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DUNCAN
His arm hurt like the devil had sunk a fang into it and gnawed for hours. Duncan had been shot before. It was an occupational hazard of being a lunatic. One didn’t run toward armed soldiers or take on odds like three against one without sustaining some hits. Both times he had been shot before, the pistol ball had only grazed him. One grazed his side and the other his shoulder. A glass of whisky had dulled the pain of those injuries, but Duncan thought it might take a bit more than whisky this time. It didn’t hurt to try, though.
“Lass,” he said, opening his eyes. He hadn’t realized they were closed until he’d tried to look for her and only saw blackness.
“I’m here.” She looked down at him, her deep brown eyes staring into his, her soft hand caressing his brow. Where had this beautiful woman been when he’d had those flesh wounds and could have enjoyed these ministrations? “I think you were sleeping,” she said.
“I was dreaming of whisky. Do ye see any?”
She looked around, and he wished he hadn’t asked. He wanted her eyes to stay on his. “I do not see anything to drink in this room. No doubt your friend has consumed every ounce of spirits within a mile. Shall I see if I can find a kitchen or any servants?”
“No.” He reached with his uninjured arm and took her hand in his. “Stay with me, lass.”
“I will stay as long as you want, Mr. Murray.” She smiled at him, and he hoped he was not dreaming.
“Did ye already explain tae me how it is yer speaking English?”
Her cheeks colored. “I have not, não, but I suppose I should confess now that I lied earlier.”
“Ye dinnae say.” He closed his eyes and found it difficult to open them again.
“I do speak English. And Portuguese and Spanish. I lied because I did not want you to take me back to London. Not right away.”
“Yer husband beats ye, does he?”
“No. That is to say, I do not have a husband. I cannot complain of any ill treatment.”
Duncan opened his eyes, and she was staring at a point on the far wall. Hearing her speak didn’t make the pain go away, but the sweet sound of her made it bearable. She did not have a husband. That pleased him.
“I did not know the carriage I climbed into was yours. I did not know you were leaving London. But when you woke me, and I realized what had happened, I did not want to go back right away.”
He closed his eyes again, the lids too heavy to keep open. “Why is that?”
“I suppose I wanted a taste of freedom. I was almost trapped once, and I was beginning to feel trapped again.” Her voice lowered to a whisper, and he had to concentrate to hear her. “And if I am really honest, once I realized I was in your carriage, I was hoping for PED.
“I dinnae ken what PED means.”
“Passion, excitement, and danger. I hoped to combine all three and steal a kiss.”
His eyes opened wide, and she stared down at him. She moved away, trying to pull her hand out of his, but he wouldn’t let go. “Ye wanted to kiss me?”
“I thought you had fallen back asleep.” She tried to tug her hand away again.
“Do ye always go aboot kissing strange men?”
“We are not strangers,” she said, giving up on trying to free her hand. “We have mutual acquaintances.”
“Who?” He tried to sit then immediately regretted the action. As soon as Duncan could stand again, he would flatten Pope and then kick him for good measure.
“Benedict Draven.”
Duncan did not know what he expected her to say, but it was not to mention his former commander. It made sense, though. He had left the coach outside Draven’s home, and that must have been when the lass climbed in. But what had she been doing at Draven’s? She was not dressed as a servant. She must be a friend of Mrs. Draven’s. That theory fit because they both spoke Portuguese. Except with her shop so busy, he wouldn’t have thought Mrs. Draven would have time for friends. Besides, she was always in the company of her younger sister.
“Christ and all the saints!” Draven hissed. Now he did sit, the sharp pain in his arm punctuating his alarm. “I ken who ye are.” She winced. Duncan lowered his voice. “Miss Neves, isnae it?
She nodded.
He released her hand as though he held a viper. “Why am I asking ye for whisky? Ye might as well bring me a knife.”
“You cannot possibly cut the ball out of your arm yourself,” she said.
“I meant so I can slit my neck.”
She gasped.
“It’s a far better proposition than waiting for Draven to show up and rip my...” He looked into her face, and her eyes were wide.
Duncan sank back down.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “I did not think. I wanted an adventure and a romance—”
“Romance? With me?”
“Why not you?”
“I’m nae poet, lass. The most romantic thing I do is throw a lass over my shoulder before I carry her tae bed.”
Her brows went up. “Really?”
Christ, but she actually seemed intrigued by that idea. And he must be delirious from pain because he could imagine tossing her onto his bed and having his way with that mouth of hers.
“Then what do you do to her?”
This woman would be the death of him. Literally. “I read her a bedtime story and tuck her in,” he said.
She let out an annoyed breath, clearly wanting more salacious details. Just then they heard footsteps outside the door, and Duncan jumped to his feet. He swayed slightly before he steadied himself and pushed Draven’s sister-in-law behind his back.
“Mr. Fortescue said Mr. Pope would not trouble us,” she said from behind him.
“Just stay behind me, lass.”
The footsteps stopped at the parlor door. Duncan tensed, while behind him he felt the woman fidgeting. “Stand still,” he said.
“I am trying to ready the pistol,” she said.
“The pistol!” He’d forgotten about that. He turned, found her with it pointed right at him, and snatched it out of her hands. The door opened. He spun around and pointed the weapon at the older woman carrying a tray into the room.
She stopped. “I take it you are not hungry then?”
Duncan lowered the firearm. “Forgive me, missus. I thought ye were someone else.”
“Oh, Mr. Pope is quite harmless at the moment. But you, sir, had better sit down. You are injured.”
“Good idea.” Duncan sank down onto the couch, closing his eyes to make the world stop spinning.
The women were speaking now, both of them fluttering about him, but he couldn’t hear what they said above the buzzing in his ears. Dinnae pass oot, he told himself. Suddenly, he felt the cool rim of a glass at his lips. He opened his mouth and sipped. It wasn’t whisky, but gin was the next best thing, he supposed. After a few more sips, the buzzing ceased. Unfortunately, his eyes also refused to open, and he couldn’t stop his body from tumbling down and down and down.
***
INES
Ines removed her hand from the back of Murray’s head and studied him with concern. “I believe he is unconscious.”
The servant peered at him. “Best thing for him, if you ask me, miss. He won’t feel the pain so much.” She gave Ines’s dress a wide-eyed look. “But you are hurt, too, miss!”
Ines glanced at her blood-stained dress. “It is Mr. Murray’s blood. I am uninjured.”
The servant sighed in relief. “Oh, good. I will try to find you something clean to wear.” She looked at Murray. “And something for him as well.”
“His trunks are here,” Ines said. “He has clothing in there. What should I do to help him? It seems like Mr. Fortescue has been gone hours. I am anxious for the surgeon.”
“It looks like you did a good job of binding the wound and stopping the blood flow. But we could clean the wound.”
“How?”
“I’ll fetch more gin. In the meantime, I made you soup. Go ahead and eat.”
“Are you the cook?”
The woman bobbed a curtsy. “Mrs. Brown, miss. Do you mind if I ask your name?”
“Ines Neves. I am from London.
“And who is this?” She gestured to Murray.
“Duncan Murray. He served in the war with Mr. Pope. He came to see him because”—she waved a hand—“never mind why now. Can you please fetch the gin?”
“Right away, miss.”
Ines looked at the soup. She didn’t think she could eat it. Her belly disagreed and growled. Ines decided she would be of no use to anyone if she was fatigued from hunger. She touched Mr. Murray’s forehead, still no trace of fever, then lifted the spoon and ate a few mouthfuls of soup. It was not particularly good soup—the vegetables were soft, and the broth had little flavor—but it was something.
This was all her fault. Murray would probably die, and it was all because of her. They’d only come here because he needed someone who spoke Portuguese. If she’d just told the truth from the beginning, she would be on the way back to London and Murray would be unharmed. Mr. Fortescue and Miss Wellesley wouldn’t be running about the countryside looking for a surgeon, either. No wonder Draven said Ines could not live above the shop. He knew that given half a chance, she’d cause more trouble than she was worth.
Hadn’t she done that and more in just two short days?
But it was very hard to feel contrite for long. One glance at Mr. Murray’s bare chest, and she quite forgot she was partly to blame for his injury. Of course, she didn’t want him to be injured, but was it wrong to enjoy the benefits of touching his brow, sliding her eyes over his broad chest, and following the trail of hair on that chest to the waist of his trousers?
It was most certainly wrong, and she was probably doomed to an eternity of hellfire for the direction of her thoughts. In which case, what was the harm of one more? She allowed her gaze to shift to Murray’s face again and wondered, for the hundredth time, what it would feel like if he kissed her.
Mrs. Brown returned, and Ines focused guiltily on her soup again. “I’ll just ready everything on this table, miss,” the cook said as she set the gin down on the table beside the couch.
Ines forced herself to watch Mrs. Brown and not Murray. As a respectable young woman, she should not be imagining kissing a man like Duncan Murray. Perhaps she wouldn’t think of it so much if she had been kissed before. It was very hard to be nineteen years old and unkissed. If she’d stayed with her father in Portugal, she would have been long married and the mother of children by now. Of course, she would have had to kiss a cruel, old man. As she’d grown older, she had appreciated her narrow escape more and more. She’d also realized she had a chance many, if not all, of the women she knew would never have—to make her own destiny. Why could that destiny not include Duncan Murray tossing her over his shoulder?
“Are you alright, miss? Is it too cold in here? You’re shivering.”
“Oh, I am fine.” Desperate to change the subject, Ines stood and went to stand beside the cook. “What should I do?”
“One of us needs to douse this rag in gin and apply it to the wound. The other needs to hold him down.”
“Hold him down?” Ines suppressed another shiver. “I will do that.”
Fortunately, Murray’s injured arm was the one most accessible to them, and it was a simple matter to remove the bandages. He groaned but did not open his eyes.
“Should we give him more gin?” Ines asked.
“Best just to do it while he’s unaware. We risk a stronger reaction if we wake him first.” The cook held the clean rag to the mouth of the gin bottle and wet the cloth thoroughly. Then she set the bottle back on the table, moved the table out of the range of flailing arms, and nodded to Ines.
Ines was not at all certain where she should place her hands. She settled on his shoulders, setting one knee on the couch in case she needed to leverage her full weight to help hold him down.
“Ready?” Mrs. Brown asked.
“Ready.” Ines nodded.
Mrs. Brown moved quickly, placing the hand holding the rag over the wound, and squeezing the cloth so gin ran into the injury.
Murray reacted like he’d been stung by a bee. He yelped and jumped. Even using all of her weight to push his shoulders down, she was no match for him. He seemed blinded by pain, and his flailing arm almost hit Mrs. Brown, who struggled to keep the rag in place.
“Lie still!” Ines ordered. He stilled for an instant, seeming to listen, and it was just enough time for Ines to throw a knee over him and sit on him to keep him down.
“That’s it, love!” Mrs. Brown said through clenched teeth. “Give me one more minute.”
Murray bucked beneath her, but Ines held him as still as possible. Finally, when she was certain he would throw her off, Mrs. Brown removed the rag, reached for the bottle of gin, and put it to Murray’s lips. Instantly, he stilled and drank. His good arm reached for the bottle, and Mrs. Brown nodded at Ines to allow him to take it. When he’d taken another drink, he lowered the bottle and looked up at her. “Are ye trying to kill me?”
“We had to clean your wound.”
“Why? In Scotland we rub a bit of dirt on it and grit our teeth.”
“Thank the Lord you are not in Scotland, then,” Mrs. Brown said. “Now be still while I bind your arm again with clean linen.”
Murray looked up at Ines. “Who is this now?”
“That is Mrs. Brown, the cook.”
“Nash has a cook?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Brown said, “and there is soup over there for your enjoyment once I have finished my work. Almost done.”
She tied the bindings neatly, far more neatly than Ines and Emmeline had, then stepped back and nodded her head. “I’ll just bring these soiled cloths to the laundry.” She took the gin bottle from Murray’s hand. “I had better take this too.”
Murray made a sound of protest, but with Ines still sitting on top of him there wasn’t much else he could do. A moment later, Ines realized she was still straddling him and from the way he was looking at her, he realized it as well.
“I dinnae usually complain when I find myself in this position, but I’d rather Draven killed me quickly, and if he were tae see ye now, lass, he’d make sure I met a slow, horrible end.”
“I should stand up,” Ines said. But she made no move to do so. How could she when she could feel the warmth of his body between her legs, enjoy the sight of his muscled chest, look into his amber eyes?
“Any time now, lass,” he said.
Her cheeks heated, and she slid off him, not trying to keep her skirts from showing too much of her ankles. He winced. “Did I hurt you?”
“Nae. Ye moved a wee bit slower than I expected.”
Ines raised her brows. “You liked it?”
Murray sat gingerly and shook his head. “I dinnae like anything tae do with ye, lass. As far as Draven knows, I never touched ye. I dinnae even look at ye.”
“You worry too much about Benedict. It is me he will be angry with, not you. Here, let me help you.” She reached to take his arm and assist him to the table with his bowl of soup, but he yanked his arm back.
“I can do it.” He slammed a heavy hand on the table, steadied himself, then lowered his body into the chair.
“Do you think Draven will find us today?”
Murray ignored the spoon and lifted the bowl of soup. “It depends,” he said, when he’d finished it.
“On?”
“How long it took him tae find Jasper. Jasper is the best tracker I ken. He’ll find us like that.” He snapped his fingers.
That meant she was quickly running out of time. “And you think because you are not touching me Draven will see no problem with this scene.” She gestured to his bare chest.
“I cannae help that. Ye and that she-wolf tore my clothing to shreds. Come tae think of it, I wouldnae mind a blanket. There’s a draft in this room.”
Ines stared at him. The room was actually a bit stuffy with the windows and doors closed on the summer day. And after she’d had a few bites of the hot soup, she’d needed to fan herself. How could he be cold? His face had gone pale, the dark bristles of his days’ growth of beard, standing out. She touched his face, and it was cool and clammy.
“Lass, I told ye—"
“Let me help you lie down, Mr. Murray.”
He nodded. “I wouldnae argue.”
She put her arm around his waist, ignoring his bare flesh, and let him lean on her as she helped him back to the couch. Once he was on his back, she searched the room for a blanket. Unable to find one, she looked at the heavy draperies. They would take too long to pull down. What about a tablecloth?
But Pope was in the dining room. Did she dare risk it? One glance at Murray, who was shivering, told her she had better. Moving quickly but quietly, she crossed the room, opened the door a sliver, and peered out. The entryway was empty, and Mrs. Brown was not to be seen.
The dining room door was closed. Ines took a breath and tiptoed across the entryway to stand before the doorway. Hoping the hinges had been oiled, and knowing full well they had probably not, she lifted the latch and pushed the door open.
It creaked like the telltale stair in a Gothic novel. Ines winced, but when she looked inside the dining room, Pope was seated in a chair, his chin on his chest.
Ines let out a shaky breath, took in another, and slipped into the room, careful not to touch the door lest it creak again. The table was not covered with a cloth, but the sideboard behind Pope had drawers that looked promising. Additional linens might be kept there for quick access. But she had to walk past the sleeping Pope to reach it. Fortunately, he was on one side of the table, and she could walk along the other side. She did this quickly, reaching the head of the table, and then realized Pope was only a couple of feet from the sideboard. She slid behind him and quietly opened the cupboards. She found pieces for serving and candleholders, but no linens.
Looking over her shoulder to make certain Pope was still unaware of her, she grasped the drawer handle and pulled the first one open. It did not creak, but the sound it made as it slid along the wooden frame of the sideboard seemed deafening. Thank God it held linens. She was tempted to grab a corner and run, but she lifted one out and found it was only a napkin.
That meant she had to open the other drawer. Fingers shaking, she pulled it open, spotting an embroidered tablecloth right away. Just as she reached for it, a low voice said, “I would have thought you’d take the candlesticks.”
Ines spun around and found Pope staring at her with one bloodshot blue eye. The other was hidden under a lock of dark hair that had fallen over his forehead.
“I was not stealing, senhor. I needed something to cover him.”
Nash frowned, his eye not quite focused on her. She remembered that the men had said he was blind in one eye and almost blind in the other. “So you are a woman. I thought I was hallucinating. What’s that accent?”
“I am from Portugal. Please, senhor, he needs a blanket. He is cold.”
“It’s a long way from Portugal.”
“I live in London.” And then, in case he was considering violence toward her, she added, “My sister is married to your Colonel Draven.”
At the sound of that name, Pope straightened in his chair. “Draven sent you to steal my linens?”
“No, senhor. Mr. Murray is in the parlor. You shot him, and he is cold. I could not find a blanket.”
“I shot...” He rubbed his forehead. “Oh, right. Came storming in here like barbarian invaders.”
“It was an accident?”
“We can call it that.” Gripping the arms of the chair, he rose. Ines moved back a step, putting more distance between them in case she needed to run. “Don’t forget your tablecloth,” he said, gesturing to the drawer. “I’ll go with you and see how he is.”
Fearing it might be a trap, but desperate to make sure Murray was not shivering alone while she hesitated, she grabbed the linen and pulled it out of the drawer. Then she walked quickly to the exit. But Pope, for all that he smelled like a distillery, was quick as well. He reached it just before her and paused to allow her to go in front of him.
She swallowed and squeezed past him, walking quickly to the open door of the parlor. Once inside, she went to Murray, shook out the tablecloth, and covered him with it. She knelt, put a hand on his cheek, and felt how cold he was.
“How does he look?” Nash asked.
“He is pale and shivering,” she answered.
“Any fever?”
“Não, thank God. But his skin is cold.”
“The shock is setting in. Fever will be next. Stratford went for the surgeon?”
“Mr. Fortescue did, sim.”
“How long ago?”
She couldn’t say. She felt as though she had been inside this room for weeks. “Let’s see about getting you a real blanket. Brown!” Pope yelled. “Brown!”
Ines winced, but the noise did not seem to faze Murray. He didn’t move, and that concerned her even more. As she held his hand, Pope directed the cook to fetch a blanket and build up a fire as well as boil water for when the surgeon arrived. Ines watched him with interest, and finally he raised a brow and asked, “What is it?”
“You are not behaving as I expected.”
“The good behavior is temporary, I promise you. The sooner he is better, the sooner all of you will go away.”
Ines nodded, wondering why he wanted to be alone so much and why he needed to drink so much. She wondered if his injury pained him. His hair had moved slightly, and she could see a scar cutting across his closed eye. But he seemed to get on well enough with only limited vision in the other. She probably would not have known he had any vision limitations, if she had not been told. There were very few telltale signs.
Mrs. Brown finally returned with the blanket, and Ines covered Mr. Murray while the cook built up the fire. Looking down at the Scot, Ines did not like what she saw. He appeared pale and still. He’d always been such a robust and vibrant man, and this sudden change made her uneasy. She looked over her shoulder at Mr. Pope. He was not facing her and didn’t appear to be paying her any attention. She leaned down and brushed the hair off Murray’s forehead.
“Do not die,” she whispered. “You must fight. If you die, I will be very angry and upset. I still have not been kissed by you. By anyone, if you want the truth. But it is you I want to kiss.”
His expression did not change. She might have said more, but Mrs. Brown was telling her how to best arrange the room for when the surgeon arrived.
“I’ll get out of your way,” Pope said. “It would be more gentlemanly to offer assistance, but I’d just be in the way. Besides, no one calls me a gentleman anymore.” He went out after Mrs. Brown, walking slowly and deliberately to avoid bumping into anything that might have moved since the last time he’d been in the room. Ines watched him go, then started to do as Mrs. Brown had suggested. As she worked, she said a prayer that the surgeon would hurry.