Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters Book 9)

by Scarlett Scott

  A scream tore from her throat.

  Her vision turned dark around the edges. She felt hot, then cold. The prickle of perspiration broke out on her forehead. And then her knees went weak. The door to her chamber burst open, and the faint sound of a deep voice calling her name reached her.

  But it was too late.

  Her world went black.

  Devil was accustomed to all manner of violence. Knife attacks, gunshot wounds, fires. The only constant in the rookeries was that anything could happen at any time, and a man was never truly safe. He was always prepared, even in his sleep.

  But the gunshots fired into his half brother’s Mayfair townhome?

  He had not been expecting them.

  Dom and Lady Adele were not at home this morning, having both gone to The Devil’s Spawn, leaving Devil to the work of beginning his new plan of protecting the townhome and its occupants. One moment, he was instructing his men on where they were to be stationed, and the next, the unmistakable sound of shots being fired erupted from the street. He was running before the shattering glass and the scream. Heart thundering in his chest, he plowed through the door of Lady Evangeline’s chamber.

  One of the windows was shattered, shards glittering all over the floor as the window dressings blew in the wind. She was on the floor in a heap of cream-colored skirts and crimson blood.

  Devil was on his knees at her side in an instant. The sleeve of her gown was torn, covered in red. Her fingers were coated, her face pale. But her breathing was steady, her bosom rising and falling. He wasted no time in lifting her in his arms and carrying her from the chamber, lest there was any further danger. Such a tiny thing she was, light as a bird in his arms. She felt like something fragile and delicate, fashioned of porcelain rather than human flesh. But she was all too real, capable of being harmed. Her blood spilled.

  Fuck.

  He needed to assess the extent of her wounds.

  His men caught up to him in the hall.

  “Get to the street,” he barked at them as he carried a limp Lady Evangeline toward his chamber. “Find the bastard responsible for this!”

  They hurried to do his bidding. He stalked down the hall to the guest chamber he had been given and shouldered his way through the door. Lady Evangeline was coming to in his arms, groaning. He laid her on his bed, taking care not to jostle her.

  Golden lashes fluttered. Gently, he brushed the curls framing her face aside. Her eyes opened, wide, brown pools. The color was returning to her cheeks. All good signs.

  “Where are you injured?” he asked, assessing her bleeding wound.

  Through the ruined fabric, he detected what appeared to be a long line on her upper arm.

  “Just…my arm. I think.” She blinked, then struggled to sit up.

  He kept her still by flattening his palm over her unwounded shoulder. “No moving.”

  He needed to make certain she was not bleeding anywhere else. It was possible a lone bullet had grazed her and that was the extent of the damage. But he had also seen men with bullets lodged in their backs who had been in shock and hadn’t realized they had been wounded.

  Devil tore off the remainder of her sleeve and pressed it lightly to her wound, staying the blood flow. She inhaled sharply, her body tensing at the pain. Anger sliced through him. Someone had dared to shoot through the window of Dom’s home in the midst of fancy Mayfair. And Lady Evangeline had been injured. Someone intended to do her harm. And Devil had failed to protect her.

  “Do you have pain anywhere else?” he asked her, his voice more gruff than he intended.

  He was bloody furious. Furious at the unknown enemy who had hurt her, furious at himself for not preventing it from happening.

  “No.” She shifted again, trying to sit up.

  Once more, he flattened his hand against her collarbone, preventing her from moving. “Stay still. I need to make certain you aren’t hurt anywhere else.”

  “Where did you bring me?” she demanded, some of her queenly ice returning. “I cannot be alone with you in a bedchamber, Mr. Winter.”

  Milady was back.

  He released his pressure on her wound and made a cursory search of her person, ignoring her outrage. She’d been shot, damn it.

  “What are you doing, sir?” she asked as he flipped up her skirts.

  He had a brief glimpse at the paradise beneath her petticoats. Petite legs encased in stockings, curved thighs.

  No wounds, so he settled her gown back into place. “Checking you for signs of injury.”

  “I told you my only wound is my arm.” She wriggled, as if trying to escape him.

  But he possessed more strength in his pinky finger than she did in her entire body. Keeping her where he wanted her proved no challenge. “Stop talking.”

  “You are incredibly rude, sir!”

  He ignored her, making quick work of checking her everywhere he could before returning his attention to her sole wound. She had been fortunate. If the bullet had lodged within her arm…

  No, he would not think of that now.

  The bleeding had already slowed, but there was the possibility she would need to be stitched up. His half sister Genevieve was a wonder with the needle. The wound would also require cleaning. He wondered if Dom had any whisky in this wealthy nib house of his.

  “Stay here,” he ordered her. “Wait for me.”

  Then he stalked off in search of supplies, aid, and answers.

  He had issued his command to her as if she were a dog.

  Even in pain, her wounded arm throbbing, Evie had no intention of doing Devil Winter’s bidding. He could go back to Hades where he belonged. Besides, was he not meant to be guarding her? And yet, during his supposed watch, someone had fired a bullet through her window.

  And she was bleeding. Wounded. Part of her still felt as if it had all been a nightmare, and that any moment she would wake to find herself beneath the counterpane. But the pain radiating from her arm reminded her the predicament in which she found herself helplessly mired was all too real. As did her surroundings.

  The arrogant oaf had carried her to a guest chamber she suspected was his.

  Which meant…she was on his bed. The bed where he had slept last night. And his hands had been on her. He had looked beneath her gown and petticoats. He had taken shocking liberties with her person.

  Lord Denton would not be pleased if he discovered, she had no doubt.

  Evie slid from the bed, clutching her torn sleeve to the wound lest she bleed everywhere. The blood on her hand, already drying, made her feel as if her head were too light for her body. It also made the room swirl a bit around the edges as she swayed toward the door.

  She had scarcely made it to the threshold when a loud growl, accompanied by the thud of large footsteps, told her that her unwanted bodyguard had returned.

  “Damn it, I told you to wait.”

  She was in his arms again, unceremoniously hauled sideways, the world upended. He carried her with ease, ignoring her protests as he placed her back on the bed, moving slowly to avoid jostling her wounded arm.

  The care he showed her seemed quite at odds with the gruffness of his nature. So, too, the angry growl. Mayhap it was the dizziness still assailing her, or the loss of blood. But she found herself studying him. He was more handsome at this proximity than she had supposed. The concentration on his countenance heightened the sharp prominence of his cheekbones and jaw. He caught his lower lip between his teeth as he took her wrist in a tender grasp and removed her hand from the wound.

  “You are not a doctor,” she told him. “I will wait for the family physician to examine me.”

  In typical Devil Winter fashion, he ignored her. Using a cloth, he dabbed gently at her wound, mopping up the blood. Her breath caught at the pain his small action sent roiling through her.

  “That hurt!” she accused, though in truth she knew he was doing his utmost to avoid causing her further discomfort.

  He reached for a bottle of spirits he mus
t have fetched during his brief disappearance. Slowly, he slid an arm behind her back, helping her to lift her head from the pillow. Then, he held the bottle to her lips.

  “Drink.”

  She hadn’t time to protest, and anything she may have said was drowned beneath a tide of burning liquid as he tipped the bottle and poured some of its contents into her mouth. Whatever it was, it tasted wretched. The urge to spit it everywhere rose, along with a gag. As if sensing her reaction, he pinched her nose. The action had her swallowing instinctively so she could inhale through her burning lips and tongue. Her eyes watered.

  “What are you doing?” With her good arm, she attempted to push him away from her.

  But the effort was no use. It was akin to an ant attempting to shift a boulder. Devil Winter was not going anywhere.

  Instead of answering her, he put the bottle to her mouth once more. “Drink again.”

  “No.” Even as she spoke the word, he slid the bottle between her lips and tilted it.

  Another rush of burning, terribly dry liquid hit her tongue. This time, she swallowed it down without his prompting, for what choice had she? An oaken flavor remained, bitter. But a strange warmth blossomed within Evie. Some of the panic bristling inside her faded.

  He allowed her to swallow before tipping the bottle. More went down her throat. A drop of it slipped from the corner of her lips and slid down her face. He caught it with his thumb before she could react, the rough graze of the callused pad on her skin strangely intimate.

  Their gazes met and held. Such brilliant, beautiful blue. His lashes were long and thick, she noted. The architecture of his face was a strange blend of wildness and perfection, of sinner and savior. The pain in her arm reminded her what had happened, where she was, and with whom.

  She blinked. “I do not want any more of that poison.”

  “Not poison.” He held it to her mouth once more. “Whisky. Drink, Lady Evangeline. It will ease the stinging.”

  She took another drag of the spirits as he requested. This would have her bosky in no time.

  Evangeline eyed him, the patience in his countenance, the impassiveness of his expression. “Have you ever been shot, sir?”

  “Thrice.” The bottle was back at her lips.

  Was it her imagination, or had his hand crept to her nape? Were those his fingers massaging her neck, easing the stiffness from her muscles? Surely she was delusional.

  Belatedly, it occurred to her he had admitted to having been shot.

  On no less than three occasions.

  She ought not to be surprised, and yet the knowledge he had been in a similar position in his past startled her. “Who shot you?”

  “My enemies. One more sip, milady.”

  She obliged, because his whisky was doing things to her. Softening her. Warming her. Blurring her pain, making it smooth around the edges. Not so hard and furious. He was helping her. Something in his fierce demeanor had shifted.

  Or mayhap something inside her had.

  Blood loss, she thought for the second time.

  Perhaps she was on her deathbed, for there was no other reason to be entertaining the utterly outlandish thought that Mr. Devil Winter was not every bit as barbaric, vulgar, and horrible as she had initially supposed him to be.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  As if a torpor had settled over her.

  “Better,” she allowed.

  “Good.” He tipped the bottle, splashing enough of it on a fresh cloth to dampen it, and then he pressed that cloth to her wound.

  The pain was almost unbearable. Every speck of goodwill toward him instilled by the whisky died a swift death. She screamed and attempted to swat him away with her good hand. But her actions were as futile as before. Devil Winter was a strong, massive man. Immovable.

  His face was a study in determination as he went about his task, dashing more whisky on the bloodied cloth before using it to wipe her wound once more. She tried to box his ear but he caught her wrist and held her still as he finished cleaning her bloodied arm.

  “You are hurting me,” she gritted through her clenched jaws and a haze of tears.

  “I am helping you.”

  It hardly seemed so from her perspective.

  “You are punishing me,” she countered. “You do not like me. Your disdain for me was evident yesterday.”

  His full lips quirked, but he did not remove his gaze from her wounded arm. “Disdain. Fancy word for a fancy duke’s daughter. Not so fancy when you’re shot, are you?”

  “Not so excellent a guard when the woman you are tasked with protecting is wounded, are you?” The bitter accusation left her before she could think better of it.

  He did not say a word, and if her taunt had upset him, there was no sign of it. Not a hesitation or a tightening of his lips. Why was she staring at his mouth? She had never in her life consumed whisky until this evening. Being soused and shot, after having suffered a loss of blood, was having an ill effect upon her mind.

  Instead, he worked in silence, finishing cleaning her wound before taking up a small pot and unscrewing the lid.

  “What is that?” she demanded.

  “Horse piss.”

  She blinked at him. Surely she had misheard?

  “Rat shit,” he said, and then stabbed two of his cloth-covered fingers into the jar, pulling up a generous glob of thick, amber-colored syrup.

  He was not serious, was he? He was saying something horrible, was he not? The delusions were settling in now, surely. She felt faint.

  He slathered the solution on her wound with slow, gentle motions. “May not need to be stitched up after all.”

  The burning pain eased. In its place, coolness and a strange sense of numbness settled in. She watched him as he worked, his expression intense. The pain seemed to ease with each brush of the thick ointment. The scent of it filled the air between them. Sweet and herbal.

  “Honey?” she asked.

  “Amongst other herbs.” He finished his work and began winding a length of clean cloth around her arm in a loose grasp. “You may call for your physician as you like, my lady, but I do not think you will need any stitches on this wound. If you are fortunate, it will not fester.”

  Everything inside her felt brittle and bright. His face was too handsome. His fingers scraping over her tender flesh as he bound her wound too intimate, too warm.

  “Horse piss,” she said, repeating what he had told her. “And rat shit? Mixed together?”

  His gaze jerked to hers. Bluer than the sky and the ocean combined. “Pardon?”

  Had he already forgotten his crude words? She was experiencing a curious combination of pain, spirits, and shock. The aftereffects left her feeling as if she were afloat in an ascension balloon. High above and giddy.

  “The salve you applied to my wound,” she clarified, playing his game. “Is it horse piss mixed with rat shit? Or were you deceiving me, Mr. Nothing?”

  He blinked. The corners of his too-full lips twitched. Almost as if he was tempted to smile. Evie did not think she had ever seen a true smile from Devil Winter yet. A challenge, that. The urge to cause one rose within her, warring with everything else.

  “Mr. Nothing?” he repeated, tying off the bandage on her arm with easy, facile motions.

  His fingers were long.

  His hands were tremendous, just as large as the rest of him.

  She found herself strangely entranced with them.

  “Devil or nothing,” she reminded him. “That is what you said. Therefore, Mr. Nothing it is.”

  A dark brow quirked. “Is that so, my lady?”

  “Evie,” she said, and she did not know why.

  A second brow joined the first. Such an exquisite display of emotion from his often-stark face. She was most pleased with herself for having caused it.

  “Evie,” he repeated in his low baritone.

  The voice that rumbled down her spine like a forbidden caress.

  “Yes.” She was feeling del
iciously warm and dizzy once again. “More whisky, if you please?”

  “I reckon you have had enough.” He swallowed, his gaze dipping to her lips.

  Or had she imagined it?

  “One more sip.” Her tone was wheedling, she knew. The stuff tasted awful, but it had knocked the edge off her pain. Or mayhap that was his honey-and-herb concoction.

  He stared at her, that impossibly blue gaze seeming to cut straight through her. An indeterminate span of time passed. She was certain he was going to deny her.

  And then, he made a sound low in his throat. More of a grunt than anything, and he held the bottle to her lips once more. She took another long draught and thought that perhaps Devil Winter was not quite as horrible as she initially supposed.

  Chapter Three

  “No.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Devil’s lone, low denial rang out at the same time Lady Evangeline’s did.

  Evie.

  Damn it, why did her tap-hackled command he call her by her diminutive return to haunt him now? Didn’t matter. All that did was his canceling the poorly conceived, half-arsed, utterly shite idea which had just been presented by Lady Adele and Dom. A half brother ought to have more loyalty, the bastard.

  “I know it is unusual for a young lady to suddenly be forced to take time away from the social whirl in the midst of the Season,” Lady Adele began tentatively, addressing her twin. “However, the events of two days ago leave us with little choice. Surely you must see the necessity of keeping your whereabouts hidden until we can be assured of your safety.”

  “I most certainly do not.” Milady was at her best once more, sweeping through the drawing room as if she were a queen attended by her mere vassals.

  Trifling matters such as gunshot wounds did precious little to dampen her aristocratic airs. Devil suspected they were bred in her. She was a duke’s daughter, was she not? She had probably emerged from the womb looking down her nose at everyone who was not a lord or lady.

  Whilst he had been born fighting for his existence. The woman who had birthed Devil—he refused to think of her as his mother—had not given a bloody bean about him. After he reached a suitable age, selling him had proven a better prospect than attempting to feed an extra mouth had. And Anne Smythe had done just that, may she rot.