Boudreaux’s Lady

by Smith, Lauren

“We need to stop because…” Boudreaux said, his voice growing breathless. “I’ve been shot.”

  Chapter 5

  Boudreaux closed his eyes, trying to think past the pain that was spreading out from his upper shoulder.

  “You’ve been shot?” Miss Wilson gasped.

  “Yes, Miss Wilson. Please remain calm. We shall reach…” He drew in a shallow breath. “The inn…and the innkeeper can summon…a doctor.”

  It was becoming harder and harder to ignore the pain. A slow numbness, thick as marmalade, creeped down his arms. Within minutes he was unable to hold the reins at all. The straps of leather began to slip through his loosening fingers.

  “Take…the reins,” he said to the girl a moment before he slumped against her. A sweet feminine scent filled his nose as he nearly collapsed on top of her.

  “Mr. Boudreaux?” she whimpered, pushing back against him.

  He wanted to apologize; she was such a fragile little thing. Too small to be carrying his weight.

  “I can’t hold the horse and you. Please try to stay awake.” She pinched his thigh, but he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and rest. The world around him spun wildly and he hit the grass on the side of the road. Fresh pain wracked his body, briefly reviving him.

  “Mr. Boudreaux!” He felt his body being rolled onto his back and stared up at her face. Christ, her face. The woman was lovely… So lovely… And she was a ghost. A ghost that haunted him from an oil painting hung in the Duke of St. Albans’s picture gallery.

  “Albina…”

  “Philippa,” the girl said. “My name is Philippa. Please get up, Mr. Boudreaux.”

  “Philippa?” He liked the sound of that name upon his tongue, despite the fact that he was suddenly too tired to speak.

  “Please…” the girl begged. Her dark hair, lit by the moonlight, fell like black water around her face. He tried and failed to lift his hand up to touch the undulating waves.

  “Lovely ghost…” he said and promptly blacked out.

  When he woke, he found himself lying in a bed. A fire crackling nearby and a man with spectacles peered down at him.

  “Oh, good, you’ve come around.” The older man smiled. “That bodes well. Mrs. Boudreaux, please come over. You may see him now.”

  “Mrs. Boudreaux?” he murmured, his tongue thick and swollen.

  Philippa appeared beside him. Her face was full of concern. “Boudreaux, are you all right? The doctor removed the bullet and stitched your wound. It wasn’t too deep in your shoulder.”

  “Thirsty,” he murmured. “Water please.”

  Philippa vanished from view and he heard the sound of water being poured into a goblet.

  “Well, Mrs. Boudreaux, your husband should be fine with plenty of rest. Best to hire a coach to take you home once he can arrange it. But he may need to rest on his back a day or two.”

  “Yes, Dr. Hensley. Thank you for all you’ve done.” Philippa followed the doctor to the door and closed it behind him. Then she faced him, her gray eyes so full of worry that he felt ashamed he’d got shot.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Boudreaux. I had to tell the innkeeper we were married. I was afraid he wouldn’t have helped us otherwise.” She sat on the edge of the bed beside his hip and he was suddenly aware of the fact that he was naked, at least from the chest up. Her eyes skated over him and a heavy blush bloomed in her fair skin. Had he been in better shape, he would’ve been tempted to seduce her, but at the moment he felt like death warmed over.

  “Please calm yourself, Miss Wilson.”

  “Philippa,” she corrected, meeting his gaze. “After everything you’ve done for me, you should at least use my given name.”

  “Philippa,” he said. He felt weakness pulling him toward sleep again. “And you may call me Beau.”

  “Beau. Shortened from Beauregard?” she asked.

  He hummed a weary note of agreement and closed his eyes.

  “Would you still like the water?” He forced his eyes open again and managed a nod. She leaned over and pressed the goblet to his lips. He drank a few sips and laid his head back down.

  “The doctor gave you a bit of laudanum,” she said. “I’m sorry if you’re tired. Best if you sleep. I’ll help keep watch over you.”

  He wanted to stay awake, to talk to her, to figure out why she looked like a woman dead for twenty years, but the laudanum was a powerful master and he soon succumbed to it.

  The last sensation he was aware of was the gentle press of hands on his brow, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. It felt wonderful to be touched like that, out of concern rather than a need to prove a physical devotion.

  It was the touch of a friend…

  * * *

  Philippa watched her mysterious rescuer lose his battle to sleep. She brushed her fingers over his brow, unable to resist touching him now. He was quite possibly the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. The fact he was partially naked hadn’t gone unnoticed either. The doctor and the innkeeper Mr. Craddock had removed Beau’s waistcoat and shirt so that the wound could be treated.

  After Beau had fallen from the horse, she’d raced to the inn at the end of the road as Beau had told her. She’d informed the innkeeper that her husband had been shot by a highwayman. He’d taken a wagon and gone with her to collect Beau, then ridden for the doctor.

  She’d looked on in frantic worry as the doctor dug the bullet out with a pair of pliers, then cleaned the wound with some alcohol and sewn it up with a dozen small stitches. The sight of it all had made her stomach roil but she kept hold of Beau’s hand, hoping he could feel her comforting touch even while his senses were lost to laudanum. She hoped he would heal well from his injury.

  “We’ve been lucky thus far,” she said, still looking down at her hands and protector. It all seemed to happen so slowly, but now she realized how fast it had all really gone.

  She was too tired to sleep. The fear that Alastair would search for them kept her wide awake. In case he found them, she had Beau’s sword cane leaning against the bed within easy reach. She was not about to let that awful man hurt either of them. If that meant staying awake all night, so be it.

  Of course, that proved easier said than done. Philippa was exhausted and her face still ached from where Alastair had struck her. The doctor had seen to her injuries and offered her some laudanum as well, she’d refused. When she’d offered to find a way to pay for his services, the doctor had patted her hand, smiled warmly, and replied, “You have reminded me that beauty still exists in the world.”

  She’d blinked in surprise and blushed, assuming he meant her looks as all men did, but then the doctor had said, “Beauty goes beyond one’s skin. It comes from within. I have seen how brave you are, how strong and compassionate. It reminded me the world still has moments of light within it.”

  Now, as Philippa sat in the dark bedchamber, exhaustion dragged at her. Yet despite her weariness, her mind continued to replay this turn of events.

  Monmouth’s attack. Alastair’s abduction. The hints at Lord Monmouth’s involvement. All because of who she was… yet she still didn’t know who she was to these men. Apparently, she looked like Monmouth’s late wife, but what did that matter? She was just a maid, born to wonderful parents who owned a textile shop on Bond Street. She was not special, no matter whom she resembled.

  She looked down at Beau where he lay sleeping in the bed. His face was lined with anxiety, as though the land of dreams he dwelt in were dark ones. The tragic thought of what his melancholy thoughts might be only enhanced his appeal.

  She remembered the sardonic smile he’d flashed at Alastair when he’d stepped into the light. It was as though nothing could ruffle his confident demeanor. He’d moved with such grace, despite the danger he’d faced. She’d felt safe with him in a way she’d only ever felt with the footman, Roger, or her father.

  Yet this was not brotherly or fatherly affection she felt for Beau. Indeed, she felt something else stirring to life within her. She’d wo
rried that perhaps her heart and maybe even her body had been made of ice all these years. Yet being close to this man, seeing him hurt for saving her life… Something inside her was burning intensely.

  “Papa…” Beau began to shift restlessly, speaking in a hushed whimper. “Papa, no please…” His movements were still lethargic from the laudanum.

  “Please, papa… don’t go.” Beau’s voice sounded young, as though he was a child pleading.

  Philippa reached out to brush his hair from his forehead. His eyes shot open and he gripped her wrist suddenly.

  “It’s alright, Mr. Boudreaux. It’s me, Philippa. You’re safe.” She hoped he could understand her and find some comfort in her words. The worry lines softened around his mouth and he relaxed, but he didn’t release her wrist. After a moment, he brought her hand to his lips and placed a kiss to it. Something echoed deep within her, like she was calling out his name in a cavern. Somehow this stranger was finding his way into her soul, yet she only knew his name.

  Finally, he let go of her wrist and his features relaxed as he once more settled into sleep. Philippa kept her vigil but rather than worry about the dangers hunting for them outside, she feared about the dangers right beside her. The life of this man, Beau Boudreaux, had become entwined with hers, and she knew not where this path might lead her.

  * * *

  Beau tried to banish the nightmares of that fateful night in Paris. How he had pleaded with his father not to leave, to stay with him and his mother. But his father, who had the same dark hair and whiskey colored eyes as Beau, had explained in a gentle tone that sometimes a person had to stand up for what was right, even in the face of those who would behead someone for simply voicing an opinion. His father had hugged him tight and his powerful body had held young Beau close as he whispered words of love before he let go, kissed his mother one last time, and rode off into the darkness.

  They’d waited all night for him to return. When dawn arrived, the deathly quiet in their country house was broken only by a rider who’d come bearing a letter written in his father’s familiar hand.

  My Beau, how I have loved you. But now I am gone. Take your mother to her family in England. Do not return here. This land has lost its soul. It bleeds each day with the blood of innocents from those who sit on the thrones of hypocrisy. It is a place for men of noble hearts no longer.

  The last few words had been scrambled in apparent haste and ink droplets smeared the bottom of the page. Beau had looked up at the young man who’d delivered the message.

  “Your father was shot by a firing squad. The gendarmes allowed this letter to be delivered to you.” The man had said. “I am sorry for your loss.” He gave young Beau a pat on the shoulder before he’d gotten back on his horse and ridden away into the growing sunlight.

  As he pushed past the laudanum induced sleep, he slowly remembered what had happened and why he was in pain. He had rescued Miss Wilson, Philippa. He had been shot. He had passed out on the side of the road. There had been a doctor.

  He tried to sit up, but his chest felt like lead. He saw a woman in a white peignoir, her dark hair spilling out across his bare chest. Philippa. She was asleep beside him, Lord Sheridan’s sword unsheathed from the cane and held loosely in one of her hands.

  Christ, she was as beautiful as the woman from St. Albans’s painting. She looked exactly like Albina. How was that possible?

  After a few minutes, Beau moved out from under Philippa and slid off the bed. His back hurt like hell, but at least he could move. He pulled on his white shirt, wincing at the way it pulled at his stitches. Then he slipped on his boots and left the room. He headed down the stairs, smiling a little when he heard a woman singing.

  “Ach! There you are, lad. You shouldna be out of bed.” The rotund Scottish woman tried to shoo him back up the stairs.

  “Please, can I have some food for my wife and myself?” He tried not to laugh at pretending to have a wife. Of course, he would be a lucky fellow to have a woman like Philippa waiting for him in his bed.

  “Of course. You must be famished.” The innkeeper’s wife bustled about the kitchen. “My name is Mrs. Craddock, in case you don’ remember, what with your injuries and all.”

  “Thank you so much for your help, Mrs. Craddock.”

  She beamed at Beau and pinched his cheek as though he were a boy and not a grown man of six and thirty.

  “Well, we couldna very well leave you out there, not if those ruffians were to come back. Mrs. Boudreaux told us about your fight against those highwaymen, and how they stole all your belongings.”

  What other tales had had his sweet little “wife” spun about their circumstances? And yet he had to admit it was better than trying to explain the truth.

  “Er, yes. It was quite terrible, but I did have money stashed upon my person. I will be glad to pay you and Mr. Craddock for the rooms and food, as well as the doctor.”

  “There’s no need to pay for the doctor, lad. He took one look at your wife and said he didna need any payment, except to see her beautiful face.”

  “Oh?” Beau wished he had been awake to hear that.

  “Now dinna be getting jealous. The doctor’s old enough to be her grandfather. He merely appreciated her sweet heart, he said.”

  “Hmm…” Beau didn’t reply but gratefully accepted the tray of food from Mrs. Craddock. It hurt to carry the tray, but he was not the sort of man to show weakness if he could help it. When he returned to their bedchamber, he found Philippa spread out across the bed, reaching for all four corners of the feather tick mattress. She painted a delightful picture of feminine curves with riotous waves of dark hair. He set the tray down to stoke the dying fire and add a few more logs.

  The sound woke Philippa. She bolted upright, welding the short sword from Sheridan’s cane. She gasped when she saw him.

  “Mr. Boudreaux, you need to be in bed.” She abandoned the sword and rushed over to put the rest of the logs on the fire, then escorted him back to bed with her elegant hands curled around his bicep.

  “I rather like it when you touch me. Perhaps I should keep escaping bed.” He chuckled.

  She shot him a furious look but there was no fire in her expression. “Please, rest. The doctor said—”

  “Oh, hang the bloody doctor. Once dawn arrives, we need to hire a coach and get you back to Lennox’s house. He’ll be worried sick.”

  “I’m certain I shall not be welcome there.” She said this so quietly he almost hadn’t heard it.

  “What do you mean?”

  She pushed against his stomach. “Get in bed, and I’ll tell you.”

  “Blackmail? You are a cunning wench.” But he did as she asked and eased down onto the bed.

  Philippa pulled the covers up to his chin, but he shoved them back to his waist, partly because he was warm enough, partly because he enjoyed seeing this woman blush. After having mistresses who knew how to pretend to be embarrassed by their arousal, he knew an act when he saw it, and Philippa was not acting. He liked that. She was open in so many ways, and that was not a thing he was accustomed to.

  “Well, I’m in bed.” He gestured toward the blankets, wanting to tease her again, but when she glanced up from fixing the tray of food and preparing him a plate, he saw her anguish.

  “This is twice now that I’ve caused a scandal for Lord Lennox. He must cast me out. An upstairs maid is not worth this much trouble.”

  “I think you underestimate Lord Lennox’s nature,” said Beau.

  “But he must think of his wife and children’s safety. I cannot be in their house if men continue to try to kill me.”

  “Wait, men? Are you saying Lord Sommers also intended to kill you?”

  “Yes.” She suddenly realized what a revealing bit of clothing she wore at the moment and quickly pulled one of the blankets from the bed to wrap around her. “I thought he meant only to force himself on me, then he admitted that Monmouth hired him to kill me.” She trembled and wrapped her arms tighter around herself.
“Of course, he wanted to have me before.”

  The thought revolted Beau, but the second part also puzzled him further. “I wonder what drove Monmouth to hire a man. Why you?” He gestured for her to sit beside him, but she hesitated. “Come here and sit.” He patted the bed beside him, which she eyed with worry. “I won’t harm you, Philippa. Please, come.”

  He held up one hand, palm up. She placed her hand in his and he gave it a gentle squeeze as she sat next to him.

  “Did Sommers say why Monmouth wanted you dead?”

  Philippa bit her lip. “No, I was trying to get him to tell me, but from what he said, I think perhaps even he didn’t know Lord Monmouth’s reason for wishing me dead. He asked me questions about my parents, about my birth.”

  “Your birth? Something about that has caused a stir. We must get to the bottom of it.”

  Philippa stared at him in confusion. “We?”

  “Of course. I cannot let you run about London without protection. No, we need to discover what this is about.”

  “How will we do that?” she asked.

  “We must first talk to Lennox. But we shall worry about that in a few hours.”

  She left the bed and returned with his food. He paused after a few spoonfuls of stew when he realized she hadn’t prepared her own plate, but was merely standing by the bed, watching him eat.

  “Why aren’t you eating?” he asked.

  “Oh, I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be proper.” This time when she blushed, he hated himself.

  “Philippa, please, eat. While I am assisting you, I shall treat you as I treat all women. As a lady. Being in service does not mean you deserve less respect.”

  “Most don’t seem to think so.” But she collected a plate of food herself with no further argument.

  Once they’d both eaten, he patted the bed again. “You need rest, like I do. There’s plenty of room. I promise your virtue is safe here. I could barely carry that tray up the stairs.”

  He settled back into the pillows and closed his eyes. A few minutes later, he felt the bed dip as she lay next to him. He waited another minute before he cautiously pulled the covers up higher over them.