Nightingale Read Online Free

the profuse bleeding that had begun again in earnest.
    Suddenly her roving fingers slid into a warm moist well and the man shouted a barrage of what sounded like fluent French profanity.
    “Be still.” Her voice rang with a competence she did not feel.
    Changing position, scooting on her knees to get closer, Jessica steeled herself as her fingers cautiously tracked the blood back to a long, deep gash at the base of his skull. She traced the cut, trying to determine its length and depth.
    “Have care!” He snapped the words, but remained still as she continued her probe, attempting to see with fingertips that came away dripping blood.
    She shook out an unused strip of the dampened petticoat and dabbed at the gouge. When that scrap was soaked and unmanageably sticky, she tore a dry length from the garment.
    “Be still,” she repeated, again assuming the authority of the one in charge while attempting to hide her own uncertainty.
    He stiffened, started to speak, then, apparently reconsidered, and did as he was told. Perhaps he was a soldier, accustomed to taking orders. No, he wore fine clothes and the boots of a gentleman, not a uniform.
    She wrapped the new length of cloth twice around his head and tucked the loose end into itself before checking the improvised bandage. The covering crossed one of his eyes then circled his crown giving him the look of a buccaneer. Jessica disregarded his evil appearance, satisfied that the wrapping covered the wound. She had secured it tightly enough to reduce the free flow of blood to an ooze.
    Jessica crawled all the way around him, surveying, but found no other gashes, although shadows played tricks, occasionally making it appear there were more splotches, each of which she investigated despite the man’s grating objections. The wound on the back of his head looked to be the worst of it.
    As she examined him, she attempted to revive their earlier conversation. “Has your head stopped pounding and spinning now?”
    He squinted and cautiously tilted his head. “Not yet. Tell me, child, how did you come to be here in the dark? It is not yet morning, is it? We are still well hidden, are we not?”
    Just as she had guessed, in spite of his denials, he realized the problem with his eyesight involved more than poor lighting. She would play along, not dispute his references to the darkness.
    “Sweetness. Your horse brought me.”
    “Not my horse. My horse’s name is Vindicator.”
    “I see.”
    “Are you part of a search party sent from Gull’s Way?”
    “No, sir. I came alone.”
    Her statement seemed to annoy him. “What do you mean?”
    “I rode Sweet … the horse, sir.”
    “My mount’s name is Vindicator. He comes from a long line of warhorses revered for their courage in battle. He is not fit for a woman to ride. It was not Vindicator who brought you here.” He sounded insufferably, unyieldingly certain.
    She frowned into the pale face as he sat cross-legged, staring at nothing. His one uncovered eye shifted anxiously. Obviously he could not see and felt threatened by her nearness.
    “I see no reason to argue, sir, over your mount’s name or lineage.” She liked sounding so mature and reasonable. “A large, gentle, black horse carried me to this place and … ”
    “Are you an experienced rider?”
    “No.”
    “Well then, it’s exactly as I said. The animal that brought you here is not Vindicator. He has thrown every man who has attempted to ride him, including me, until we reached an understanding. In seven years in my stables, Vindicator has accepted no other rider. I personally bred his dam to the finest stallion in all of Britain. Vindicator’s bloodlines rival those of the nation’s finest families.”
    Jessica fought her vexation at this injured man who insisted on pursuing an inane argument about a horse.
    “Please, sir, might we discuss your horse’s name, his ancestry, or his philosophy of life another time? We have more pressing concerns.”
    His