She angled her face to look up at him. “How can I walk away when I know what exists? The horrors. What kind of person am I if I walk away, if I ignore the destitute?”
“You are a person that is staying alive. That isn’t killing herself, little by little, day by day, until you reach that one moment when disappearing into the Thames seems like the best option.”
She shook her head, looking away from him. Leaning away from him.
He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. “So let me take you away. There are people that need help everywhere, Bridget. And in a place that won’t break your spirit.”
“Let you?” She scooted to the side along the stone wall, breaking his contact with her. “I can’t, Hunter.”
“Bridget, it goes beyond just the people—it goes to Bournestein.”
“Don’t speak to me of Bournestein, Hunter. I already know your thoughts on the man, and I don’t want to argue it with you.”
“Then don’t argue. Listen. You have to hear what I’m telling you, Bridget. You have to leave this place—you cannot work with Bournestein. He is the devil.”
“He gives us the resources to help—”
“He gives you the resources so he can maintain control. Why do you think people even need to come into your hospital with the beatings and the broken limbs and the hunger?” His voice went to a growl. “Bournestein orchestrates it all. Break them. Mend them. Own them. He knows exactly what he’s doing, Bridget, and it doesn’t have a thing to do with benevolence.”
Her head shaking, she scrambled to her feet. “You know nothing of it, Hunter. And I can’t—I can’t stop. So you can cease. Just leave me be—leave me in peace.”
She ran across the street, veering to the left and moving onto a lane leading from the Thames.
Gone. Again.
A heavy sigh sat in his chest and Hunter lifted himself to his feet.
He had better hurry, or he wouldn’t be able to make sure she made it safely to back to her house.
{ Chapter 8 • To Capture a Warrior }
“He’s here, Bridget.”
At Marjorie’s whisper, Bridget’s head swiveled, her look lifting from the yellowed eyes of the boy in front of her to the doorway of the hospital.
Bournestein strutted down the left aisle between benches, his purple overcoat swishing against the knees of people sitting. A repugnant peacock pecking over his domain.
It was early in the day for him to be making an unexpected visit.
For the most part, Bournestein avoided the hospital when he could. She had witnessed time and again the derision in his eyes every time he was surrounded by the sick in the hospital. The handkerchief that he would unfurl with grandeur, pressing it over his nose and mouth. Disgust. Pure disgust.
Bending at the waist, Bridget looked at eye level to the little boy sitting on the bench before her. His hands nervous, he fidgeted until he gripped the worn edge of the bench, all energy moving down to his swinging legs.
“I am going to move you into one of the rooms above, Tommy. You said your mother was to be here soon?”
“Yes, ma’am. After the wash be done.”
Bridget nodded, straightening as she took the boy’s hand and tugged him off the bench. “There is a bed in the room. You can sleep until your mother is able to come. I will be in to check on you in a few minutes.” She looked to Marjorie. “Can you take him to a room?”
“Yes.” Marjorie stepped past Bridget and took the boy’s opposite hand, leading him toward the stairwell.
Bridget stood, watching them disappear past the entrance to the stairwell. Her eyes stayed on the opening, ignoring the clunking of the approaching boots. She didn’t need to look at Bournestein for a moment longer than necessary.
“Mrs. Morton, it is fortunate ye are here.” Bournestein’s voice grated into her ears.
She glanced around at the twelve patients that were still awaiting her attention as she turned to Bournestein. A man coughed, curling over to hack phlegm at the floor just as Bournestein passed him. Spittle landed on the toes of Bournestein’s shiny black boots.
The revulsion that seized Bournestein’s face almost made Bridget guffaw out loud. Almost. She held it in, for Bournestein looked like he was about to draw a blade and slit the poor man’s throat.
Bournestein paused to draw out a yellow silk handkerchief from his overcoat, snapped it in the air, and then bunched it up beneath his nose as he walked to her. “I did have a moment to speak with the owner of the adjoining building, Mrs. Morton.”
She set a pandering smile on her lips and clasped her hands in front of her apron. “Excellent, Mr. Bournestein. I am excited to hear what you have learned.”
“I assume you are, Mrs. Morton.” The handkerchief dropped slightly from his face. “But first, I have a different matter to discuss with you.”
Bridget’s stomach hardened into a lead ball. “Which is?”
“The man that escaped the other night. I have some further information on how that happened that I think you will be interested in.”
“How he escaped?” Her smile faltered. “I thought we had discussed that and the matter was settled, Mr. Bournestein.”
“Coy, Mrs. Morton. But it isn’t settled until I say it is settled.” He looked around the wide room, his eyes crinkling in disgust. “But I don’t mean to discuss it out here with the vileness in the air.”
“You are in a hospital, Mr. Bournestein.”
“And you are not in the position to wrinkle your nose at me, Mrs. Morton.” He pointed with the gold tip of his cane to the stairs leading to the upper floors. “After you, Mrs. Morton.”
Her mouth settled into a terse line and she inclined her head to Bournestein, stepping in front of him.
Halfway to the stairs, the front door of the hospital opened and Bridget’s head turned.
With a wave and his hat in his hands, Hunter strode toward her with purpose and conspiracy in his face. “Mrs. Morton, so pleased I have found you. I do need your assistance, if you have a moment to spare.”
Bournestein jumped from her side, blocking Hunter’s pathway. “Friend, it appears as though you have become a regular here at the hospital.”
Hunter’s eyes went wide as he looked to Bournestein. “My apologies, I did not see you there, Mr. Bournestein.” He managed a quick step halfway around Bournestein’s rotund form. “I am in dire need of Mrs. Morton’s assistance.”
Bournestein’s cane flicked up, the length of it pressing across Hunter’s chest just before he passed. “It would seem, friend, that she is unfortunately needed in two places at once, as I am currently occupying her time.”
Hunter looked to Bridget. “Surely I could steal her—”
“Remind me, friend, how is it that you know Mrs. Morton?” Bournestein didn’t lower his cane.
Bridget took a step toward Hunter, close enough to rip Bournestein’s cane off of Hunter’s chest if she were so bold. Or so stupid.
She set a blank smile onto her face, touching Bournestein’s arm. As much as that one little motion sent a thick chunk of bile up her throat, she ignored it. She needed his attention on her, not on Hunter. “As it happens, Mr. Bournestein, we have discovered that Mr. Crawford is a friend of my husband’s.”
Bournestein’s eyes went to thin slits, his look staying fixed on her even as his words sliced through the air to Hunter. “So you served under him on his ship, friend?”
Hell. A trap. She had never told Bournestein her fake husband was a ship captain. She had never told him anything of her fake husband, other than he was at sea.
Hunter glanced at Bridget.
She knew he was looking for confirmation, but Bournestein’s stare had locked onto her, unwavering, waiting for her eyes to warn Hunter, waiting for the mouse to take the cheese. She froze her benign, vacant look solidly in place, praying that her wild heartbeat was only thundering in her own ears and couldn’t be heard outside of her head.
Hunter cleared his throat, his h
and reaching up to push down the cane on his chest and then he stepped slightly between Bournestein and Bridget. “We grew up not but a stone’s throw away from each other, Mrs. Morton’s husband and I. The connection was a surprise to both of us. He and I reveled in the usual whippersnapper shenanigans, building rock damns in the local stream, catching frogs, terrorizing sheep—I’m sure you can imagine.”
Bournestein’s beady eyes shifted to Hunter. “Yes. Youth does bind like no other.”
“It does.” Hunter met Bournestein’s gaze congenially, almost as though they were old friends. He managed to do it so effortlessly, Bridget was awed. “That aside, I was hoping to borrow Mrs. Morton for a few hours. My sister is in need of a physician, but she has an incredible fear of most males. You can understand how Mrs. Morton immediately came to mind as a solution, for my sister’s comfort is my utmost concern.”
His cane still half raised, Bournestein slowly let it drop from Hunter. But Bridget could see the annoyance running through Bournestein’s mind. She played with fire every time she talked to Bournestein. She knew that. She knew the risk.
But she had never intended for Hunter to become involved in her web of half-truths. For him to become entangled with Lucifer himself.
“The needs of your sister, they should only take an hour, two at the most, I imagine, Mr. Crawford?” Bridget lifted her eyebrows at him. “Do remember, I have a number of patients to see here today as well.” She turned back to Bournestein. “I will send word when I am back at the hospital and available to meet with you.”
The edge of Bournestein’s lip curled almost into a snarl. “Don’t tarry, Mrs. Morton.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Bournestein, my day is far too full to dawdle.” She motioned with an upturned hand to the front door. “I will follow you, Mr. Crawford.”
Without another glance at Bournestein, Bridget followed Hunter out the front door of the hospital. It wasn’t until they were sitting next to each other in a hack—a once grand open air barouche—several streets away, that she turned to him on the bench seat, her words seething. “Don’t you ever do that to me again, Hunter.”
“Save you from Bournestein?”
“Put yourself in danger like that—I saved your hide, I’ll have you know. You cannot set yourself against Bournestein like that. He will destroy you.”
“Your confidence in me is overwhelming, Bridget.”
“And your lack of brazenness is underwhelming.” Her fingers went to her forehead, rubbing. “I have seen what he does to those that challenge him, Hunter. It is not something I would wish upon my worst enemy.” Her eyes pinned him. “And I cannot have you hurt.”
“I know what I’m doing, Bridget.” His back straightened, pulling him taller, and he leaned toward her, his face next to hers. His breath brushed across her cheek, his dark eyes intense. “Do you?”
She exhaled a wicked sigh, twisting her body to face forward again as she clasped her arms across her chest and sank back against the cushions.
Hunter’s voice went to a low whisper. “Do you know he’s having us followed?”
She jerked upright, her head swiveling.
Hunter clasped an arm across her waist, pressing her back onto the cushions. “Don’t look.”
She offered a slight nod. “Where are we going to?”
“My home, of course. Where else would my sister be?”
Bridget eyed him, her head tilting to the side. “You don’t have a sister that you never told me about, do you?”
A grin slipped onto his face. “You’re not the only one that can lie, Bridget.”
~~~
Fifteen minutes later, the hack dropped them off in front of Hunter’s townhouse.
Moving into the home, Hunter closed the door behind her and Bridget looked about the foyer. What she had seen in the darkness several nights ago was all the more evident in the daylight streaming in through the windows.
Stark white walls. No décor. Very little furniture in the adjoining drawing room, just four Grecian style chairs with sloped backs, gilded wood, and rich maroon upholstered fabric facing each other in the middle of the floor. A set of brass-handled iron fire tools by the fireplace. Dark wood floor. White walls. That was it. If she didn’t know this was Hunter’s home, she would assume no one lived here.
She looked over her shoulder. “Do you spend much time in your house?”
He didn’t answer her question, instead, he pointed up the stairs as his hand went to the small of her back and pushed her forward.
The touch of him sent a rush of heat up her spine and she moved forward, letting him guide her up to the second level. He ushered her into a room at the top of the stairs that was several doors away from his chamber at the end of the hall.
This room was also empty, except for a small bed along one wall with a blue-banded Witney point blanket tucked neatly to the mattress and a low chest adjacent to the headboard.
Hunter’s hand left her back and he walked past her, oddly moving casually from left to right in front of the window that faced the street. He glanced out to the street as he did so.
Bridget’s eyebrows drew together. “What now?”
He moved away from the window, stopping in front of her as he flicked his head backward. “Bournestein’s men are still out there. I wanted us up here directly so they think you are tending to my sister. Now would be the perfect time for you to draw the curtains.”
Bridget nodded, going to the window and making a show of drawing the serviceable grey curtains across the expanse of the window. The material gauzy, it still let plenty of light into the room.
She looked over her shoulder to Hunter. “And now?”
A conniving grin curved the corners of his lips. “Now we need to wait an appropriate amount of time. And no, I do not spend a lot of time here, to answer your question. How can you tell?”
Her hand lifted to motion around her. “There is nothing here. Very little furniture. No color on the walls. Not one picture or portrait or tapestry to adorn the walls.”
“I wouldn’t know how to even start with that.” He shrugged. “Everything here was here when I bought it. It has seemed like enough. The only visitors to the place are the other guards sleeping off the occasional bout of crapulence.” He pointed to the window. “Stay here. Move around a bit. The occasional shadow through the curtain works well.”
Hunter disappeared out the door and Bridget removed her cap and set it on the chest, smoothing the hair back in her chignon as she walked to the window. She paced several times in front of the curtain before Hunter reappeared. His dark coat had vanished and he juggled a chair, two glasses, and a decanter of brandy.
He set the chair down, angled it to the bed, and then poured a dram into each of the glasses. After setting the decanter on top of the chest, he offered her one of the glasses, motioning to the chair. “My apologies in that I have nothing in the house except for this. I am so rarely here—just to sleep—that it is a waste to keep anything in food or drink. The brandy is more than enough to get a fellow guard back on his feet and on his way.”
Bridget sat on the chair, clutching the glass—the same one she had used several nights before. “Where do you eat?”
“Usually at the Revelry’s Tempest. The food Cook makes is far better than tavern fare.” Hunter settled himself on the edge of the bed, his right knee almost touching hers. He took a sip of brandy before resting his forearms on his thighs as he leaned forward, his dark eyes pinning her. “How deep do your lies run with Bournestein, Bridget?”
A sigh surged through her lips. Of course he would want to know more—her lies had almost set him into a trap with Bournestein. “The lies—everything I’ve told Bournestein since arriving in St. Giles has been a necessity, Hunter. I lie about anything I need to in order to keep him at bay.”
“You don’t think you’ll go too far? That you haven’t already gone too far? Is there any truth left in you?”
Ignoring his look, she took the tiniest sip from h
er tumbler and attempted to tamp down on the indignation in her belly his words instantly flared. Arguing with him did neither of them any favors. “The truth is, Hunter, I have made myself incredibly busy to keep myself from thinking—to keep from pondering what I’m doing. The lies I tell. The horrors I see. What has happened to me. I don’t think on any of it—or the past—and I say what I need to in order to keep the present secure. It is all I have done for the past three years.”
He blinked hard, his dark eyes piercing her. “You don’t think of the past? You wanted to forget me?”
“Yes.” The tips of her fore and index finger gently ringed the lip of the tumbler. “I wanted to forget everything, Hunter. You. My father.”
His left eyebrow lifted.
“You don’t believe me.”
Silence. His brow furrowed deeper.
“You don’t trust me.”
Hunter lifted his glass to his lips, downing the whole of his brandy with a shrug. “I’m trying my damnedest to wade through this, Bridget. Your connection to Bournestein. Who you are now. To wade through the lies to find you again. To find that woman that I met on the continent.” His look dipped down to the empty tumbler he rolled between his palms. “To find that woman that set my world ablaze from the very first time I saw her. It’s what I’m searching for—some semblance of trust—when I don’t even know if I should be looking.”
She saw it in his eyes then—in the silver blue flecks sparking to life—he was looking at her as he once did. Even as he questioned everything, he wanted her, body and soul. She could see it.
And she wanted him just the same.
For whatever had happened to untwine their paths years ago, she wanted this look back. His eyes on her, seducing her without moving a muscle.
She swallowed hard, her heart thundering. If she didn’t chance this now, she never would. “You should, Hunter. Please. You should be looking.”
She scooted forward on the chair, her fingers wrapping around his forearm. “I know there have been many lies—but all of them have been necessary—to protect me, to protect the hospital, the patients.”
Logan’s Legends: A Revelry's Tempest Regency Romance Box Set Page 17
