For the Love of a Soldier (23 page)

This was a very bad idea.

She jumped when a violent gush of wind rattled the windowpanes, reminding her she was trapped. Well, she was a practical woman, and it was time she made the best of a bad situation.

Her eyes moved back to Garrett. The fire caught on the pieces of kindling he had stuffed beneath wood stacked like a pyramid. When he leaned over to blow the flames higher, she caught her breath. There was no denying that the best of her situation stood yards away from her.

Straightening, Garrett planted his hands on his hips as he watched the flames climb.

Drawn to both the man and the warmth of the fire, she crossed to his side. She noticed for the first time the red streak staining his torn sleeve below his shoulder. The sight sobered her and she grasped his arm. “Just a scratch?”

He jerked when she started to pry his sleeve away, the material stuck to the blood. “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it later.” He walked to the table where he had dumped the saddlebag. “Are you hungry?”

She was determined to stay focused on his wound. “You are no coward, so why won’t you let me tend to your arm?”

Surprised, he looked at her and after a moment, shrugged. “Fine.” He unbuckled the saddlebag and withdrew a silver flask and a cloth packet. Untying the packet, he slid out a small serrated knife. Collecting both items, he grabbed a chair and dragged it before the fire. Dropping onto it, he slipped his hand into his sleeve, grunted once as he yanked it free of the blood-encrusted wound. He looked over at her. “Well, come on, Nurse Nightingale, don’t let the patient do all the work.”

When she moved to his side, he handed her the knife. Amused, she turned it over in her hand, the firelight dancing over its blade. “Is this to keep you in line?”

His eyes met hers. A gleam flickered in the gray depths. The moment dragged on long enough to ratchet up her pulse. “Let’s stick to ‘no’ for that.” He grinned at her dubious look and lifted his torn sleeve free of his arm and nodded to where he pulled the material taut. “Slash it here, and I can rip the sleeve off. It will do for a makeshift bandage.”

She leaned over with the knife and cut the area he indicated. When she finished, he tore the sleeve free.

“See, just a scratch.” He grabbed the flask, unscrewed the top, and poured some of its content over the wound. A sharp intake of his breath was his only reaction to what must have been a burning sting.

The liquid washed the dried blood away to reveal a two-inch gash that could be defined as a scratch, but a mean one. He handed her the bandage. “Supplies were low in the Crimea. We learned to make do.”

“So I see.” She accepted the swath of linen and slipped it under his arm. Her heart thudded as her fingers brushed his bare skin, the taut muscle of his bicep warm beneath her hand. The view was getting harder to ignore. Along with the burn…of the fire. She knotted the bandage and stepped back. “Did you ever meet Miss Nightingale?”

He twisted his arm to view her handiwork, but he stilled at her words. “No. No, I didn’t.” He didn’t glance up but continued after a pause. “In the beginning there were no nurses. The wounded were left unattended and piled up in filthy corridors lining this dilapidated building rank with sewage, vermin, and disease.” His eyes lifted to hers. “More men died from disease than from their wounds.” He fell silent, his expression brooding as he stared into the fire.

Upset by the bitterness darkening his words and his eyes, she moistened her lips. “Then Miss Nightingale arrived with her mission, her nurses, and a whole lot of gumption…or so I heard.” She shrugged.

He looked up and stared at her with his usual quiet intensity. After another drawn-out moment, his features relaxed. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

A flush warmed her cheeks, but his shared confidence warmed her heart. She held still, hoping he’d continue. When he didn’t, she took a deep breath and ventured into forbidden ground. “And you? Did her nurses treat you?”

His hand tightened its grip on the knife, the other around the flask he still held. “No. I didn’t need them. I had Havers.”

His words were final. Subject closed.

Abruptly he stood and turned to face her. “And here I have
you.” He smiled down at her, a familiar sparkle returning to his eyes. “And you are much prettier than Havers.” He leaned close. “Don’t tell him I said so. He’d be crushed.”

She grinned and a warm glow spiraled through her.

“But you must be hungry. Shall we see what Cook has packed for us? Something to go with your biscuits?”

Baffled, she stared at him, unable to keep up with the man’s transitions.
What biscuits?
Her eyes widened and her hand slid to her skirt pocket, Garrett’s laughter rumbling through her as he crossed to the table. He set the flask and the knife upon it and proceeded to rummage through the saddlebag.

As Garrett unpacked, Alex struggled to suppress her irritation over his reticence. Damn the man. She could help him if he would only let her, if he would only talk to her. She blew out a frustrated breath and went to assist him, but her eyes fell to his bandaged arm and another more pressing matter distracted her. She might not be able to heal old wounds, but if they worked together, they might be able to protect him from new ones and, more important, save his life.

Keyes’s attack was a stark reminder of why she was here. Someone wanted Garrett dead, and she and Garrett were here to strategize a plan to prevent that. It was what he was paying her for, and it was time for her to uphold her end of their bargain.

Garrett lifted his head, his hands full of wrapped parcels, a loaf of bread tucked under his arm. “We’ll make a picnic before the fire. Grab those blankets from the sofa and spread them over the floor.”

She moved to do his bidding and once the blankets were laid out, she assisted him with the food. It was a veritable feast with sundry meats, cheeses, and the aroma of fresh, homemade bread wafting up to engulf them. Alex sat down and tucked her skirts around her, waiting until they both were settled before she ventured to speak.

“Your bandaged arm reminded me that I am here for a reason. I can’t accept any payment for services I have not rendered, so…”

Garrett’s spasm of coughs interrupted her. His eyes watered as he slapped his chest and struggled to catch his breath. At her raised brow, he shook his head. “My apologies.” He cleared
his throat. “Just an interesting choice of words.” Amusement danced in his eyes, and he lifted his hand to cover his mouth as he coughed again.

Understanding dawned, and she scowled at him. “Oh, for goodness sake.” Clearly the man considered only one type of services to be rendered by a woman. Annoyed, she thrust a flagon of water at him and continued on, refusing to traverse
that
path. “Look, you brought me here in the hopes that I could assist you in apprehending these men plotting your murder. I think it’s time we devise some sort of plan.”

He grinned. “Having the company of a beautiful woman to share my exile with me is payment enough.”

“That’s a lovely compliment. However, this is a business arrangement, and I suggest we take it seriously and figure out how to save your life, because I can’t collect payment if you’re dead.” He choked again, and she reached over and slapped him on the back.

He shoved his plate of food away. “Point taken, but we’re not going to need any plans if I choke to death, nor is killing me going to help you get your monies.”

“Point taken.” She grinned back at him. “Now about a plan…”

“I have one.”

“What?” She blinked at him, pausing as she lifted a piece of bread to her mouth.

He wagged his finger at her. “At least I made sure you’re mouth wasn’t full first. I have a care for
your
life.”

She shook her head. “I’m trying to have one for yours, but you do make it difficult.”

He raised the flagon in a toast. “So I’ve been told.”

“I’m sure you have. About this plan, were you intending to share it with me?”

“I was waiting until my sister arrived, as we will need her and Brandon’s assistance. However, as you appear to be in a rush to earn your keep, we could do without them and proceed in another manner. You’ve been quite clear about your thoughts on being my mistress, but are you equally averse to the idea of
pretending
to be my mistress…?”

She simply raised a brow and stared at him, her expression cool.

“I take it that is a yes.” Amused, he shrugged, unrepentant. “A man can hope. Perhaps when we know each other better.”

“I know you just fine now,” she drawled. “About Brandon and your sister and this plan…?”

“Right. We’re going to return to the scene of the crime. Brandon is working with Hammond to orchestrate another event to which the same list of guests as the party where you overheard the plot against me will be invited. The killer’s name is on that list, and we hope he’ll accept the invitation, particularly if he knows that I’m there. As we’ve discussed, once you’re in the same room with the bastard, you might recognize his voice or observe some mannerism or gesture that might trigger your memory and help you identify him.

“Kit is bringing gowns for you to wear, and she and Brandon will play chaperone so that your reputation is safeguarded. After all, we wouldn’t want you to risk ruin by being in my presence. However, you do look none the worse for wear so far.” He tossed her long-ago words back at her, a teasing light entering his eyes.

After the initial surprise at his plan wore off, she smiled at his last quip. “It’s still early yet, but I think I shall survive.” Her eyes strayed to the fire, and she frowned because Garrett’s words of ruination had unwittingly stoked the embers of old fears.

It was ironic, but despite the danger threatening Garrett, since she had come under his protection, Alex had felt safe for the first time in over a year. Lulled into this sense of false security, she had forgotten her own plight.

Garrett could never ruin her because her uncle had already orchestrated that, enabling Lord Cheaver to savage her reputation beyond repair. Should her uncle find her or learn that she had sought protection from another man, he would make sure all knew of her disgrace. It would all come out, everything but the truth, and damn the consequences to those innocents who would be ensnared in his web of deceit. Should she attend a ball with Garrett and be seen in so public a forum, her uncle could very well find her. She swallowed the bile that rose to her throat.

But how could she not assist Garrett?

Surreptitiously she studied him as he stared into the fire, a companionable silence having settled between them. His black
hair was damp and disheveled, a rakish lock sweeping his forehead. Her eyes dipped to his bandaged arm and she stifled the urge to reach out and, like the dancing light from the fire, let her fingers skim across his bare skin.

How could she stand by and let him be murdered by some nameless coward?

She closed her eyes and blew out a breath.

She could not. She would not. She couldn’t do it when she had first overheard the insidious plot, and she couldn’t do it now.

Some risks were worth taking, and Garrett’s life was worth her risking her own. Resolute, she opened her eyes, drew a deep breath, and turned to Garrett. “Do you think he will accept the invitation? That the assassin will dare to return to Hammond’s?”

Garrett shrugged. “Let’s hope that he does. I’d like to finish this. I don’t like living with a guillotine’s blade hanging over my head.”

She blanched, and he relented.

“Look, it’s a plan, and that’s a start. We’ll find the bastard, and we’re safe here until we do so. That is, if we can avoid trigger-happy Keyes,” he added dryly. Standing, he reached over to grab the fire stoker. Looking back at her, he nodded to the food. “Why don’t you eat something? You need to keep up your strength. Besides, one can’t survive on biscuits alone.” With a wink, he turned to tend the fire.

Alex shook her head and stared blankly at the food before her, aware of the bitter irony that for the first time in over a year, she had no appetite.

G
ARRETT FINISHED A
last bite of cheese and eyed the remains of their repast, marveling over Cook’s ability to pack so economically as to fit it all into the saddlebag. They could have used her in the Crimea, or perhaps not, as they never had enough food to fill a thimble anyway. Garrett leaned back on his elbows, stretched his legs before him, and crossed them at his ankles.

Earlier, his wet trousers had tightened over a growing need that had made them more uncomfortable than their dampness.
As much as he wished to cool down, his need to dry off became greater. Now relatively dry and full, there was only one more need to be satisfied. He studied Alexandra.

She sat with her legs drawn up before her, her arms circling her knees as she stared into the fire. Orange flames cast shadows over her hair, making some strands appear golden, while darkening others.

He longed to unpin her hair and bury his hands in the thick locks. Itched to run his finger over a curved cheek to those full, beckoning lips. Yearned to unbutton her dress. Very, very slowly. One button at a time, tormenting himself with peeks of soft, satin skin. To press his lips to the hum of her pulse at the slim column of her neck and feel its rhythm skip in response. He’d lay her down and cover her body with his, her breasts flush against him, and then…then he’d lick…