Gallant Scoundrel (28 page)

“Tally-ho!” came a shout from behind. “I’ve spotted ‘im, men! After me!”

By now Harry’s right side felt as though seized by a large claw. Drawing breath grew more and more painful, but he dared not slacken his pace. Darting into The Mall between the two parks, he dodged and wove through the trees, hoping thereby to confuse his pursuers before hurling himself over the railing into St. James’s Park.
 

The trees here were widely spaced, offering little cover, but he made use of what he could as he approached the lane bisecting the park. On the verge of collapse, Harry whisked behind the next good-sized tree he came to in order to catch his breath and better hear what the ex-soldiers were shouting to each other. It sounded as though none were quite positive where he’d gone. Yet.
 

By now his exertions combined with the excitement of the chase had gone a long way toward clearing his head. What a complete dolt he’d been! Madness to attempt robbing such a well-guarded house, so ill-equipped and clad for the task and after over-imbibing as he had—the primary cause of that error in judgment. If he were apprehended or even killed, it would serve him right.

Still, they didn’t have him yet. Peering cautiously around his tree, he saw six or seven men milling about near where he’d jumped the railings while their apparent leader ordered them to make a methodical search of the park.

“I saw a shadow go over the fence. He’s in here somewhere. If we get him and he turns out to be the Saint, think of the reward!”
 

Thus motivated, the group fanned out to search among the trees. He would certainly be found in moments if he remained where he was, but moving would bring them even quicker. Which was the better option?
 

A low laugh followed by a feminine giggle a short distance away reminded him that despite the Regent’s recent efforts to clean up the Royal Parks, St. James’s was still popular with whores and those who partook of their wares. In hopes of duplicating the ruse that had served him so well a week since, Harry scanned the ground near his feet and was rewarded by the sight of several chestnuts within easy reach. Stooping, he snatched one up and hurled it in the direction of the trysting couple—and was rewarded by a shriek.

As he’d hoped, Wellington’s servants converged on the sound, giving Harry his chance. Not far ahead was the ornate yellow bridge Prinny had commissioned for some celebrations two years since. If he could duck behind it, he might have a chance of remaining concealed until the hunters gave up the chase.
 

On the very thought, he ran as quickly yet as lightly as he could toward the bridge. He was just crossing to its far side when more shots rang out, immediately followed by a searing pain in his side. He’d been hit!
 

Acting on nearly-forgotten battle instincts, Harry ran a short way up the bridge, then pitched himself off the side away from his pursuers. He hit the frigid water with a splash, then ducked under the scummy surface to swim as far from the bridge as he could manage before his air gave out. When it did, he carefully raised only his mouth and nose above the water for one deep breath, then continued swimming underwater, repeating the process again and again until he reached the far end of the canal, near the Horse Guards.

At that point, he finally dared raise his head far enough to look back and was gratified to see half a dozen men still milling about the foot of the bridge. Though he could not make out words from this distance, they sounded excited and pleased, clearly believing he’d been badly enough wounded to drown. Drawing a shaky sigh of relief, Harry waded through the shallows to a low copse by the bank where he was able to crawl out of the water within the cover it offered.
 

Though shivering violently by now, Harry forced himself to remain where he was until the men left the park entirely. Every muscle in his body seemed made of heavy stone when he finally forced himself to his feet to go…where?
 

Seven Dials would likely be his safest refuge and the distance was only slightly more than that to the house on Grosvenor Street but only at the latter could he be assured of a hot bath. In addition, Brewster had some experience at patching minor gunshot wounds, which his must surely be. Numb as he was from the icy water of the canal, he scarcely felt it now, especially in comparison to his aching legs and feet.
 

After traversing a few hundred yards, however, the burning in his side returned, a streak of fire in the otherwise frozen block that was his body. Though the distance was less than a mile, it took Harry the better part of an hour to reach the servants’ entrance of the Grosvenor Street house, by which time he was in considerable pain.
 

He unlocked the door as quietly as he could, peering down into the kitchen as he passed. As it was near midnight, only a single scullery maid was still there, putting away the last of the dinner pots and pans. Tiptoeing was quite beyond him but she was luckily making enough of a clatter to cover his clumsy footsteps. Availing himself of the back servant staircase, he made his weary, shivering way to the second story.

A
THUD
from out in the hallway jerked Xena awake. She’d fallen into a doze while reading in the chair near her bed, awaiting Harry’s return. Judging by how little remained of the candle burning on the table next to her, she must have slept an hour or more. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she pulled her wrapper more tightly around her and hurried to fling open her door.

Harry was still in the hallway, leaning heavily against his door as he groped for the handle. He appeared even drunker than when he’d left, but she was determined to speak with him nonetheless, for fear she might lose her resolve by morning.

“Now you are home, there are a few things we must—”
 

She broke off, startled. “Goodness, Harry, you are soaking wet! What on earth happened to you?”

He glanced down at his dripping clothes. “Tripped. Fell into horse trough,” he mumbled. “Hot bath’ll help.” As he reached again for the handle of his chamber door, a violent shudder shook his frame.

“Yes, and without delay, I should think.” Stepping to his side, Xena opened the door for him. “Have a bath drawn at once,” she instructed his startled valet. “And extra blankets brought up, as well.”

Brewster glanced at Harry, who nodded, apparently shivering too much now to form words. The man disappeared.

“Now, we must get you out of those wet things at once, or you will certainly catch a chill.” Xena spoke matter-of-factly, tamping down her curiosity…and worry. “Here, let me help you,” she added impatiently when Harry fumbled ineffectually with the buttons of his coat.
 

Quickly, she undid the buttons herself and stripped off his sopping coat, and waistcoat, then gasped at sight of his shirt, stained crimson along one side. “You are bleeding!”
 

Not waiting for him to force an answer through his chattering teeth, she gently tugged the shirt off over his head, then bent to examine the wound. Relief replaced the horror that had initially swept through her, more intense than any she’d felt in any battle surgery, on finding it less critical than she’d feared. Her curiosity intensified, however.

“Do not try to tell me a fall caused this, for I know a bullet wound when I see one, Harry, better than most. What really happened?”

He blinked a few times as though having difficulty bringing her face into focus. “C-c-caught a fellow cheating at cards,” he managed after a moment. “We fought and he grazed me. J-j-just a scratch, I think.”
 

“I will be the judge of that.” Already, she was gently exploring the area with her fingertips. “The bullet is still lodged, but barely below the skin. You were fortunate it did not go deeper, though you appear to have lost a lot of blood.”

Brewster returned then, his arms piled with blankets. Behind him were two footmen, one carrying a large copper bathing tub and the other two steaming kettles.
 

“That was very quick,” Xena commended them. “Thank you.”

“Water was still hot from the washing up.” The valet motioned the footmen to set up and begin filling the bath while he fetched the water pitcher from the dressing table. “Still, ’twill take a few more trips before— What—? How—?” He’d seen Harry’s wound.

“Your master has been shot,” Xena confirmed. “I don’t suppose any forceps are available in this house?”

Again, Brewster looked to Harry for an answer and again his master was no help.

“No matter.” Xena spoke briskly, as though addressing orderlies back on the battlefield. “Sugar tongs should do for this. Bring them up with the next pair of kettles.”

“Aye, mum. Right away, mum.” With respectful bows, the three men scurried back out.

Picking up Harry’s ruined shirt, Xena tore a wide strip from the bottom. “Let’s get this cleaned up, shall we?”
 

She folded the cloth, dipped it into the tub, then gently laid it against his side. He winced, tensing, then slowly relaxed, his eyes beginning to drift closed.

“No, you mustn’t sleep, not yet. You’re half frozen still. Once we’ve warmed you up you can go to bed, but not before.”
 

After a moment, she decided the bullet hole in his side was clean enough and turned her attention to pulling off first his boots, then his breeches.

*
       
*
       
*

Harry had a vague feeling he shouldn’t allow Xena to undress him…that he had some reason to be upset with her…but could not at the moment recall what that reason was. As she methodically stripped his sodden nether garments from him, he again felt a pleasant lassitude overtaking his senses.
 

“Ah, good,” she startled him by exclaiming. “Yes, these should do.”
 

Harry was dimly aware of several people moving about the room, pouring kettle after kettle into the copper tub. Then Xena put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“This will likely hurt a bit, but I promise to be quick,” she said. He felt a sudden, sharp pain, and then it was gone. “There. The bullet is out. Now, let’s get you into this bath. Gentlemen, if you can assist me? I fear he hasn’t the strength to do this under his own power.”

Hands, some more gentle than others, grasped him about his knees, thighs and chest and then the warmth of the bath enveloped him—painful at first, as it thawed his extremities, then heavenly as the warmth penetrated to his very core. His eyes drifted shut with the sheer bliss of it. When he opened them, only Xena remained in the room and the water was merely tepid.

“Did I—?”

“Only for a few minutes,” she assured him. “Not to worry, I wouldn’t have let you drown—much as you deserve such a fate after behaving so foolishly.”

She didn’t know the half of it! His mind now noticeably less fuzzy than it had been at first, memory of the evening’s events—all of them—came flooding back…along with the realization that he was completely naked. At his instinctive movement to cover himself, Xena’s lips quirked up.
 

“It’s a bit late for that, Harry. Remember that I’ve seen quite a lot of male bodies before this, in surgery…and I’ve seen you thus before as well, though it’s been quite some time. Would you prefer I turn my back while you get up and dry off, or will you need my assistance?”

In answer, Harry struggled to his feet with some difficulty, turning half away from her. “There. Now where’s the blasted drying cloth?”

Still smirking, Xena turned her back and handed it over his shoulder. He took it, still feeling absurdly vulnerable and more foolish than ever.
 

“I thank you for your assistance but as you can see, I am fine now.”

“Not quite,” she retorted. “I still need to bandage your wound, but you may put something on first, if you wish, so long as you do not cover it.”

He glanced down to see the long bullet graze still oozing blood, though slowly. Muttering under his breath, Harry wrapped the damp drying cloth around his waist before turning to face Xena. “You’re enjoying this far too much, you know.”

“No doubt I shall pay for it later,” she said lightly. “Now, hold this against your side.”
 

While he pressed a thick pad to the wound, she deftly wound long strips of cloth around his body, binding the pad in place.
 

“You’ll likely be sore for a few days, but if you don’t attempt anything too active you should heal well enough. If it becomes at all inflamed, however, you must let me know.”

“I will. Thank you,” he said again. Then, as she turned to the dressing room door to go back to her own room, he burst out, “Xena,
are
you having an affair with Wellington?”
 

She spun to face him. “Of course not,” she snapped, but then her eyes narrowed. “But what if I were?
You
are scarcely in a position to censure me, given all the lurid tales of your own indiscretions I’ve heard this week. If you expect fidelity from me, Harry, you had best be prepared to promise the same. Sleep on that, if you will.”

So saying, she turned back around and disappeared into the dressing room, closing first his door, then hers behind her.

Harry gazed after her, stunned, before a slow smile curved his lips.
That
was the Xena he remembered so well—fiery, untamable…and brutally honest. If the Xena of old were under Wellington’s protection, she almost certainly would have thrown it in his face.
 

But then he recalled her reaction—stricken, even apologetic—when he’d mentioned her visits to Rundel Street earlier. Did that mean she was carrying on a dalliance with someone
other
than Wellington? He took two steps toward the dressing room door before a wave of weariness washed over him.

Perhaps tomorrow would be soon enough for more questions.

*
       
*
       
*

Xena’s first impulse on rising the next morning was to check on Harry, to make certain his condition had not worsened in the night. Pulling on her wrapper, her hand was on the handle of the dressing room door before she realized it would be unwise to wake him, as rest would help him to heal more quickly. Still, she was unwilling to go downstairs, where she would be unable to hear any sounds from next door, so requested a tray in her room.