Scandalous (3 page)

“Yessir. We're chasing a man…a bleedin'—er, I mean a bloomin' bedlamite. We was thinking ‘e might ‘ave come ‘ere.”

“A lunatic? Here? Unlikely.”

“Well, er, ‘e, that is, we was takin' ‘im back ‘ome, to ‘is family, see, and ‘e conked Mapes ‘ere over the ‘ead.” His companion turned to him with an indignant expression, but the speaker quelled him with a black look and hurried on, “We ‘as to catch ‘im, sir. ‘E's right dangerous. Crafty, you see.”

“I see. Well, he obviously caught
you
napping, at least,” Florian said to the smaller man.

“It weren't my fault,” the shorter man protested, and rounded on his cohort. “It could've ‘appened to you.”

“Yeah, well, it didn't now, did it? And I ‘adn't emptied a bottle of gin, neither.”

His words effectively silenced the short man, who scowled and looked away. Florian gazed first at one man, then at the other, as if he were studying some curious form of insect life, letting the silence build until both men were fidgeting uncomfortably.

“Well,” Florian drawled finally, “I fear that I cannot help you with your problem. You shall have to take your search elsewhere.”

The tall one, the apparent leader of the duo, persisted. “You ain't seen nobody this evenin'?”

“My good man, I just said so, didn't I? Do you doubt my word?” Florian invested his voice with scorn. “I rather suspect that it is the two of you who are escaped madmen—or perhaps it's simply that you have spent too much time with your gin bottles. Now, kindly take your wild stories elsewhere—you are frightening my daughter.”

Priscilla moved behind her father a little, doing her best to look timid. The tall man grimaced. He seemed reluctant to move away, but, as Florian was firmly closing the door, he had little choice. Florian shut the door and shot the old-fashioned metal bar across it. He turned, smiling down at his daughter.

“Well, my dear, was that a satisfactory performance?”

“Absolutely splendid,” Priscilla replied, beam
ing. “You reminded me of the old Duke for a minute there.”

“Actually, I was aping my father's cousin, but Ranleigh will do.”

“I'm glad you decided to protect him.”

“I couldn't see turning anyone over to those two. I'm not sure yet whether our guest is a villain, but it did not take much imagination to see that
they
were up to no good.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “I wonder what the real story is.”

“Perhaps we shall find out when our visitor awakens. He came to a few minutes ago, but he tried to stand up and sank like a stone again.”

“Seems to do that rather a lot,” Florian commented mildly.

“Mm…I think I found the reason—or at least one of them. He has a ferocious knot on his head. His hair was matted with blood.”

“So…knocked over the head.”

“I also discovered something else. He has been bound hand and foot. There are rope burns on his wrists and ankles.”

Florian's eyebrows lifted. “Been held prisoner somewhere, then. This story gets more and more interesting. Who do you suppose those men are? And who is
he?
Were they cohorts who fell out? Or is he an innocent set upon by ruffians? Or could their story be true—that he's mad as a hatter and they've been hired to bring him back?”

“They don't look very truthful to me—nor the sort one would hire to look after someone.”

“If he is mad and strong, one might have to choose
force over finesse.” He paused. “Did he say anything while he was awake?”

“He cursed—fiercely. Then Pennybaker threatened to bash him in the head with the bowl of water. He looked at her and her curling rags all over her head and declared that he was in a madhouse. That was when he jumped up and fainted again.”

Florian chuckled and ran his fingers back through his hair, as he always did when he was considering a knotty problem. “We cannot turn the fellow out into the night, though I can't like having someone we know so little in the house. Still, I suppose he can't be too much of a threat, if he faints every time he gets to his feet.”

“Probably not,” Priscilla agreed, walking back to the staircase to retrieve the blankets. “In any case, I intend to sit up with him tonight.”

“Sit up with him? Why?”

“He doesn't just have a head wound. He is quite hot, and I think you were right about his having a fever. I need to keep an eye on him, at least for the next few hours. If he gets too serious, we may have to send for the doctor.”

“Perhaps I should stay with you,” Florian mused, his forehead wrinkling. “He could be dangerous.”

“Papa, you said so yourself—he's too weak and sick to stand up, let alone hurt me. Anyway—” her lips curved up into a smile “—I have promised Pennybaker I will carry a weapon.”

“A weapon? What sort of weapon?”

“A rolling pin was what I thought of.”

“This might be more to the point.” Florian reached into the capacious pocket of his jacket and pulled out a long-barreled gun.

“Grandpa's dueling pistol?” Priscilla exclaimed. “What are you doing with that?”

“I thought it best to answer the door armed, just in case.”

“So you pulled down Grandpa's gun and loaded it?”

“Oh, no. It has no ammunition. I keep the guns in their case, but I haven't a clue where to find a ball and powder. It hasn't been used in ninety years. I'm not sure it would fire even if I had the powder. But it looks quite threatening.”

“Yes, unless your bluff is called.”

“You can always turn it around and pop him on the head with the butt. With this fellow, it should do the trick.”

“Papa!” Priscilla couldn't suppress a giggle. She reached out and took the pistol, sticking it down into the long pocket of her skirt. “All right. I shall sit with it in my lap to intimidate him should he wake up.”

“Still, I probably ought to stay with you.” Florian's eyes darted involuntarily toward his study, where, no doubt, some fascinating tome on chemistry awaited him.

Priscilla smiled indulgently. “Nonsense,” she said stoutly. “I won't hear of it. I am perfectly fine by myself, and I have this gun. And you won't be far away. I can always scream.”

“That's true.” Florian brightened at this easy solution to his dilemma. “I'll come running immediately.”

Priscilla kissed her father on the cheek and watched fondly as he hurried off toward his study, his mind obviously already on the subject that awaited him. She turned
and walked down the hall to the kitchen. Opening the door, she stepped inside.

An arm lashed out and wrapped around her, effectively pinning her arms to her side and jerking her backward against a hard male body. At the same time, another hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the beginnings of a piercing scream.

P
RISCILLA TWISTED AND TURNED,
trying to pull away, but the arm around her was too strong. She thought of the gun her father had given her, now lying useless, deep in the pocket of her skirts. She had underestimated her visitor, and she cursed herself bitterly for being so foolishly confident.

“Now!” his voice whispered in her ear. “Who the hell are you? What am I doing here? And where the hell are my clothes?”

Priscilla made an irritated noise. How did the fool expect her to speak with his hand over her mouth?

“I'll take away my hand,” he went on, “as long as you don't scream. One scream, and—” His arm tightened briefly in emphasis. “I can snap your neck like a chicken's.” He paused, then said, “Do you understand? Will you agree?”

Priscilla nodded. His hand loosened over her mouth, then slowly withdrew. He settled it on her throat, his fingers stretching suggestively across it. Priscilla shivered; the touch of his hot hand on the sensitive skin of her throat sent strange vibrations through her. She could feel his body, hard with muscles, pressed against hers all the way down, and she could not keep from thinking about the fact that he was naked.

“Answer me,” he prodded, his breath hot against her cheek.

“I, uh…” Priscilla stopped and cleared her throat, then continued in a stronger voice, “My name is Priscilla Hamilton, and you are at Evermere Cottage. As to what you are doing here, I was rather hoping that you could enlighten me on that score.”

“Hamilton?” he repeated vaguely, and she could feel his body sag a little. “I don't know you.”

“No. Nor do I know you. All I'm certain of is that you collapsed on our doorstep about thirty minutes ago.”

“Why?” he asked softly, but she got the impression that he was speaking more to himself than to her.

He removed his hand from her throat and brought it up to his face. He swayed a little and leaned against the wall, his arm loosening around her waist.

Priscilla knew that her moment had arrived. She stamped down hard on his bare foot with her shod one, and at the same moment lunged forward with all her strength. He let out a grunt of pain and surprise, and his arm fell away, so that Priscilla was able to break away from him. He reached out, grabbing for her, but it was too late. She pulled out the ancient dueling pistol and spun around to face him.

His mouth dropped open and he stared at the gun in her hand. “You cunning little bitch! You
are
one of them, aren't you?”

“One of whom?” Priscilla retorted, and gestured with her gun. “Move back against the wall. I am the one asking the questions now.”

He leaned back against the wall, though it looked more as if from necessity than because of any command from her. His face was pale, and sweat stood out on his
forehead. From the expression on his face as he closed his eyes, Priscilla suspected that his head was spinning again. Her eyes slipped a little lower. It was extremely uncomfortable standing there dealing with a man who was utterly naked. He seemed perversely unconcerned and at ease in his naked state, which somehow made her feel even more awkward.

She refused to stare at him; it would be in appalling taste. Yet it was extremely hard to look anywhere else. She could not help but notice the breadth of his shoulders or the bony outthrust of his collarbone, or the way his chest was padded with muscles. She had never seen any man naked, of course, but she could not imagine that any of the gentleman of her acquaintance would resemble this man if she was to see them in such a state. Her younger brothers' lanky, bony bodies were nothing like his, and even Alec, who was a constant and bruising rider, had a wiry build.

But this man, who was almost a foot taller than she, was anything but wiry. His body looked chiseled from granite; there wasn't an ounce of excess flesh anywhere on him. Priscilla had never realized that a man's body could be so…intriguing. Her eyes drifted lower, and she jerked them away selfconsciously, blushing. She was glad that his eyes had been closed and he hadn't seen how—and where—she was staring.

“I think it would be better if you sat down while we talked,” Priscilla began stiffly. “Otherwise I'll have you back on the floor.”

He opened his eyes and looked at her. “I passed out before, didn't I?”

“Mm… Twice now.”

He shook his head and winced. “Damn! What is the
matter with me?” He wiped his hand over his face. “I'm sweating buckets. Things just start whirling.” He looked at Priscilla as if these things were her fault.

“I suspect it's that large bump on your head. As well as the fact that you are running a raging fever. Now, I suggest you walk back that way and into that little room off the kitchen. There's a cot there.” She nodded toward the blankets she had dropped on the floor when he grabbed her. “There's a blanket I brought for you.”

He turned and looked at them, bent carefully and picked up one of the blankets, then wrapped it around his shoulders, holding it closed in front. He walked through the kitchen and into the side room, moving slowly but with carefully precise movements. When he sank onto the cot, he had to stifle a groan, and his head dropped to his hands for a moment. Priscilla couldn't keep from feeling a pang of sympathy.

“I am sorry,” she told him. “I would give you something for the pain, but that's not really a good idea with head injuries.”

He raised his head and looked at her, puzzled. “I don't understand. Why did you bring me this? Why did you bandage my head?”

“Why wouldn't I? You were obviously hurt and…and, well, you needed a blanket. Anyone would have done the same.”

“But you…aren't you working with them?”

“Who is ‘them'? I am not working with anyone.”

“I don't know their names. The two that had me tied up. The drunk, and the other one.”

“A tall fellow? Thin? With a scar?”

“Yes, that's the one. What is he to you?”

“Nothing. He and a short man who struck me as
having imbibed too freely just came to our door, looking for you.”

He continued to stare at her in confusion. “You didn't give me to them?”

“No. Papa told them no one had come here tonight. He thought they looked a proper pair of ruffians, and they did.”

“So you aren't working with them.” He relaxed. “Thank God. Then why are you holding a pistol on me?”

“May I remind you that you were the one who attacked me as I entered the kitchen? I thought a gun seemed an excellent idea, actually.”

“You're right.” He wiped his hand across his forehead again. “I apologize. My behavior was…exceedingly impolite.” A long shudder racked him. He pulled the blanket closer around him. “I feel very strange.”

“You have a fever. How long were you tied up? And were you, uh, dressed that way the whole time?” Priscilla asked, blushing.

He looked down at himself, puzzled. “Yes. I think so. I don't remember when—That is, I woke up, and I was like this, only bound hand and foot. They were there, on guard, and they changed sometimes. First one and then the other. But it was terribly hard to keep track of the time. I think it was days—it seemed forever. But I think there were just two nights and two days—after I came to, of course. I have no idea how long I was there before that.”

Another shiver shook him, and he said, “Is it cold in here? I feel quite cold.”

“I'll get you the other blanket.” Priscilla got up and went out into the kitchen. She was no longer really
frightened of the stranger; he seemed too weak at the moment to harm her, anyway. But she was careful not to turn her back to him, even so. She returned and tossed the blanket to him, also careful not to get close enough for him to grab her arm.

He seemed to have no interest in doing anything like that, anyway. He wrapped the other blanket around himself and sat, shivering. Yet his face was flushed, and sweat was pouring off him. “Do you mind? I think—I think I have to lie down.”

He lay down on his side on the cot, his eyes fluttering closed.

“But, wait. Sir…” Priscilla moved closer, bending down to peer at him. “You have not told me yet. What happened to you? Why are those men after you?”

“I—I don't know.” His teeth chattered, and he curled up into a tight ball. “It's so cold.”

Priscilla hesitated. Then she stuck the empty pistol back into her pocket and hurried out of the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later with three more blankets, cautiously opening the door and peering into the room before she entered. Her guest was nowhere in sight.

She found him lying on his cot, but he had turned over onto his back and now slept with all his covers thrown off and his arms flung wide. Priscilla moved closer hesitantly. His skin was red with heat, and sweat dampened his body. He had obviously gone from a chill back to a fever. Still, he should have cover. Priscilla edged closer, feeling strangely reluctant and guilty.

It was foolish to feel guilty, she told herself, though she knew why she did. It was because she was tempted to look down, to let her eyes drift lower, past their visitor's flat stomach, down to the nest of hair and the…
thing
that lay there. The very male thing that she had been trying to avoid looking at from the moment she first answered the door this evening, yet which she could not keep her eyes from straying to now and then before she caught herself and pulled them back.

It was just that she was curious. She had never actually seen one of
those.
No woman of decency had, unless she was married, and Priscilla wasn't really sure one did even then. It was something she was not supposed to know about, and true ladies, she had been told when she was a child, would not even be curious about such things. However, Priscilla had decided some time ago that she probably did not have the soul of a true lady. She found most ladylike endeavors boring, and the thing she loved to do, and which brought her much needed income, was not considered a fit occupation for a lady, either.

Her secret love was writing—and not ladylike diaries or accounts of travels, or the sort of bad poetry young women were supposed to scribble, but full-blooded, hair-raising adventure stories. There was nothing she loved like a foreign setting, a stalwart hero and plenty of dangers to overcome. She had grown up reading the Gothic horrors of the Brontë sisters and the sweeping heroic tales of Sir Walter Scott. Books had carried her away to lands she dreamed of and knew she would never see, had introduced her to brave and wonderful people, the sort she knew must exist somewhere.

Her entire life she had lived a quiet existence, but in her head she had seethed with excitement. Reading the stories had not been enough; other stories danced in her head, compelling and intriguing her. So she had begun to write, traveling to exotic locales in her mind,
creating the sort of perfect, adventurous men who lived only in her imagination. Men who did not stay on their estates, growing old and chasing foxes, perhaps traveling to London for a treat, men well content to be who and where they were. The men in her mind, the ones who flowed out of her pen and onto paper, were adventurers all, most of them brave and noble, some of them villainous, but all of them seekers—of treasures, of truth, of excitement. Men who risked everything.

The man who lay before her could have passed for one of those men. He looked the part: tall, handsome, strong, mysterious, and in danger. It was exactly the sort of thing a hero in a book would do, come knocking on a lady's door with men in pursuit of him—except, of course, that he would be clothed and, normally, he would fight off his pursuers. But real life, of course, could not be exactly the same as a book; real life was usually so unmanageable. This man was the closest she had ever come to one of the larger-than-life men who lived in her books. It was no wonder, she told herself, that she was curious.

Of course, one of the genteel heroines of her books would never think of looking on an unclothed man. They were the proper women that society expected, even if they did get into predicaments that no real lady would. Priscilla, however, was well aware that she was not one of her heroines. And
she
was thoroughly curious about the male anatomy.

She thought about how embarrassing it would be if he happened to wake up and catch her staring at him. But even that thought could not deter her for long. She turned and looked down his body, then quickly away,
and then back, blushing furiously, but unable to keep from gazing at him.

So that was how men were built. It seemed quite strange, so different from women, and yet…there was something fascinating about it. Looking at him, she felt an odd sensation stirring deep in her loins, and she was aware of a completely improper urge to reach out and touch him. She would not, of course; even she was not that lost to propriety—or that daring.

The man stirred on the cot, and Priscilla jumped. Hastily she covered him with one of the blankets she had brought. The man was ill and needed her help, she reminded herself. She put her hand on his forehead. He was burning up.

She returned to the kitchen and got a fresh bowl of water and a new wash rag, then went back to her patient. After dipping the rag in the water, she squeezed it out and laid it on his forehead. Leaving it there, she went back into the kitchen to search for the bottle of tonic that her friend Anne had given her the last time Philip had a fever. It had worked rather well, as she remembered. She found it at last in the back of a cupboard and mixed a spoonful of it in a glass with a little water.

She returned to her patient. He was moving restlessly on the cot and had already shoved his blanket down to his waist. He murmured something unintelligible as Priscilla knelt on the floor beside him. “Mr….” She wished she knew his name; it seemed strange to be tending someone she could not even address by name. “Sir, can you sit up? I have something for you to drink.”