To Taste Temptation (Legend of the Four Soldiers #1)(58)

“Don’t be silly,” she muttered as she went to the door. “Of course I will.”

She didn’t wait for an answer but took the candle and almost ran into the hallway. She paused there only long enough to verify that no one was about; then she made her way as quickly and as quietly as possible to the kitchens. House parties were notorious for clandestine assignations. Most of her fellow guests would turn a blind eye if they saw her scurrying about the place in the wee hours of the night, but why chance the gossip? Especially as she was quite innocent.

The Hasselthorpe House kitchens were vast, with a great vaulted main room that probably dated back to medieval times. Emeline was satisfied to note that the cook obviously was a competent woman: She kept the fire banked at night. Emeline hurried across the room to the great stone fireplace and nearly stumbled over a small boy sleeping there.

He uncurled from a nest of blankets like a little mouse. “Mum?”

“I’m sorry,” Emeline whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

There was a huge earthenware jar in the corner, and she lifted the lid to peer inside. She nodded in satisfaction. It contained water. As she dipped some out into an iron kettle, she heard the boy rustle behind her.

“Can I help you, mum?”

She glanced at him as she set the kettle on the fire and stirred up the coals. He sat on his blankets with his dark hair standing on end. He was probably all of Daniel’s age.

“Does Cook have a salve for burns and cuts?”

“Aye.” The boy got to his feet and went to a tall cupboard and pulled out a drawer. He rummaged inside and brought back a small jar to hand to her.

Emeline lifted the lid and looked inside. A dark, greasy substance filled half the jar. She sniffed it and identified the odors of herbs and honey.

“Yes, this will do. Thank you.” She recovered the jar and smiled at the boy. “Go back to bed now.”

“Aye, mum.” He settled on his pallet and watched her sleepily as she waited for the water to boil and then poured it into a metal pitcher.

There was a pile of neatly folded cloths in a basket on the cupboard. Emeline took several and grasped the pitcher with one. She smiled at the boy. “Good night.”

“’Night, mum.”

His eyes were already drooping as she left the kitchen. She hurried from the kitchens and back up the stairs, the heavy pitcher in one hand, the jar of salve in the other, and the cloths over her arm. The candlestick was left behind. She knew the route now, anyway, even in the dark.

She thought Samuel might be asleep, but his head turned alertly at her entrance, although he didn’t say anything as she crossed the room. She poured the hot water into a basin, added just a little of the cold water from the pitcher on the dresser, and brought the basin over to him.

Emeline knelt at his feet and frowned. “Have you a knife?”

In answer, he pulled a small blade from his waistcoat pocket. She took it and carefully cut away what remained of his moccasins. Some of the leather stuck to the drying blood, and careful as she was, there were bits that pulled and started the bleeding afresh. It must have hurt, yet he didn’t make a sound.

She rolled up the embroidered edges of his leggings and placed the basin under him. “Put your feet in here.”

He complied and hissed softly as his feet met the hot water. She glanced up, but his face merely showed weariness as he watched her.

“How long did you run?” she asked.

She half expected him to deny it, but he didn’t. “I don’t know.”

She nodded and frowned at the basin of water. It was clouding with blood.

“Vale told you?” he asked.

“Jasper said something about the man you went to see being dead,” she murmured absently. If he’d run through the soles of his moccasins into bare feet, there would be dirt and debris in the wounds. She’d have to clean them thoroughly or infection would set in. It was going to be terribly painful.

“Where’s Vale?” he asked, interrupting her distressed thoughts.

She looked up. “In his rooms in the care of his valet. He drank himself nearly into a stupor.”

Samuel nodded but didn’t comment.

She pulled a cloth across her lap and tapped his left leg. “Lift.”

He complied, holding out a dripping foot. She guided it to rest on her lap so she could examine the sole. It was raw-looking, reddened and scraped, but in better condition than she would’ve thought. There were several broken blisters but only one cut. She was conscious, too, that it was a rather elegant foot for a man, which was a silly thought. His feet were large and bony, but with a high arch and long toes.

“He had hung himself,” Samuel murmured.

Emeline glanced at him. His eyes were closed, his head resting against the back of his chair. The flickering firelight cast the planes of his face into stark lines and shadows that gleamed a little from old sweat. He must be completely exhausted. It was a wonder that he was still awake.

She inhaled and looked back at the foot. “The soldier you and Jasper went to see?”

“Yes. His wife was there at the cottage. She said that he came home after the war and seemed fine for a while.”

“And then?” She had taken another cloth and ripped it until she had a rag the size of her palm. Now she dipped it into the salve and began to wash the bottom of his foot. Emeline frowned to herself. She should’ve brought some type of scrub brush from the kitchen.