fog of pain he had an impression of walls and floor and ceiling. He didn’t recognise the room. It had a strange and yet familiar smell too, something vaguely chemical that resisted identification and yet one he thought he ought to know. He shifted a little and winced as pain knifed through his shoulder.
‘Don’t try to move.’
He looked up and saw a face bending over his. His mind registered a girl—no, a young woman. Twenty years old or thereabouts. Dark curls framed a face with high cheekbones and beautiful chiselled mouth. But it was the eyes one noticed most: huge hazel eyes deep enough to drown in. They seemed familiar somehow.
‘Where am I?’
‘At the doctor’s house.’
His brows knit, unable to comprehend how this had occurred, but having to trust the evidence of his eyes. Before he could say more he heard another voice.
‘Lift him onto the table. Gently now. That’s it.’
He stifled a groan as hands raised him, felt the hard, flat surface under his back. Then he heard the same voice speak again.
‘Fetch me hot water, Claire, and clean cloths.’
A swish of skirts announced her obedience to the command. Her quiet voice brought the two erstwhile assistants after her. As their footsteps receded a man’s face swam into view, a pleasant clean-shaven face with clear-cut features. It was framed by light brown hair, greying a little at the sides. The eyes were blue and now staring as though they had seen a ghost. The same shock was registered in the grey eyes of the injured man.
‘George,’ he murmured. ‘George Greystoke.’
‘Marcus?’ The doctor looked closer, taking in every detail of the pale face and resting on the scarred cheek. ‘Marcus Edenbridge. By the Lord Harry, it is you. But what in the name of—?’
He broke off as a hand closed over his in silent warning.
‘No, it’s Mark Eden at present.’
For a moment the blue eyes narrowed and then the doctor nodded. Then he took Eden’s hand in a warm grip.
‘Tell me later. Right now I must get that ball out of your shoulder or the wound will fester.’
Before either of them could say more the girl returned. With her was an older woman who seemed to resemble George. They set down the bowl of water and the cloths and then came to stand by the table. George glanced round.
‘Help me get his coat and shirt off, Ellen.’
They were gentle, but nevertheless Eden bit his lip against the pain. Once the task was accomplished George laid out his instruments and, selecting a probe, held it in the flame of a spirit lamp before dousing it in alcohol. He did the same with the forceps. Then he put a thick strip of leather between the patient’s jaws.
‘Bite down on this.’
Eden obeyed. A moment or two later the probe slid into the wound. Sweat started on his skin. Greystoke frowned in concentration and the silence stretched out. The probe went deeper. Eden’s jaw clenched. Then he heard the other
