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hell, but he’s a dear fellow, I swear it, and Julian—he’s a doctor—is just trying to save his life. Please.”
    “Rhiannon! It’s all right—they are Yanks!” someone whispered.
    Julian looked upward along the stairway. At the second-floor landing stood a second woman, this one a few years younger than their elegant hostess, perhaps sixteen or so to Rhiannon’s twenty ... plus? Yes, he judged, their unwilling hostess had to be in her early twenties. She was composed, regal, and serene.
    Rhiannon. Something stirred in Julian’s memory from ancient tales of Britain. Rhiannon ... it was Welsh in origin, a masculine name when given to several princes of the old realm, feminine when it was given to a beautiful sea witch from folklore. It somehow seemed fitting for their unwilling hostess.
    “My friend is bleeding on your very handsome runner, ma’am,” he said pointedly. “I need somewhere to tend to him.”
    “There’s a downstairs bedroom; you needn’t bring him up,” the woman, Rhiannon, said, and at last she moved, gliding down the steps with smooth elegance.
    She noted Kyle, River Montdale, and Liam all standing behind Julian and his burden and nodded to them in acknowledgment. Then she swept by Julian, heading down the hallway and leaving behind a soft, subtle scent of roses. He followed her, glancing back to see that the girl who had stood on the second floor was hurrying along behind them as well. “Thank God you’re Yanks!” she said anxiously. “My Lord, I’ve been so frightened. There are so many desperate folk here, you know. People who think Richard deserved to die, fighting for the North, when he was just doing what he saw as right. And have you heard what some of the Reb soldiers do to Yank women when they find them alone? Why, sirs, it’s just terrifying!”
    “Rachel!” the older woman snapped. She spun around and stared at the young girl, her eyes as sharp as saber points.
    “But, Rhiannon—”
    “Rachel, go to the kitchen and start some water boiling,” Rhiannon said firmly. She met Julian’s eyes, aware that he was watching her.
    “I’ll get the water. And don’t worry, Rhiannon knows more about medicine than most doctors. Oh, sorry, I don’t mean to offend you, sir; I’m certain you’re a very good doctor, but—”
    She broke off. Rhiannon was staring at her again, and she exhaled guiltily. “I’ll get the water.”
    Rhiannon took a lamp from a table and opened the last door on the right side of the great hallway. They entered a sparsely furnished but impeccably clean bedroom. The bed was covered with a quilt, which she quickly stripped away, baring clean white sheets.
    Julian slid Paddy from his shoulder to the bed and tossed off his plumed hat. Paddy remained unconscious, and Julian quickly assured himself that his friend retained breath and a pulse.
    “Liam, my bag,” he called. “And quickly, scissors, we’ve got to get—”
    He started to turn, ready for one of the men to assist. But she was there, scissors in her hand, ready to cut away the makeshift bandaging Julian had managed before they had been forced to flee.
    He didn’t know what her training was or where her knowledge and experience came from, but the younger girl, Rachel, was right—she was certainly competent, more so than some doctors Julian had had the ill fortune to work with. She didn’t blink or blanch at the horrible sight of poor Paddy’s ravaged leg; she quickly cut away the bandaging and the remnants of Paddy’s pants. Before she was done, Rachel returned with steaming water, excusing herself as she made her way through the rest of the men who milled awkwardly in the doorway.
    “Men, see to the horses and our situation here,” Julian said, watching the top of Rhiannon’s dark head as she finished her task. “How many others are in the house—or on the property?” he asked her.
    She looked up at him, her green eyes unfathomable. “Mammy Nor and Angus, that’s all,” she