Chapter 12

 

 

 

Oliver groaned. Why even wear a disguise if every blasted person he came across recognized him? Frustrated and racked with pain, he tore off the mask and hair scarf and tossed them aside. “What gave me away?”

“The mole above your upper lip. You disguised your voice well. I would never have guessed it was you.” Claudia frowned. “Wait, that was you in that alley. When I—”

“We can discuss it later,” he murmured. “Help me get this coat off. And the rest. I am not feeling well at all.” Claudia assisted him in stripping away the layers until his torso was bare. With a grunt of discomfort, Oliver turned on his side. “How bad is it?”

Claudia pushed the lamp closer. Her fingers trailed along the slice in his skin. “It is not deep. But it is a long laceration, six inches or more. It’s why it bled so profusely. It will take a while to stitch this closed.”

“Then you had best get to it,” he barked. 

Claudia raised an eyebrow at his tone. “Steady on, my lord.”

“Sorry. I am in considerable pain.”

“Understandable. However, we should keep pressure on the wound until the bleeding subsides. At least, that is what I have heard is the proper response.” Claudia refolded the shawl, tucking the blood-soaked portion of the garment at the bottom. She pressed it on his side, causing him to hiss through clenched teeth. “Let’s give it about ten minutes.”

“How did Danaher know your name?” he asked, watching her intently.

“He was involved with my mother years ago. It is a long, wretched story,” she replied.

“We have plenty of time.”

“How did you know Danaher’s name?”

“The detective I mentioned. Simpson told me. That is why I wanted the surveillance to continue. I wanted to confirm Bryan did not cross paths with Jedidiah Danaher.”

Claudia sighed. “It appears we have much to discuss. First, we have to tend to your wound.” She pulled the shawl away and inspected it. “The blood flow is lessening. Good.”

“Were you going to kill Danaher?” Oliver asked, his voice a husky whisper.

“If needs must. We were fighting for our lives. You should have let me finish Danaher before knocking him unconscious. He is a treacherous foe. Where is your dagger, by the way?”

“I did not bring it tonight; more’s the pity. Have you killed before?”

“I have used my knife in self-defense situations. Did anyone I cut—bleed out? I never stuck around to find out.”

Oliver gazed at her. She was a fighter and the most fascinating woman he had ever met. 

“Have you killed anyone in your vigilante doings?” Claudia asked, meeting his concentrated regard.

“I haven’t been doing it for that long. So, no. But who knows what circumstance may arise? Am I capable? I believe anyone is. But my first instinct is to avoid it at all costs. It would only anger and stir up the criminal element. And the police.”

“You have a point. I can begin the stitching now. Please lower your leather trousers partway to give me ample space to work.” Leaning close to the light, she efficiently threaded the needle and tied a knot at the end. “We are not working under the best conditions here. Infection may set in. Is there any alcohol I can use to sterilize the needle?”

He should have thought of that. But Oliver had not counted on hiding down here any length of time, let alone requiring no more than a stitch or two along with a plaster and gauze. But this? He could feel the cool, damp air against the open wound. This was more serious than he had planned for. “No. None.” He unbuttoned his trousers with quaking hands and pulled them down far enough over his hip for her to work.

Claudia tore away a piece of her frayed skirt, soaked the material with water from the jar, then cleaned the wound. Then she pinched the injury closed between two fingers. “I know this is inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you are well put together, Tensbridge. Such muscular perfection.” The needle slipped through his skin. “There, did the compliment lessen the impact?”

“Is that the only reason you gave it?” he rumbled.

“No. That is not the only reason. Who knew such potent masculinity resided under your stuffy wool suits?”

Oliver chuckled, then groaned. “Do not make me laugh. I work at it—staying in shape. One has to be able to fight, leap across roofs, and the like.”

“You sat there in your study during our meetings, acting every inch the aloof aristocrat when you knew what we shared. The closeness, the touching—and rubbing against you.”

He was growing aroused—in his condition, no less. “If you only knew how I wanted to vault across my desk, hold you in my arms, and kiss you senseless. Back you up against the wall, trail my hand under your skirt, and find the wetness therein.”

The needle stilled, but she kept her head down. “I had a momentary lapse of judgment with your alter ego in that alley.” Claudia continued with her stitching.

“With both of us in disguise, we felt safe enough to act on a mutual attraction. You never felt anything toward Tensbridge, then? I am not a vain man, but there was something—there. There still is.”

“Did you just refer to yourself in the third person?”

“Yes, I suppose that happens when one has an alter ego. Allow me to correct that. You never felt anything toward me, then?”

“How long do we have to stay here?” Claudia asked as she continued to concentrate on sewing up his wound.

Changing the subject once again. 

He would let it go for now, but they would soon address this. “We stay until tomorrow night. I would collapse if we tried to leave before sunrise.”

The needle halted once again. “Tomorrow night? What about food? What about—normal bodily functions?”

“There is some food in the trunk, not much mind, so we must be prudent. Same with the water. And in the corner, there is a bucket we can use.”

“God, how mortifying,” Claudia mumbled as she quickened the pace of her sewing.

“Speaking of the bucket, you had best bring it here and hurry.” Oliver retched, holding his hand over his mouth.

Claudia scrambled to her feet, located the container, and held it under his chin. He vomited, his insides roiled like mad. Oliver heaved until there was nothing else to bring up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Talk about mortifying,” he croaked, his throat raw.

“You were in a vicious fight and seriously injured, Tensbridge. I feel like vomiting myself. Here, take another mouthful of water to clear the taste out of your mouth.” She held the jar to his lips, and he took a sip. Rinsing his mouth, he spit into the bucket.

“Alone like this, call me Oliver—Claudia.”

Placing the pail aside, she continued with her task. “Almost done, Oliver.”

It took all his inner fortitude not to moan aloud at the sound of his name on her lovely lips. “I never asked how you are. That was quite the punch from Danaher.”

“I will recover. There will be bruising, I’ve no doubt. It will match the ones on my arm.”

“Show me.”

Claudia pulled her sleeve up to her shoulder. The middle part of her arm was covered in brown and yellow bruises. Oliver could swear he saw a handprint where that monster had grabbed her.

“Is that from the other night? Danaher?” She nodded in response. The fury growing inside of him was disturbing. “I should have let you kill him,” Oliver snarled. 

“You have no say in whether I do or not. But you spoke sense. However, I have a distinct feeling there will be other opportunities.”

Several minutes passed, and even though he had brought up the contents of his stomach, he still felt nauseous. Claudia was right. Though not a deep cut, it was still a severe wound. Oliver could only hope the blade did not nick his colon or kidney. Danaher’s knife was no doubt filthy. 

Claudia leaned in, took the thread between her teeth, and bit it. “There. Done. I hope the stitching holds. I am not a trained nurse. No blood is leaking through. For now.” She laid a gauze over the wound, then wrapped a long strip around his middle to hold it in place and tied the ends. Claudia stood, taking the bucket to the far corner, and, finding a flat piece of wood, placed it over the top to cover it.

Then she returned to the trunk. “I thought I saw a blanket in here—ah. Found it.” Taking his leather coat, waistcoat, and shirt, she folded them, making a pillow, and placed them behind his head. “You should stay lying on your side and try to relax. Obviously, on the side not injured.” Claudia covered him with the blanket.

“Not a nurse? You are certainly acting as one,” he replied, pulling the trousers over his hips. “And I genuinely appreciate the care. Best we put out the lamp. We may need the oil.” Oliver lifted part of the blanket. “Come here, in next to me. It will become colder tonight, and we must stay warm.”

Claudia pursed her lips. “I am not sure that is wise.”

“Because there is a mutual attraction?”

“Yes. We cannot act on it,” Claudia whispered. Did Oliver hear regret in her voice?

“The condition I am in, I could not act on it even if I wanted to.”

Claudia turned down the wick, and darkness descended. She did not move toward him. After several moments, she climbed onto the pallet and lay on her side, her back to him. Oliver laid the blanket over her and moved closer, laying his arm on her hip. 

“Never mind that,” he murmured, referring to his erection. “It is my permanent state whenever you are near.”

Claudia laced her fingers through his and squeezed gently. “Try to sleep.”

As if he could. How many nights had he dreamed of this since they met, having Claudia in his arms? As much as Oliver wanted to revel in her nearness and the feel of her soft curves, his eyes grew heavy, and sleep overtook him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It took quite a while before Claudia fell asleep. How long she slept, who knows? Oliver still breathed heavily next to her. She was lying with a man. Sharing a sleeping area was not as horrible as she thought. Oliver was warm, and his arm around her did not make her feel trapped. His potent presence calmed her rattled nerves. And what he had said earlier about vaulting over his desk and kissing her senseless? It had sent such a thrill of desire through her; she grew wet as he said.

But the biggest revelation?

Finding out Tensbridge—Oliver—was The Sentinel.

Hell’s bells, never would she have guessed. Why would she even suspect it?

A viscount, heir to an earl? Why would he do it?

It must be an exciting story. But then, if Claudia asked him to tell it, he would want to hear of her past. She had never told anyone the entire horrid tale. To even speak of it would require a modicum of trust. For some reason, she felt it with Oliver.

But beyond that, they must escape. What to do? During their previous meeting, Oliver mentioned that the detective was at the Lancaster Road station. Perhaps she could slip out and enlist Simpson’s assistance, have the coppers create a distraction enough to get Oliver to safety and a doctor’s care. It was a notion worth contemplating.

Oliver stirred and coughed, then groaned. “Hell, I can hardly move. Can you take me over to the bucket? I have to urinate.”

“As long as I don’t have to hold your shaft for you.”

Oliver chuckled low in his throat, then moaned. “I said don’t make me laugh.”

“I will bring the bucket to you. Can you get up on your knees?”

“If you help me.”

Claudia fetched the bucket, knowing exactly where she had placed it previously. Already it reeked. How could they stay down in this stone cellar? The odor from their excretions will drive them out, if nothing else. Placing the bucket on the ground, she took Oliver’s elbow and slowly assisted him in kneeling. He kept the groans low, but his distress was evident. He had been right; they would have never made it out of Notting Dale, especially with the faraway voices heading their way and growing ever closer. They were no doubt more of Danaher’s men.

“Easy,” she murmured. “The bucket is directly in front of you.”

“Good.” A long, steady stream filled her hearing, and then it ceased. “As you said, mortifying.”

“We do what we have to survive, and—”

Noises from outside silenced her. They froze.

“What the feck, Billy. This be an abandoned buildin’, has been for years. No one would come in here. It’s ready to fall down.”

“You ’eard ’imself, search every building and lean-to,” another man replied.

They clomped about, their heavy tread reverberating through the cellar. Claudia’s heart sped up as she fought a wave of fright. She must remain calm in this crisis and clear-headed.

“He also said he would rip out walls and floors. He’s gone barmy. Havin’ us look for a whore and some nutter in a mask. They’re gone, I tell you.”

“’imself says no. We ’ad men at every exit. No one left right after the attack.”

“Who’s to know? The prostitute and the nutter hid and slipped out hours later. Waste of time, this is. Come on. We got more to check on this street.”

The voices and footsteps receded.

Claudia and Oliver did not move or speak for several minutes.

“You can take the bucket away. I’m done,” Oliver whispered.

“Is it safe?”

“I do not know. Best we remain quiet.”

Claudia helped Oliver lie on the pallet, then took the bucket to the corner and emptied her bladder. After covering it with the piece of wood, she made her way to Oliver. She laid her hand against his forehead. It felt warm. Not raging hot, but a slight fever, nonetheless. She smoothed his hair. There were beads of sweat at his hairline. Claudia could feel him trembling.

“I think you have a bit of a fever. Let me find the water.” She rummaged around on her hands and knees, feeling about for the bottle. At last, she located it. Growing worried, she helped Oliver sit up partway and brushed the bottle by his face. After removing the cover, he grabbed it with a shaky hand and drank. Once he laid flat, Claudia covered him with the blanket. Then she took a sip of the water.

“Talk to me,” Oliver rasped. “Keep my mind off this pain. And the fever. Tell me about yourself.”

“Why do you want to know anything about me?” Claudia whispered.

“Because I want to know you better.”

“That is hardly an adequate answer.”

“You fascinate me.”

Claudia screwed the lid on the jar. Oliver also fascinated her, especially after discovering he was The Sentinel. What did it matter, here in the dark? If talking would ease his discomfort, she would do as he asked. “My mother was a courtesan, and my father is the disgraced and imprisoned Duke of Whinstone. Although I hear he will not be a duke much longer. I spent the early years of my life in comfort, living in a small flat on Eaton Place near Belgrave Square.”

This was going to be a long night.