by Cheryl Holt
Dobbs left in a snit, and Nathan called over his shoulder, “Don’t you tattle to my aunt about Miss Drummond being with me.”
Dobbs halted and pulled himself up to his full height. “I will not tattle—as you so crudely put it—but if she inquires, I will not lie for you.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
Dobbs kept on, and Nathan sagged with exhaustion. It had been a very long time since he’d engaged in a brawl, and he’d forgotten how much it hurt to be hit in the face. The rest of him wasn’t in such great shape either. He’d thrown such hard punches. His knuckles throbbed and his arm ached, as if he’d torn it on the inside.
Nell was glowering, but he was a sorry sight, and her expression finally softened.
“What is it you need?” she asked. “How can I help?”
He pointed to the table by the window, where the housekeeper had set the medicinal supplies. “I’d like to soak my hand, then wrap it. It will hold down the swelling.”
She went over, poured water in a bowl, then brought it back. She dragged over a chair so they were very close, their feet and legs tangled together. Gently, she dipped his hand into the water, and he winced as the heat scalded his damaged skin. But quickly, the pain diminished.
“Better?” she asked.
“A little.”
“Who were you fighting with? Was it Sebastian Sinclair? That’s the rumor.”
“Yes. He stopped by to inform my aunt that I was dead.”
“I’m relieved that he was wrong.”
“The nerve of him—showing up in my driveway.” Vehemently, he added, “I wish I’d killed him!”
“You do not. Don’t you dare think that way.”
“I wanted to murder him,” he muttered. “I still want that.”
She clucked her tongue like a mother hen. “I swear, Nathan Blake, you are impossible. Look at the trouble you’ve caused!”
“I’m sorry.”
“You are not. You shouldn’t tell lies.”
“Well, I’m not sorry I assaulted him, but I am sorry I upset you.”
“I’ll mend, but I’m not certain about you.”
“I have nine lives. At the moment, I’m banged up, but by morning, I’ll be good as new.”
“I’m predicting you’ll have two very black eyes.”
“Maybe.”
She shook her head with disgust, and she was mumbling comments—about how ridiculous he was, about how men were animals, about how they acted like idiots—and he dawdled quietly, watching her, listening to her.
There had been very few occasions in his life when he’d received tender ministrations from a woman. It was very soothing, and he wished the interval would never end.
The water had cooled, and she retrieved a towel from the table and dried him. Then he instructed her on how to wrap the bandage, how to tie it off so the appendage was braced.
His shirt was covered with blood, and he gestured to the stains. “I need to get this off and put on a clean one. Dobbs placed one on my bed. Can you fetch it for me?”
She glared at him, then peeked over her shoulder to the hall where a servant could stroll by and see them. If she was caught with him, the consequences would be dire.
“I’ll fetch it,” she testily complained, “but you stay right where you are. Don’t move a muscle.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
She stood and walked into the other room, and the instant she was gone, he went to the door, eased it shut, and spun the key in the lock so no one could enter and surprise them.
When she returned, he was seated on the stool again, innocent as a choirboy.
“Help me tug off my shirt,” he said.
“You want me to help you disrobe?” She whipped around to the door. “You rat! I can’t be in here with the door closed. I shouldn’t be in here with the door open!”
“I know, but I might have torn something in my side.” She frowned, confused by his remark, and he explained, “My wound—where I was stabbed? I’m worried I might have ripped it.”
She dithered, then said, “Stand up. Let’s have a look.”
He rose, but he was off balance, so she had to do most of the work. After quite a bit of fussing, she managed to pull it over his head so he was attired in just his trousers and boots.
He assessed his torso, but there was no visible damage. The debacle in Africa had happened months earlier, and the punctured holes had healed slowly. The scars were red and jagged, appearing much worse than they actually were.
He was used to seeing them, and it wasn’t as if he’d never been maimed in the past. He’d spent nearly two decades exploring in the wilds. His body was a veritable roadmap of disfigurement, but he hadn’t paused to ponder how another person might view the situation. Especially a young lady.
There were three very distinct spots, one on his stomach and side—above the waistband of his trousers—and one on his chest.
Nell gasped, then laid a palm over the one on his chest. For a protracted period, they were frozen in place, then she drew away and plopped down on her chair. She gaped at the floor.
He plopped down too and asked, “What’s wrong?”
She waved at his scars. “How did you survive?”
“I don’t know. I think angels were watching over me, and have I mentioned that I have nine lives?”
“I feel compelled to state that you have squandered several of them.”
She slid to her knees, an elbow on his thigh, so she could scrutinize them more meticulously. It was a risqué pose, and he tried not to contemplate how much he liked having her on her knees. He was a philandering dog; he couldn’t deny it.
“You were stabbed?” she inquired.
“The two lower ones are stab wounds. The one on my chest is from an arrow.”
“An arrow!”
She was genuinely stricken, as if she might burst into tears, and he hurried to say, “I was lucky though. It wasn’t poisoned, and the tribe that attacked me was famous for its poisons.”
It occurred to him that he probably shouldn’t provide any details, but he hadn’t discussed the particulars with anyone, and suddenly, they were dying to spill out: how Sir Sidney had been caught with the chief’s wife, how chaos had erupted as the jealous husband flew into a rage, how Nathan had stupidly leapt into the fray in a botched attempt to save Sir Sidney, but rescue had been impossible.
Sir Sidney had been hacked to pieces right before Nathan’s very eyes, and in the process, Nathan had been hacked at too. He’d hastily retreated, and as he’d vanished into the jungle, he’d been pierced by an arrow. It hadn’t stopped him though. He’d been so terrified, so determined to live, that he’d possessed the strength of ten men.
He’d kept on until he’d grown too weak to continue. Then he’d collapsed under some ferns, his blood oozing into the dirt, and he’d counted his heartbeats, wondering if each would be the last.
Just as dusk had fallen, three men from the expedition had snuck up to him. Sebastian had sent them to search, and when they’d noted his ominous condition, they’d huddled, whispering vehemently over their options.
He won’t make it…one of them had said.
We’ll tell Sebastian he’s dead, another had agreed, and he will be soon! It won’t be a lie, and Sebastian will never know the difference.
Then the traitorous Judah had said, Sebastian doesn’t want any delay, remember? He ordered us not to dawdle or take any risks trying to find him…
Judah had come over then, and he’d leaned over Nathan.
It’s clear you’re done for, Nathan, he’d murmured. We can’t help you, and any assistance would simply imperil Sebastian. Is that how you’d like this to end? By slowing him down so he’s killed too? He’s so afraid you might…
Nathan had had a knife he’d always carried on his belt, one Sir Sidney had given him as a gift on his eighteenth birthday. Judah had cut off the leather sheath and had stolen it, maybe to prove to Sebastian that Nathan had been
found. Or maybe he’d planned to keep it for himself.
Whatever his motive, the despicable deed meant Nathan had been abandoned and his sole weapon seized by his purported friends. He ought to have been grateful they hadn’t slit his throat to put him out of his misery, but they hadn’t.
They’d merely slinked away like the curs they were, and Nathan had been too mortally wounded to call out to them, to beg them not to leave him behind. But early on in life, he’d learned that a man couldn’t rely on anyone else. He could only rely on himself.
Yet he wouldn’t tell her any of that. What was the point? There were some stories so horrifying that a normal person shouldn’t have to hear them.
She balanced her forehead on his thigh, and she hovered there as if she was praying. If she was, he could have told her that his soul had fled, and he believed in nothing, so prayers wouldn’t work.
When she pulled away, she smiled wearily and asked, “What am I going to do with you?”
“I have no idea.”
“How can I make you feel better?”
The question was loaded with innuendo, and if he’d been a tad more hale, he’d have tossed out a risqué joke about it, but he gestured to the bandages on the table.
“Could you wrap a strip of cloth around my ribs?” he asked. “It will stabilize my innards, so they won’t ache so much.”
She grabbed a long piece, and she tied it tightly, as he sat very still, letting her tend him, letting her fuss. Once she was finished, she maneuvered him into his clean shirt. She stared down at him, looking firm, but tender too, as if she felt sorry for him, and the prospect charmed him immensely.
“You should rest now,” she said.
“I’m not tired.”
“I don’t care. You’re taking a nap for the remainder of the afternoon.”
“Will you take one with me?”
She scoffed. “Absolutely not, but I will tuck you in.”
“You’re treating me as if I’m a child.”
“Well, you’ve been acting like a child—a spoiled, out of control child—so I have to treat you like one.”
He stood, and they walked to his bedchamber. He was drained and every bone in his body was protesting. He perched on the edge of the mattress and gazed at her. He’d never previously had a female in his bedchamber, and he couldn’t bear to have her depart. He might have been the loneliest man in the world.
“Shall I remove your boots?” she asked. “Would it make you more comfortable?”
He nodded. He didn’t really want them off, but he was anxious to have her tarry, so whatever tasks she chose to perform, he was delighted to let her.
She yanked off his boots, then she helped him to lie down—as if he couldn’t manage it himself. He certainly could have, but again, he was happy to have her fretting.
She covered him with a blanket, tucking him in as she’d promised she would, then she said, “I demand that you sleep.”
“I will if I can.”
“I’ll speak to Dobbs. I’ll have him check on you in a few hours.”
“I’ll be fine, Nell. Don’t worry so much.”
“My dear Lord Selby, you’ve had quite a battering. You’re hardly fine.”
He clasped hold of her hand and linked their fingers as if they were adolescent sweethearts. Then he tugged her nearer and kissed her.
“Thank you for nursing me,” he said as he eased down.
“You’re welcome.”
He abruptly changed the subject. “I told my aunt and Mrs. Middleton to stop harassing you about your relationship with me.”
She scowled. “You didn’t.”
“I did. If they bother you in the future, let me know.”
“You are so much trouble. I can’t decide why I put up with you. I ought to return to London as Mrs. Middleton suggested.”
“You don’t want to leave me.”
“I don’t want to, but I should. It might be the only way to save myself from disaster.”
“It’s not a disaster to be friends with me.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. I fascinate you. Admit it.”
“And I supposedly fascinate you. Where will all of this unbridled fascination lead?”
“Nowhere we should be, I’m sure.”
“That, Lord Selby, is where we enthusiastically concur.”
She dipped down and initiated a kiss of her own, then she slid away.
“Sleep!” she ordered.
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t try, Nathan. Do!”
He chuckled. “I’ll take a nap. I swear.”
“I’ll see you later. We’ll talk about today. I’m eager to hear all about your quarrel with Mr. Sinclair, so we can figure out how to mend it.”
“We can’t, because I don’t wish to mend it.”
“We’ll talk about it anyway, whether you’d like to or not.”
“I can’t wait,” he muttered.
“Rest now,” she said. “Goodbye.”
She patted his chest, then tiptoed out, and he listened as she paused at the door, as she spun the key, as she peeked out. Then she flitted away so quickly she might not have been there at all. If he couldn’t still smell her lingering essence, he might have wondered if he’d dreamed the encounter.
Nell Drummond had been with him—alone—in his bedchamber! It was so outrageous and so scandalous that he couldn’t find words to describe his feelings about it, but he’d definitely gotten away with a huge dose of mischief.
He loafed for a bit, frowning at the ceiling, cataloguing his various injuries, then he threw off the blanket and went out to the sitting room. He poured himself a tall whiskey and stood by the window, sipping it and peering down at the park.
If he was lucky, she might stroll in the garden, and he’d be able to furtively watch her as she passed by.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes, sorry. Will you walk me out?”
“Of course.”
Trevor huddled out of sight again as, up ahead, Percy and Susan were conversing in the foyer. Percy was on his way to London, and Trevor knew where he was going and why.
When Percy had begun his affair with Pamela Pomeroy, Trevor had been agog. He’d sat in the corner, listening as his mother and Percy had engaged in their impassioned battles over Percy’s desperate quest to marry the beautiful strumpet.
Trevor had been in awe of Percy’s brash conduct. It had seemed so dashing, so intensely important. Percy had been ready to sacrifice everything—name, family, reputation—to wed an actress!
But Trevor’s admiration had waned quickly enough. Faced with their mother’s stern disapproval, Percy had folded like a house of cards. He’d sworn to her that he’d sever his connection to Pamela, and for years, Trevor had assumed Percy told Edwina the truth, that he’d split with her.
A few months earlier though, he’d stumbled on Percy in London—with Pamela and their two children in tow. Trevor hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, hadn’t confronted his brother. He definitely hadn’t tattled to Edwina.
Percy had always resided in London and typically only showed up at Selby for holidays and other events. Trevor had simply figured he liked London better, that he was happier there. Edwina gave him a small allowance to rent lodging and carry on as a gentleman ought, but Trevor had snooped in Percy’s neighborhood.
Percy didn’t keep a bachelor’s apartment in town. He lived there with his darling Pamela and their daughters.
The secret was so shocking that, occasionally, he felt as if he was choking on it. Should he tell someone? If so, who should it be? He couldn’t abide his brother, but he would never deliberately hurt him. Nor would he share the news with their mother for he was quite sure she’d kill the messenger, so what would be the point?
Susan took Percy’s arm, and they strolled outside. Percy’s carriage was down in the driveway, the horses harnessed, his driver watching for him so they could be off.
H
is wedding was a week away, and he was risking his future for Pamela, which was so bizarre. Percy wasn’t the sort to form a deep attachment, so what hold could Pamela have over him? Why was he still with her?
With their not being permitted to tie the knot, Trevor had been positive she’d have dumped Percy and moved on to greener pastures, but she hadn’t. Perhaps she was in on his ruse, expecting him to get rich by marrying Susan. If so, it was a sly plan on her part. She’d waited forever for Percy’s fortunes to change, and now, he’d be able to support her with Susan’s money.
Yet what if he was caught? What then? Was he mad?
Trevor snuck to the front doors and huddled behind them, peeking out as Percy and Susan chatted down below.
“Will you be back this evening?” Susan asked. “Your mother is having guests again.”
“No. I have a supper in town. Some of my bachelor friends are throwing a party for me to celebrate my nuptials.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“I wouldn’t describe it as lovely. I’ll be with a group of disgusting, raucous men who will drink too much, eat too much, tell awful jokes, and have terrible hangovers in the morning.”
“Will you be home tomorrow? I thought we should talk about…well…where we’ll be living and other relevant topics.”
Percy scowled. “Where we’ll be living? We’ll be at Selby.”
“I understand that, but for example, will we have a suite of rooms in the manor that will be ours? Or might there be a cottage nearby that we could have? I’m hoping I can set up my own household, but if we stay in the manor, that won’t be possible.”
“Why wouldn’t it be possible?” Percy stupidly asked.
“It’s your mother’s domain.”
“Ah, yes, I see what you mean.”
“It would be nice to have our own accommodations.”
“Yes, it would,” Percy agreed. “I’ll think on it and devise a solution.”
He clicked his heels, grinned his grin that always charmed the ladies, then he climbed into the carriage. As the vehicle rolled away, Susan smiled and waved. She didn’t realize it, but Percy had no answer as to where they’d reside because he never pondered his marriage to her. He was simply focused on her dowry, but had never considered her as a real person.
