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and bleeding within her leather shoes. It had taken nearly three days to reach this small parish, and Cain’s wounds had worsened during that time. He’d hardly spoken a word, and she’d barely managed to get him to drink or eat. All of their food was now gone, and she had reached the end of her strength.
    “I would be grateful for a place to stay,” Margaret said, “but I would be even more thankful if we could have privacy.” The last thing she wanted was to be living in such close quarters with strangers. Even worse, how could she answer their questions? No—they needed to remain on their own.
    When the vicar hesitated, Margaret straightened. “His wounds need tending, and I would not wish to inconvenience you. If there’s another cottage nearby or some other shelter—”
    She let her words drift off, touching the pearl necklace she wore. The vicar’s eyes widened at the sight of the pearls, and she knew that neither he nor his wife had much to call their own. But her pearls would bring in enough income to support them for quite a while.
    In her other hand, she held the torch aloft to light the way. Cain was still resting atop the horse, and though they had endured several days of traveling, she would go farther if necessary.
    “My wife and I can stay with my brother,” the vicar offered. “I know he won’t mind, especially if we are well compensated for our trouble.”
    “We would be most grateful,” Margaret said, holding her chin up. “And we do pay our debts.” She reached into her reticule and offered the man a guinea. “After my husband has recovered, you may have the necklace. Perhaps more, if we are comfortable.”
    She kept her tone rigid, not wanting the man to believe he could take advantage of them. Inwardly, she was terrified of what lay ahead. She was accustomed to servants who would meet every need, and what did she know about tending wounds? This was going to be a living nightmare.
    You could leave him behind and continue your search for Amelia, the darker side of her conscience warned.
    But when she glanced back at Cain, her heart plummeted at the thought of leaving him. She couldn’t. He had given so much to her, leaving London on this fool’s quest and saving her life. Though she didn’t understand the muddled feelings inside her, the idea of walking away was impossible. She cared for this man, and he was her friend.
    Margaret turned around, walking a few paces back toward the horse, while the vicar started down the pathway toward his house. He was telling her about the dwelling, but she didn’t hear a word of his explanation. She was too concerned with the prone man beside her.
    For the next few days, she would have to tend his wounds and pray that she could help him recover.
    She held the torch, being careful as she ducked inside the small cottage. The fire had nearly burned out, and the vicar added more peat. Margaret tossed her torch on top of it and went back to Cain. “Will you help me get him off the horse?” she asked the vicar.
    The older man agreed, and the two of them lifted Cain down, Margaret holding his legs. She ordered the vicar to lay him facedown upon the bed, so as not to hurt him any more than was necessary.
    “There’s water in the bucket,” the man offered. He glanced at Cain’s burned shirt, adding, “And he can have one of my old shirts from the trunk over there. I’ll send my wife in tomorrow morning to help you, if she’s needed.”
    “Thank you,” Margaret said quietly. When the man had left, she stoked the fire and lit one of the oil lamps. The dim amber light revealed a bed just large enough for two people. Cain lay sprawled across it, and his face was tight with pain.
    God help her. She knew nothing about what to do now, though she had tried to clean his wounds in the past few days. The plaid had not caught fire, thankfully, but his shirt was ragged and full of dried blood. The wounds were starting to heal, but she was more worried about