COLIN SWAM UP from a dark pool of passion. Lifting his head, he saw Portia glowering up at him. For a moment he couldn’t comprehend her frown. He was too taken by her aura of eroticism, the dark brown hair so soft and tumbled, the eyes so blue and long-lashed, the breasts so perfectly formed. He was keenly aware of her lush body beneath him as his blood-starved brain strove to decipher her harsh words. She was pressing a small round object to his side.
A pistol?
Reality returned with a jolt. Where the devil had she found the weapon? She must have had it secreted in her cloak—because she damn sure couldn’t have hidden it in that form-fitting gown.
For the first time in his life, he was struck speechless. No woman had ever drawn a gun on him. They usually begged him to continue, rather than commanded him to stop.
“You heard me,” Portia said sharply. “Move quickly now. This pistol may be small, but it’s deadly at this range.”
By God, she meant it. She would put a bullet through him if he didn’t obey. The realization was as galling as it was startling.
Bracing his hands on the mattress, he thrust himself from her. The weapon she pointed at him was a tiny pistol, almost a toy, but she was right, it could kill at this short distance as easily as a rifle at twenty paces.
A plethora of emotions bombarded Colin. His forced capitulation to her demand left him mortified and insulted. He was frustrated by his unslaked desire, angry with himself for taking the kiss further than he’d planned, and irked with her for threatening him. It was enough to make his temper snap.
“Have you gone mad? Give me that gun.”
He lunged for the pistol, catching her off guard as she was scrambling from the bed.
“No!” she cried, twisting herself away from him.
He caught her by the wrist and tried to pry the pistol free from her taut fingers. For a moment they struggled, and he managed to turn her to face him, keeping the barrel pointed away from him. She was stronger than she looked. On some distant level, he was appalled at himself for wrestling with a lady, but he wasn’t about to let her continue to threaten his life, either.
Uttering a choked cry, she gave a sudden violent lurch, breaking his hold on her. A shot exploded.
Colin saw the flash and a puff of smoke, felt a sharp sting along his upper arm. The shock of it sent him stumbling backward to crash into the escritoire. Blinking, he looked down to see a neat furrow torn in his sleeve.
An instant later, it burned like hellfire.
The stink of gunpowder gave him a dizzying jolt. It sent him rushing back to a dark place, to another room where his father lay in a pool of blood. The horror of that memory made him sway on his feet.
Her eyes wide, Portia dropped the spent pistol and clapped her hands to her mouth. “Oh, my heavens! Are you hurt?”
Banishing the past, he sucked a breath through his teeth. “I’ll live, I’m sure. Much to your sorrow.”
Anxious to examine the wound, he gingerly tugged at his fashionably tight coat, and she hastened to help him remove it. “I didn’t mean to pull the trigger,” she said, looking shaken. “I just wanted you to stay away from me.”
“Never mind. No doubt I deserved it.”
The throbbing pain had banished every vestige of lust in him, allowing him to see his disreputable actions more clearly. That is, until she pushed him into a chair and bent over him, removing his silver cuff link and rolling up his sleeve.
Her cloak had fallen to the floor by the bed. He had a magnificent view of her breasts, mounded above her revealing red bodice. He could see right down into that tantalizing valley where he wanted to bury his face and breathe deeply of her scent—
“Argh!” He bit off an involuntary curse as she thrust a folded handkerchief over the bleeding wound and pressed hard. “Must you be so brutal?”
“Must you stare at my bosom?”
He snatched the cloth out of her hand and applied it in a more cautious manner. “I can’t imagine what else I am to look at when you’re flaunting it right in front of me.”
“I’m not flaunting anything.” Stepping back, she crossed her arms in a futile attempt to hide her charms. “I’m trying to help you. Not that you’ve shown the slightest appreciation.”
“I don’t appreciate the fact that you shot me.”
“Lecher! It’s your own fault for trying to seduce me.”
She glared at him, and he glared back. Any retort he might have uttered died on his tongue as someone rapped hard on the door. Before he could even move, the door burst open.
A woman in a flowing green dressing gown scurried into the bedchamber, her hair caught in a long red braid down her back. Her exquisite features were drawn with worry.
Colin suppressed a groan. God help him, here was a complication he didn’t need.
“I heard gunfire,” she said breathlessly, glancing from him to Portia, then back again. “Oh, my stars! Have you been injured, my lord? Shall I summon a doctor?”
“No. Go back to your chamber at once.”
“Wait,” Portia said, countermanding his order. Her eyes narrowed, she marched toward the woman. “You’re Hannah Wilton, aren’t you? I saw you walking with Lord Ratcliffe in Hyde Park.”
“Yes, miss, I recognize you, too.” Dipping a curtsy, Hannah gazed askance at Portia’s skimpy gown, as if trying to work out why she was in his bedchamber. “You’re Miss Crompton. His lordship mentioned your name.”
Portia arched a skeptical eyebrow at Colin. “Oh? And just what did he say—”
Another arrival interrupted her, much to Colin’s relief. The last thing he wanted was any conversation between his former mistress and the woman he intended to coax into marriage.
Orson Tudge stomped into the bedchamber. “Wot’s goin’ on in ’ere?” he asked. “I ’eard a gun go off. Woke me up all the way down in the basement.”
“It was nothing,” Colin snapped. “Return to bed, both of you.”
But Tudge was staring from the dainty pistol lying on the floor to Colin, who was still sitting down while holding the compress over his upper arm. “So the little lady shot ye, eh?” He cast a rather admiring look at Portia.
She gave a crisp nod. “I did, indeed. He tried to force me into his bed.”
Colin bit back a retort that she had encouraged him by melting in his arms. But no gentleman kissed and told, and despite her low opinion of him, he possessed at least a modicum of honor.
Much to his annoyance, Tudge chortled. “Lemme ’ave a look at the damage.” He tramped closer, pushed Colin’s hand away, and pulled off the handkerchief. “A right fine furrow. But t’ain’t near as bad as when Westbrook shot you in that duel last year.”
“He’d never have succeeded had not my pistol misfired,” Colin said, gritting his teeth as Tudge poked at the wound. He waved the servant away. “That’s enough of your fussing.”
Hannah was hovering, too. “You should pour some whiskey on it,” she advised. “My father was in the army and that is what he would have done.”
“I believe I saw some right here,” Portia said, hurrying to a cabinet and withdrawing a chipped crystal decanter. She brought it over, along with a glass.
Hannah gave her a sidelong look of startlement. She must be wondering how a refined young lady like Portia knew her way around his bedchamber, Colin thought blackly. Hannah didn’t know about Portia’s search for the miniature. He would have to come up with an explanation, lest she think Portia had come to his bedchamber for a liaison gone awry.
Good God, how had he landed himself in such a royal mess?
A searing pain penetrated his arm. He sucked in a breath as Portia poured a trickle of liquor over the injury while Hannah held a washbasin beneath his arm to catch the drips.
“Cease and desist,” he growled, tired of being treated like a complete sapskull who had no say in his own treatment. “It’s a waste of good Irish whiskey. Pour me a glass instead.”
No one listened to him.
“Have you any basilicum ointment, Mr. Tudge?” Portia asked. “It will help prevent infection. And fetch some bandages, too, if you will.”
As Tudge went to do her bidding, he was nearly bowled over by a tall, pretty girl who came running into the bedchamber. A black cloak flapped like the wings of a crow around her dark gown. Colin was taken aback to realize she was Portia’s middle sister, Lindsey, whom he had met the previous night in Portia’s bedchamber.
What the devil was she doing here?
Remembering his manners, he attempted to stand up, saw spots swirl in his vision, and promptly sat back down. It was aggravating since he’d hardly lost enough blood to fill a thimble.
Well, perhaps several large thimbles.
“What’s happened?” she cried out. “I heard a shot downstairs and came as quickly as I could.”
“Downstairs?” Portia asked. “You were supposed to be outside.”
“I was searching his lordship’s study. It didn’t make any sense for me to stand out in the cold, doing nothing.”
“ ’Ow’d ye get in?” Tudge asked with a lowering frown. “Place is locked up tight as a drum.”
“I used a hairpin to spring the back latch,” Lindsey said. “You really ought to invest in iron bolts. Now, what is going on here?” She pushed everyone aside and planted herself squarely in front of Colin, her hands on her hips. “Did you harm my sister, Ratcliffe? Because if you touched one hair on her head, I shall summon the Watch and have you hauled off at once to Bow Street Station.”
“It should be obvious who has come to harm here,” he said testily. “And I don’t appreciate having a crowd in my bedchamber. It’s the middle of the night and I command all of you to depart.”
Tudge immediately ducked out of the room. Hannah also glided toward the door, but Portia stopped her. “Before you go, I would like a word with you. If you’ll sit down, please.”
Hannah flashed a cautious glance at Colin. “I—I couldn’t.”
“You’re exactly right,” he concurred. “Go on off to bed.”
“Nonsense, this will only require a few moments of your time,” Portia said, taking Hannah by the arm and leading her to one of the overstuffed chairs by the fire.
“Who is she?” Lindsey hissed to her sister. “What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain later,” Portia said, shushing her with a wave of her hand. She picked up her cloak and put it on, covering that delectable gown before going to sit opposite Hannah. “Forgive me for being blunt, but Lord Ratcliffe told me about your situation. However, he neglected to mention you were staying here under his roof.”
“There was no need for you to know,” Colin snapped, surly from the throbbing in his arm. “And there still isn’t. So run along now. I won’t have you badgering my servants.”
“Your servant?”
“Quite. She’s my new housekeeper.”
“Ah,” Portia said, giving him a long, inscrutable stare that made Colin want to shift in his seat like a naughty schoolboy. Of course, she probably believed the employment was merely a ruse for him to keep a handy woman available for his lecherous pleasures.
“I feared this might happen,” Hannah said in a miserable tone, her fingers twisting the folds of her dressing gown. “I told his lordship it wasn’t fitting for one of my ilk to stay in his house, that people of consequence will find out, and the gossip won’t bode well for a gentleman about to be married.”
As if she’d been poked by a pin, Portia sat up straight. “He isn’t getting married—at least not to me.”
“Oh! I do beg your pardon, miss.” Hannah looked as if she didn’t quite know what to believe. “But regardless, I don’t wish to be a burden. I—I’ll depart at first light, if that’s all right. I’d go straightaway, but it’s dark and there are footpads—”
“You misunderstand me.” Portia leaned forward to lay her hand over Hannah’s nervous fingers. “I won’t allow you to do anything to endanger yourself or your unborn child. You’ll stay right here—so long as Ratcliffe gives his solemn vow not to make undue demands on you.”
Livid at the implication that he’d force himself on a pregnant woman, Colin jumped to his feet. He willed away a brief dizziness and stalked toward Portia. “I haven’t given you permission to issue orders in this house,” he said. “Nor have you the right to make any stipulations in regard to my—”
“Stop, villain!” Lindsey rushed in between him and Portia. In her hand, she brandished a small pocket knife. “Keep your distance from my sister.”
Colin went stock-still. “Good God, have you lost all sanity?”
“Lindsey!” Portia popped up from the chair to seize her sister’s arm. “For heaven’s sake, Lord Ratcliffe isn’t threatening me, at least not anymore. Now, put that knife away at once and go wait out in the corridor.”
“But he might—”
“Go.”
To Colin’s relief, Lindsey dropped the blade into her reticule. She scooped up the toy pistol and walked out of the bedchamber, scowling at him over her shoulder as if he were the devil incarnate. Like her sister, she was a bossy little baggage. But at least Miss Lindsey Crompton knew when to bow to authority.
Unlike Portia.
He stalked over to pour himself a double splash of whiskey. “A bloodthirsty lot, you and your family,” he muttered.
“If you don’t like us, then pray stay out of our lives,” Portia said tartly before returning her attention to Hannah. “Now, I should like to have a look at the room you’ve been given. If it’s up in the attic as I suspect, you must move at once to this floor. It cannot be good for you to be climbing too many steps in your delicate condition.”
Colin almost choked on a swallow of liquor. Coughing, he couldn’t manage to voice a protest as the two women left his bedchamber. By the time he could breathe normally again, Tudge had come bustling back, armed with linen and ointments. He bullied Colin into sitting down and having his arm bandaged.
Colin could hear the faint buzz of female conversation far down the passageway. But no matter how he strained his ears, he couldn’t make out their words. It jolted him that Portia would even speak to a fallen woman, let alone see to her comfort. Any other well-bred lady would have given Hannah the cut direct, pretending she didn’t even exist.
Portia had to have an ulterior purpose. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it could be. Her abrupt about-switch made him extremely uneasy. Nothing good could come of her asking questions of his former mistress.
Nothing good at all.