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Vangie opened her tear-blurred eyes upon hearing the humble coachman, injured though he was, inquiring after her well-being. Gifford, the junior coachman, his face battered and bloody, hovered nearby. Lurching to an upright position, she began issuing orders while tearing at the hem of her petticoat.

“Ian, have we any water? Mr. Gifford, I need light, please, and my small box tied with the purple ribbon. Mr. Malcolm, do climb in the carriage, so I can attend to your wound.” She edged Ian’s cravat away from his neck. “It’s little more than a shallow cut, thank God. Best to clean it though.”

After she removed her gloves, she gathered the torn petticoat. The three men remained motionless, gawking at her open-mouthed. In the act of ripping her petticoat into strips, she paused, quirking an eyebrow at the dumbstruck trio.

“Faith, gentlemen. Don’t dawdle. Let’s be about it then!”

Gifford and Ian obediently scrambled to do her bidding. Minutes later, she squatted beside Malcolm, dabbing at his injured arm. She’d blanched at the blood when cutting away his shirt, but made quick work of dressing the wound.

“Vangie, might I use a strip of your petticoat?”

At Ian’s question, she glanced across the coach, and her heart pinged painfully.

His neckcloth stained scarlet, Ian was a sight. Bruised, his left eye was horribly swollen as was his puffy lower lip.

Her scrutiny dipped to her spencer. A wonder she wasn’t covered with blood too. She wrinkled her nose. The coach reeked of blood, sweat, mud and manure. She eyed the smears on the Malcolm’s boot only inches from her skirts.

Ian pointed at his cut neck. “I’ll wash away the worst of this while you look after Malcolm.”

“Of course. Here’s one for Gifford too.” She handed him two strips. “See to your lip first, Ian.” From the corner of her eye she watched him divest his coat and his bloodstained neckcloth, which he tossed through the open door. Using a portion of the water, he cleansed his lip and neck.

She kept up a constant diatribe as she worked. Chatting had always calmed her nerves. “My puri daj, that’s grandmother in Romanese, taught me how to tend wounds.” She shifted, fully facing Malcolm to take advantage of the lamp’s light. “I’m not as accomplished as she is, but your injury is not terribly serious.” She curved her mouth reassuringly. “Though, I’m certain it hurts like the very devil, Mr. Malcolm.” She swabbed his injury with a damp cloth.

“Just Malcolm will do, milady.” His features a mask of confusion, he stared across the coach. He clearly didn’t know what to make of a lady tending him.

She twisted to glance at her husband too. A wide grin split his face. Whatever was he so jovial about? Heaven’s above, six dead men lay outside. She darted a glance to the open door, and giving herself a mental shake, forced her attention back inside. Never mind. Best to return to the task at hand and not dwell on that ugliness and the part she’d played.

“Very well, Malcolm. The ball passed clear through, nice and clean. It’s fortunate I always carry my medicines and my dagger with me. Puri Daj taught me the art of healing with plants and herbs. She taught me to use a dagger too.”

“Too?” Ian threw the stained piece of petticoat he’d washed with onto the ground. “Your grandmother taught you to use a dagger?” Astonishment tinged his voice. “Obviously, you were an apt pupil.”

Vangie stopped her ministrations, staring at the upholstery wistfully. “The Romani should be arriving any day now.” She cut her gaze to Malcolm for a moment before gravitating her attention to Ian. Despite the heaviness in her heart, she attempted a smile. “It will be the first time in my memory I’ll not stay with the travelers for a few weeks.” She fidgeted with the cloth in her hands. “They are an honorable people but suffer much persecution because their ways are different.”

Crouched as she was, her legs’ cramping drew her attention to the present. She slid onto the seat beside Malcolm. Returning her focus to his wound, Vangie declared defiantly, “If I’d the means, I’d help them. They deserve to be treated with dignity.”

“I agree,” Ian said, sincerity and warmth ringing in his voice.

She wrapped a length of petticoat around Malcom’s arm. “Were you aware I’m part Roma—that gypsy ratti runs in my veins?”

She regarded Ian guardedly, daring him to object to her heritage. How would he respond to her revelation? How would she react if he rejected her again?

“I know, sweeting.” He leaned over and kissed her soundly on the mouth, despite the flabbergasted coachman’s twitching nose but inches from their meshed lips.

“Ahem.” Malcom cleared his throat, his ears crimson.

Vangie promptly shifted away, no doubt her cheeks as red as his glowing ears.

Ian regarded her as if besotted.

Another discreet cough brought a flurry of heat to her face and another fool’s grin to Ian’s. Was he daft, kissing her mere inches from the coachman? Pleased and confused, Vangie bent to her task once more, efficiently tying off the last bandage. “There you are, Malcolm.”

“Thank ye, milady.” He nodded as he fingered the bandage.

She rested against the plush seat, her hands clasped tightly.Now that the crisis had passed, she’d become self-conscious, unsure of her skills.“You’ll need to see a physician of course—to be sure it has been properly treated. I’ve not dressed a firearm wound before, only knife cuts and gashes.”

“Knife cuts and gashes?” One sable eyebrow arched, Ian’s expression held admiration and surprise.

“Mmm.” She nodded. “Sometimes, the brethren are involved in fights with each other, but more commonly with gadjo, non-Roma. Knives are the Roma’s weapon of choice.”