Never Kiss a Rake (32 page)

Kilmartyn felt her body go limp, and he hauled her up into his arms. Bystanders had been watching her erratic pace surreptitiously, doing not one damned thing about it, but now that he’d finally managed to reach her they were all solicitude. He was well known in the square, and even if they disapproved of him they knew the kind of power a man of his wealth could wield. It was all he could do to answer them civilly as he strode the rest of the way to his house, taking the front steps two at a time. She was too light, he thought. She needed to eat more.

Collins was already on the front portico, reaching for her, a horrified expression on his face, but Kilmartyn had no plans to give her up. “Get the doctor,” he said roughly, starting up the stairs.

It wasn’t until he reached the first floor that he realized he had no idea where to put her. Without thinking he bounded up the flights to the third floor, but his damned rooms were still in disarray; the room he’d chosen near the servants stairs was too small.

After three tries he found a bedroom that hadn’t been affected by the renovations, and he kicked it open. He’d expected cobwebs and dust, but the estimable Mrs. Greaves had made her mark, and the room was spotless in the waning daylight. He set her down carefully on the bed and pulled off her hat, tossing it to the floor. Her face was paler than usual, with an almost bluish tinge. He reached to unfasten the cape-like thing she wore, and then he looked at his hands.

His gloves were stained red with blood, and he swore, ripping them off. Too much blood. By that time the cook had appeared, accompanied by the three maids, Mr. Collins, and the boy… what was his name? Jem? The women looked worried. The men looked… guilty? No, that made no sense.

“What’s happened, my lord?” the cook demanded in not very subservient tones. “How did she take ill?”

“She’s been hurt,” he said roughly, beginning to unfasten the buttons of her dress when Mrs. Harkins, that was her name, skillfully and effectively moved her sturdy form between his housekeeper and him. “We’ll get her undressed, my lord,” she said in a firm tone. “It wouldn’t do for you to be present until we got her fixed proper-like.”

All he could think of was preparing a corpse for burial. All proper-like, cold, and bluish like his mother had been, and he wanted to hit someone, to scream, to beat against the walls.

“You should leave, sir,” Collins said quietly. “Come with me and I’ll get you a brandy.”

Damn, and he needed one. His stained hands were shaking, by God, and she looked as if she were going to die. “I’ll wait in the hall,” he said tersely. “And I’ll take some tea.” At least that wouldn’t dull his reaction time. He had to make certain she would be all right. He had to.

“Tea, sir?” Collins looked surprised. He was looking almost as shaken as Kilmartyn felt, and for a moment a primitive, jealous streak washed
through him. Had Collins been courting her? Because if he had, he was going out of the house tonight.

On what pretext?
he reminded himself. But then, an earl didn’t need a pretext, now did he?

He was about to go searching for someplace to sit when one of the footmen appeared, carrying a heavy club chair as if it weighed as much as a loaf of bread. He set it quietly outside the door, then greeted Kilmartyn with a bow. “Is there anything more I can get your lordship? Would you like me to bring you some wine?”

Why the hell was everyone trying to push liquor on him? Probably because that was his usual response to everything. He managed a civil tone. “No, thank you. Collins is bringing me some tea.”

He sat. He waited. He drummed his bloody fingers on the arm of the chair. The new footman appeared again, without the doctor but with a bowl of water and a towel, offering it to him.

“I think they might need it more in there,” he said, nodding toward the closed door.

“Jem’s already bringing it, my lord.”

“Where the hell is Bertie?”

The new footman looked at him uneasily. “He should be back at any moment.”

He washed his hands, frowning as the bowl of water turned red, and then he heard a quiet moan. Enough was enough. He rose and pushed open the door, ignoring Mrs. Harkins’s hiss of outrage.

She lay there, her eyes closed, her face creased in pain. His little spy, Russell’s daughter, moaned softly. Bryony. Was Bryony Russell going to die in his bed?

Mrs. Harkins had removed her hideous dress and most of the ridiculous undergarments women found it necessary to wear, and she lay in her blood-stained shift, her left arm on a layer of toweling that was soaking up the steady flow of blood. He stared at the wound in disbelief.

“Someone’s shot her!” he said, moving to her side and staring down in shock.

“So it seems, my lord,” Mrs. Harkins said. “Would you have any idea how this came to happen?”

He jerked his eyes up to look at the woman. Anyone else would fire her for her impertinence. “Of course not!” he snapped. “Why would you ask?”

Mrs. Harkins didn’t answer, turning to one of the maids. “Emma, you take her clothes down and have Becky start soaking them in cold water. Her underthings are of very fine quality—it would be a shame to have them ruined.”

He spared a moment to imagine those very fine underthings on her body, taking them off one by one, and then concentrated on the business at hand. “I don’t think we can wait for the doctor,” he said, ignoring Mrs. Harkins’s efforts to get between him and Bryony. He simply moved her out of the way very gently before he took the seat someone had pulled up next to the bed. “Where’s Jem with the water?” he demanded.

“Right here, yer lordship,” the boy announced from the door, carrying a large, steaming pot of water. One of the new maids followed with a pile of fresh toweling and a large bowl.

“Bring them here.”

“Your lordship, you can’t—” Mrs. Harkins said.

“Be quiet. I might need your help, but I’ll have you bodily removed if you get in my way.”

Mrs. Harkins subsided with a sniff.

He washed the blood away, taking a good look before it welled up again. As unlikely as it seemed, it appeared his little spy truly had been shot.

Whoever had done it had been at a fair distance, or the bullet would have gone straight through her arm. As it was, the blasted doctor was going to have to dig it out, and it was going to hurt like hell. At least the man had been a poor shot—he hadn’t managed to hit any vital organs. That still didn’t mean she was safe—more people died of the infection that could follow such an injury rather than the injury itself.

He wiped the blood away again. The bullet was lodged in her upper arm, and he couldn’t tell whether it had broken the bone or not. He pressed
the cloth against the wound to slow the bleeding and she moaned again. He glanced up, and found she’d turned to look at him, her eyes full of pain.

“What…?” The word was choked out.

“Don’t talk,” he said, his voice steady. “It’ll only wear you out, and you’re going to need all your strength. The doctor is coming, though I have no idea why it’s taking him so bloody long, and he’ll get the bullet out and you’ll soon be right as rain.”

“Bullet?” she gasped.

“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet? Yes, you’ve been shot, and when you’re feeling better you’re going to tell me whom you’ve annoyed so much that they decided to take a gun to you. In the meantime be still, and if the sawbones doesn’t come soon enough I’ll dig the bullet out myself.” He wasn’t ready to consider the fact that she was lying there because of him. More than likely there was some connection between this and Cecily’s disappearance. And he’d wanted to get her away from him, away from danger. He simply hadn’t had the time.

He turned his head. “Collins!” he shouted. “Bring me the goddamned brandy.”

Collins had just appeared with the tea tray, and he started to turn back, when Kilmartyn snapped, “Leave the tea. That’s for me. The brandy is for Mrs. Greaves.” Funny how easily that false name came to him. Maybe he was better off thinking of her by that name. Because Bryony suited her too well. Bryony was soft and sweet and delicious. Mrs. Greaves was dangerous.

“Yes, my lord.” Collins set the tea tray down on the table.

He turned back to the woman lying in the bed. “I thought that I’d better stay sober in case I’m the one who’s going to operate on you.”

She managed a hoarse cry, and he reached over and touched her face, stroking the side of it with a gentle hand. “Don’t worry, my angel,” he said under his breath, for her ears only, “I promise to take good care of you.”

Mrs. Harkins moved closer, a suspicious look on her face. Damn, she was a protective old bat. “I think brandy is a good idea, don’t you, Mrs. Harkins?” he said in a louder voice.

“Unless the doctor brings ether,” the cook replied, and he noticed she didn’t say “my lord” this time.

“I don’t know when the goddamned doctor plans to get here,” he said harshly. He expected the cook didn’t like his language, but that was something she was used to. When it came to her pet lamb she was willing to break all generations of training and stand up to him, but with everything else she was the perfect servant. The more champions Bryony had, the better.

The towel he was holding against her arm was soaked, and he tossed it on the floor, grabbing another and holding it against the wound. That bullet had to come out, and soon. He’d removed bullets before, when he’d traveled in India and run into trouble, but the thought of digging around in her tender flesh made him feel slightly ill. He’d do it if he had to…

“Doctor’s here,” Bertie announced from the door to the room, slightly breathless.

“Then where the hell is he?” Kilmartyn roared.

“He’s climbing the stairs, my lord.

He’s not as young as I am.”

“No excuse,” Kilmartyn said, rising from beside the bed. Bryony had closed her eyes again, but he was pretty sure she was still conscious. Unfortunately.

A moment later the stocky figure of Dr. Brattle appeared in the doorway. “What’s all this?” he said, surveying the sickroom. “I hear your housekeeper had some kind of accident. And who’s this young woman?”

“She’s the housekeeper,” Kilmartyn said. “And she’s been shot.”

Dr. Brattle knew him too well to stand on ceremony. “Awfully young and pretty to be a housekeeper.”

Kilmartyn shrugged. “She needed the work.”

Brattle had already removed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves as he surveyed his patient. “So who shot her?”

“I have no idea. And if you’ve finished this endless discussion perhaps you’d consider getting the bullet out of her arm?”

Kilmartyn’s acid tone had no effect on Brattle. “Don’t rush me. I need to see whether I can use ether to knock her out.”

“Why couldn’t you?”

“Because it would take me too long to render her unconscious, and judging by the look of that arm, the sooner I get it out the better. It’s a simple enough extraction,” he continued, sitting down in Kilmartyn’s vacated chair and examining the wound, “and I might be better off just going in and getting it, quick-like, before it has a chance to fester.” He leaned over. “Young lady, can you hear me?”

Bryony opened her eyes for a moment, staring at the doctor with hazy eyes. “Who…” she managed one word, and Kilmartyn broke in roughly.

“This is the doctor, Mrs. Greaves. He’ll tend to your arm. He’s good at what he does—you may trust him. He’s going to take the bullet out, and he’s going to do it right now, without ether. Or we can wait until an anesthetic takes effect.”

He saw her strong little jaw firm. “Now,” she said.

Brattle nodded. “My lord, if you will hold her down, and Mrs. Harkins, you could hold her legs. That’s right. Put your arm across her, my lord, and keep a strong hold of her arm.”

Kilmartyn had taken the seat on the opposite side of the bed, and he leaned over her, sliding one arm beneath her to hold her still, wrapping the other one around her, just below her breasts, to clasp her forearm. She let out a strangled cry—the pain must be radiating down her arm—and he felt his stomach twist. “For God’s sake, man, get the bloody thing out. Fast,” he growled.

Brattle had pulled out a variety of lethal-looking instruments, and he’d put on a thick pair of glasses, further endangering Kilmartyn’s peace of mind. “Don’t rush me, young man,” he said sternly. “My lord,” he added belatedly.

The next five minutes were some of the worst in his memory. She fought him, fought the doctor, and he held her fast, murmuring in her ear, soft, comforting words, endearments, praise for her bravery. He could sense she was trying very hard to hold still, but the pain was simply too much, and for some goddamned pathetic reason he wanted to kiss away the tears that ran down her face.

“Got it,” Brattle announced, holding the bullet up in his forceps, and Bryony slumped back against him. He didn’t let go of her, didn’t stop his
soft, soothing litany, some in English, some in the old language his mother had used when he was a baby, and he stroked her forearm with the gentlest of touches.

“About time,” Kilmartyn said, even as he whispered in her ear.

“It was a bit more complicated than I expected. The good thing is she hasn’t broken any bones, and the torn flesh should heal quite well. I expect she’ll regain full use of her arm.”

“You’d best hope so.” There was no mistaking the menace in his voice, but Brattle was unimpressed.

“I’m going to have to wash out the wound and disinfect it, and I expect she’s going to find that just as bad. Keep a hold on her, or she’ll probably punch you in the jaw.”

“She’d be more than happy to, even in the best of times,” Kilmartyn said. He whispered in her ear. “One more time, lass. It’ll hurt, but this time I promise it’ll be over quickly, or I’ll throw the bloody sawbones out the window.”

Did he see the faint trace of a smile on her face? He almost thought he did. Until she screamed as the doctor poured alcohol on the wound, her entire body arching, rigid in pain. And then, finally, she fainted.

“About time,” Brattle said. “I’m going to sew her up and she won’t like that either. Keep holding her, just in case she comes to.”

Kilmartyn had no intention of giving her up. He’d asked for her the moment he walked in the door after the police finally let him go, but she was nowhere in the house. When she hadn’t returned in an hour he’d gone looking for her. It was sheer luck he’d come across her as she stumbled home. Home. To him. Perhaps she trusted him after all.