The Mysteries of Bran House || Fleckney Gothic Mystery

Ukrainian Wing

Peggy gasped and started wiggling out of his embrace. He let her go immediately.

"You're bleeding!" she cried out and grabbed his right hand that he'd earlier had around her shoulders.

There was a small cut just below his knuckles. An untimely thought came that she'd never seen hands that massive, even on men who had been larger - given, not taller - than him! The backs of his hands were covered in black hair, with a fair amount of silver mixed into the dark.

"You are bleeding!" he exclaimed.

Peggy dropped her eyes - and gawked at a gash on her right calf.

"Oh I didn't actually–"

Peggy's voice croaked. She swallowed hard, wondering where this ridiculous wooziness was coming from. Surely, it was too early for a significant blood loss. She firmly told herself to get a grip. She wasn't a tragic heroine in a melodramatic paperback with castles, turrets, and relatives locked up in the attic!

"Oh for goodness sake," Ravenscroft barked in exasperation, bent down, and picked her up bridal style.

Peggy started protesting, only to be cut off by a sharp shush from him.

It all happened so quickly that the only thought she had was that one would expect to be joggled much more when carried by a limping man. He brought her to the hall, lowered her in the armchair, and deftly went down on one knee. His hand lay on her bag that she was clutching to her chest.

"Ms. Brown?"

"Yes?" Peggy obediently stared into his blue eyes.

"I'm going to pillage your stores of plaster and antiseptic."

"Pardon?" 

She realised that her teeth had just started chattering, and she seemed to be unable to stop them.

"Give me your bag, please. I need to stop your bleeding," he said softly.

"Pardon?" She knew he was asking her to do something, she just couldn't quite understand what it was. "My leg hurts," she told him, surprise in her voice. 

A nasty shiver ran through her. He tugged at the bag, and Peggy resisted. He studied her for a moment and then lifted his hand to her face.

"I'm bleeding out here, Ms. Brown." His annoyed toff-nosed tone was back. "Tell me you've got a first aid kit somewhere in your bottomless bag."

Peggy stirred out of her odd stupor, opened her tote, and shoved the roll-up kitbag towards him.

"And she's back," he murmured. "Ever an altruist."

She watched him cut her tights with the scissors from the kit, and then she had to quickly look away.

"There doesn't seem to be any glass in your cut," he said distractedly, while cleaning the laceration. "And I don't think you need stitches. I still recommend you visit your petulant Dr. Fenton tomorrow and have him have a look at it. Ms. Brown?"

Peggy had her eyes squeezed shut.

"Ms. Brown, are you by chance scared of the sight of blood? You're rather peaky."

"It's not– It's not the blood. It's the glass. Bloodied glass–" It was hard to push air into her lungs, her throat was as if closing up. "I was in a car accident... Many years ago. Before my vows. And there was all that blood mixed with glass, and– I'll be alright in a moment."

There was a bitter taste in her mouth; and she realised that she'd slipped into her native accent just now, and her 'alright' sounded like 'alreet.'

"Just stay like that for one more moment," he said quietly, while his fingers gently danced on her skin. "Breathe slowly. There's no glass in this room so, when you're ready, you're safe to open your eyes."