Meg shook her head and found her voice, somewhere between the cold of fear and the warmth of Dougal. “I’m fine.”
“Let me see.” He turned her around gently, hands brushing her shoulders. She knew the exact moment he spotted the blood. The air around him turned arctic. “You’re bleeding.”
She waved it off, turning back around to meet his slightly feral gaze. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s everything.” His voice was stark.
She touched his hand gently, above his hold on the knife. “It’s a tiny cut. I’ve done much worse to myself with an embroidery needle.”
“He’ll pay for it.” It was a promise. Simple, dark.
“After he tells us what he knows,” she said.
His lips twitched, nearly smiling despite the fury boiling under his skin. “Practical, as always.”
“Where did you even come from? I thought you’d gone to bed.”
“No, I was wrestling with account ledgers that appear to be written in some cross of chicken scratch and hieroglyph for all they make sense.”
She’d snuck into her uncle’s study to peek at the estate ledgers more than once before convincing him she would hate the job of keeping the books and thereby ensuring he immediately made it her first priority. It helped mitigate some of his more outlandish demands from tenants and rents.
She prodded the unconscious man with the toe of her slipper. He didn’t budge, didn’t even flutter an eyelash. “He’ll be out for some time,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Well done, you.”
“I’d like to do much worse to him.”
“Later. We should tie him up before he wakes up and makes a fuss.”
Dougal sighed. “Can you fetch the ropes from the curtains in that awful gold room? And pull the bell for Canterbury? Because I’m not leaving you alone with this tosspot.”
“He’s not even conscious.”
“Not even then.”
She couldn’t deny his concern sent a flush of warmth through her. Almost as much as the grim edge to his usually amiable face, the tightening of his jaw. It probably said something unsavory about her character that she found herself drawn to him, even now. Especially now.
She ducked into the hideous gold drawing room which had yet to be used during her visit, and with good reason – no one should use that much gilt on furniture. The wallpaper gleamed, the curtains glimmered with gold thread. The ropes holding them back were yellow, with a satin finish, but also thick and sturdy. They would do. She dragged them free and then pulled the bell for the butler.
When she returned, Dougal had dragged the man into a corner, not bothering to sit him up. His cravat was spattered with blood from his rapidly swelling nose. Dougal wound the rope around his hands, binding them behind his back and then used the rest of the rope to secure his arms and his shoulders to his chest. He was trussed up like a chicken ready for the oven. All he needed was a sprig of rosemary in his mouth. “He’s not dead, is he?” she asked.
“No, he’ll wake up soon enough.”
“Hmph.”
“In the meantime,” Dougal rummaged through the pockets of his coat. “I know this is your area of expertise,” he added wryly. “But let’s see what I can find.”
They found a gold watch, a handful of coins, a snuffbox enameled with two acrobatic ladies in postures not often found in polite society, and folded scraps of parchment.
“Another map?’ Meg wondered as Dougal unfolded it, smoothing it out.
“Yes,” he said, tightly.
She leaned closer, holding up her candle. “It’s the same one. It seems they are being printed.” She peered at his face. “He’s not one of the men from the garden earlier.”
The candlelight moving near his face roused him and he shifted slightly, groaning. “What the devil,” he mumbled through a swollen top lip. His eyes flew open, and he groaned again. “You broke my nose!”