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Besides, he did not seem so terribly odious, after all. Perhaps there was a reason—perhaps he’d been too angered with himself even—perhaps he could not face Jess after what had happened.
    “So tired. Thirsty.”
    His voice was somewhere between a croak and a whisper. She slid across the seat to brace him. “Would you have more of the rum, sir?” she asked helplessly.
    “No.”
    He was heavy, far heavier than she’d expected, and he seemed to be dead weight against her. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps she ought to keep him talking, but then she wondered if it would not use his strength to do so: His head slid from the back of the seat to her shoulder. She half-turned to catch him, and found she held him against her breast. Where his body touched hers, it was wet and sticky, and it seemed as though the whole compartment was filled with the smell of blood. Maneuvering her hand between them, she discovered that the soaked pad had slipped.
    How could anything bleed so much? she wondered. Then, as she felt the panic increasing, she determined to do what she could. Still bracing him, she leaned across to retrieve the rest of her petticoat, then wadding it into a ball, she thrust it against the wetness. Pressure—it required pressure—and she was a small woman. Throwing modesty to the wind, she pressed him down against the seat and lay over him, turning her shoulder against the wound so that it bore much of the weight of her.
    He flailed weakly, struggling as though he would rise, then his back arm fell over hers, holding her in a macabre embrace. She pinned him down, her head turned into the hollow between his chin and his neck, her body against his. His breath was shallow, but reassuring above her head.
    Dear God, but how far could it be? It seemed that they careened through the darkness toward eternity. The rain, which had held back for much of the journey, struck with full force, hitting the side panes furiously. And the wind howled, swirling about the carriage as though they traveled through a black maelstrom. She held onto Haverhill tightly and prayed, saying every rote prayer she ever knew, until the rhythm of the repetitions calmed her.
    The storm was such that the carriage had braked to a stop before she realized they’d reached something. Even then, when she straightened up to peer outside, she could see almost nothing through the wall of rain. A sheet of water poured through the door when Jem wrenched it open to shout above the din, “Hawk and Pig, Miss!” The lantern he carried chose that moment to die, leaving everything in a furious darkness.
    “See if there is help to get him inside!” she yelled above the storm.
    The door banged as he shut it, leaving her again alone with the wounded baron. She tried to smooth her bloodstained gown, all the while wondering what she could say to an innkeeper that would not get them turned away. Picking up Haverhill’s hat from the seat, she placed it on his head to keep him from getting wet when they took him out in the rain. It was a foolish, futile gesture given all else that had happened to him, and she knew it.
    “We are arrived at an inn,” she said loudly, lowering her head close to his ear.
    “Good,” he answered weakly.
    “Can you sit up, do you think?”
    “Aye.” He made a feeble move to rise, then fell back. “No.”
    Once again, she slid across the seat and tried to pull him up. It was, she reflected dispiritedly, much like trying to lift a log. But as she tugged, bracing her feet against the bench seat opposite, he pushed also, and somehow between them, he managed to sit.
    “Liked it better the other way,” he mumbled.
    Given the noise from the storm and the lowness of his voice, she couldn’t be sure she’d heard him correctly. “Help is forthcoming!” she shouted again into his ear.
    “I am wounded—not deaf,” he protested in croaks.
    “Oh. Yes, of course.” Then, seeing a glimmer of light that must be the inn door, she