Compromised Miss Read Online Free PDF Page A

his shoulder throbbed, as when he had once taken a heavy fall from his horse sufficient to crack his collarbone. At the same time his left arm screamed with a fierce burning pain. Was there any place in his body that did not hurt?
    He struggled, trying to sit up, abandoning the attempt as his wits scattered. It was almost too much trouble to chase after them and reassemble them into some sort of order as the pain beat with the insistency of a military drum behind his eyes. Memory came back in patches, with disconcertingly looming gaps. Lucius shook his head as if to shake them into a recognisable pattern and wished he had not.
    He opened his eyes cautiously. A gloomy room, dusty bed hangings, few meagre furnishings. The linen sheets that covered him were worn and smelt of must and mildew, although were clean enough. Where in heaven’s name washe? It was no inn that he recognised. A young girl, a servant from her clothing, sat beside the bed, head bent over a needle. Mending more sheets, he thought inconsequentially.
    ‘Where am I?’ he managed to croak through a throat as dry as a desert.
    ‘You’re awake, sir.’ The girl looked up, rose to her feet.
    ‘Yes.’ His voice sounded rusty to his ears. ‘Will you tell me…?’
    But then she left him, so that he almost wondered if he had imagined her, and the darkness claimed him once more. When awareness returned, it was to a different voice. Feminine yet cool and calm, instructing him to open his mouth and drink. An arm was behind his head, lifting him, and the rim of a cup pressed against his lips. It was cold and refreshing, a sharp tang of lemons, balm to his dry throat. And from somewhere came the soothing drift of lavender. He tried to thank the girl, the maid, for surely it was she—or was it? The voice was different—but it was all too difficult to work out truth from imagination.
    He gave up and slept again.
    Gradually, when consciousness returned, so did his memories. He remembered being in a boat. Remembered being set upon in the little French port. Port St Martin, that was it. Remembered failing in his task, outwitted and outmanoeuvred by that villain Jean-Jacques Noir. He felt anger rise within him, and shame that he should have been so tricked, but he had not expected such underhand treachery. Obviously he had been too naïve. He thought he might have been shot. Certainly he remembered pain, then blackness….
    He did not know who had rescued him. One moment, he was being attacked and beaten on the quay, the next he was in the bottom of a small boat with water lappingagainst his cheek and a queasy swell. He remembered demanding to be taken back to France, and then nothing.
    So where was he now?
    A movement by the door as it opened. He risked moving his head and could barely repress a groan at the leaping pain. A young man approached in the sea-faring gear of boots and wide breeches, a heavy tunic, all worn and saltstained. He took the seat vacated by the maid and leaned forward, arms on thighs.
    Lucius found himself being appraised by a pair of cool eyes, as pale grey as to be almost silver.
    ‘You are awake.’
    ‘Yes. Where am I?’ He would try again.
    ‘Old Wincomlee, a fishing village in Sussex. You’ll not know it but it’s a mere handful of miles from Brighton. This is my home. Lydyard’s Pride.’ Stern, unsmiling but with a surprisingly educated accent and turn of phrase, the young man had at least given him some information, if his pounding brain could retain it.
    ‘Who are you?’ he managed, frowning furiously.
    ‘My name is Harry Lydyard.’
    ‘You brought me back. From France.’
    ‘Yes. You were hurt.’
    ‘So I owe you my life.’
    ‘Perhaps you do. You bled all over my boat.’ A tight smile curled the lips but then he grew solemn again, his voice taking on a hard edge. ‘What were you doing in Port St Martin? Why were you set on?’
    ‘I…’ He sought for words in explanation—did he not owe his rescuer some sort of