“Or you can take the ransom and run,” he continued. “I recommend the latter.”
Adele felt the other man’s grip tighten about her waist. She sucked in a breath.
“You won’t let me leave,” her kidnapper said shakily.
Her rescuer stepped out of the way of the door. “I will let you leave when you let the lady go. But be quick about it because my patience is dwindling fast.”
The man pressed the pistol harder against the side of Adele’s head. “I don’t believe you will let me go.”
Paralyzing fear twisted around her heart. This man was not going to simply walk away. Why should he risk them following?
By the dark calculating look in her rescuer’s eyes, Adele sensed he was thinking the very same thing.
In an instant, survival instinct took over. Adele dropped to the floor and sank her teeth into the man’s thigh. While he screamed out in pain, her rescuer dashed forward and propelled the man to the wall, where they smacked into it, hard. They wrestled for a few seconds, both grunting as they tried to gain control of the pistol.
It would have been prudent for Adele to run for safety, but some other reflex took over. She darted at the pair of them and leaped onto the shorter man’s back. He swung around and threw her to the floor, then aimed the pistol at her heart.
“Damn you!” Her rescuer tackled the man just as he fired. The noise was deafening, the pain shocking. Adele grabbed hold of her thigh and curled forward.
The two men rolled around on the floor until her rescuer swung the handle of the gun and struck his foe on the head. The man’s body went still, while thunder rumbled in the distance.
Clutching her throbbing leg, Adele stared numbly at the two of them.
Her rescuer looked up. “You’re shot.”
“Yes,” she rasped.
He crawled across the floor and without so much as a second’s hesitation, tossed up her skirt.
Adele leaned back on her hands, trying not to show her sudden ridiculous sense of modesty in these circumstances. She had been shot. He—whoever he was—needed to examine the wound.
She looked down at her leg. Her ivory stocking was stained red on the inside of her thigh. The whole area burned like nothing she’d ever experienced before. It was as if someone were branding her with a red-hot poker.
Her rescuer wrapped his hand around her calf and moved her legs apart to get a closer look. Adele stiffened. She had to fight the urge to squeeze her legs back together again.
“I must remove your stocking,” he said, “to get a better look. May I have your permission?”
“Of course.”
Her reply came intuitively, but after she’d said it, she felt her modesty return. She swept the petty notion aside, for now was not the time to worry about decorum. She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on overcoming the pain.
The man’s hands were swift as he rolled the stocking down her leg. He barely touched her skin. His touch was light as silk. He eased the stocking to her ankle with great care, as if he were handling something very precious. Adele held her breath the entire time.
“This looks painful,” he said.
It was. Her whole leg throbbed, and the pounding sensation reverberated all the way up to her shoulders.
Adele opened her eyes and watched the man’s face. His dark brows drew together with concern as he inspected the gash. He slid a hand over her bare thigh as he touched all around the wound.
“It’s just a graze, thank God,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “We’ll bandage it and you’ll live.” He stood up and glanced around the room.
Looking up at him, so tall and serious, Adele had to fight the sense of embarrassment and intimidation that made her almost afraid to speak. She had never let a man who was not a doctor touch her so intimately before.
“May I ask who you are? And how you found me?”
He considered her question for a moment. “I apologize, Miss Wilson. I should have identified myself.”
Suddenly, he was transformed into a proper gentleman. At least his words were gentlemanly. His appearance was quite another matter altogether. He was unshaven, wild, and rough. His black wool coat looked shabby, dusty, and weathered, as if he’d rolled down a hill in it. There was intensity in everything about him, and it left her breathless and panicky.
Adele was nowhere near ready to relax. Especially when she found herself locked in his dark, gleaming stare.
“I am Damien Renshaw,” he explained. “Viscount Alcester. Harold’s cousin.”
Harold’s cousin? Yes…she knew of him. Her sister Sophia had met him in London and described him as the polar opposite of Harold. Lord Alcester had a terrible reputation with women, he was irresponsible with money and his mother had been a scandalous adulteress. He was following in his mother’s footsteps, it was said, and led a careless life with a string of mistresses of questionable repute. The current one was a famous and beautiful actress.
“The ship’s master at arms informed Harold of your kidnapping,” Lord Alcester said, “as there was a ransom note left in your stateroom. Harold informed me of the situation, and it was deemed that I should take care of things.”
Deemed? By whom?
“I assured Harold that I would bring you home quickly and quietly,” Lord Alcester added. “We will leave here in the morning, after the storm has passed, and travel under assumed names to meet your mother and sister in two days’ time, in a village between here and Osulton Manor. It has all been arranged. She will then escort you the rest of the way, as if nothing ever happened.”
Adele was in shock. She was to travel alone with this man?
Still fighting the excruciating pain in her thigh, she struggled to collect her thoughts and understand the situation. “No one knows about my kidnapping?”
“Besides the ship’s officer, no one except your family and Harold’s mother and sister. I suggested he not even tell them, but by the time he contacted me, he had already informed them. They have since been advised to keep quiet.”
“To avoid a scandal,” Adele said.
“Yes.”
She glanced uneasily at her rescuer—a rake of the highest order—then at the unconscious man lying on the floor beside them, who had done God-only-knew-what to her while she was unconscious.
Adele felt sick and dizzy.
Lord Alcester followed her gaze, then crossed the creaky floor to where her kidnapper lay. Kneeling down, he pressed two fingers to the man’s neck. The wind from the storm outside moaned like a beast inside the stone chimney and the draft lifted the clinging cobwebs around the hearth.
When at last Lord Alcester spoke, his voice was low and subdued. “He’s dead.”
Adele swallowed hard as Alcester pinched the bridge of his nose. All the color left his face and he looked as if a severe headache had just taken root inside his skull.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
As soon as he met her gaze, his color returned. “Yes.”
He stood up and she found herself trying to read his thoughts but couldn’t.
“I’ll need to wrap your wound.” He was gone before she had a chance to utter a single word.
A moment later he returned with a cloth in a bowl of water and a bottle of whiskey. He shrugged out of his long black coat.
“This house was abandoned long ago. There’s nothing downstairs to use for bandages. My shirt will have to suffice.”
Adele sat forward to protest—partly because she couldn’t fathom the idea of this man walking around shirtless—but the movement caused a stabbing sensation in her leg.
“Sit still,” he said. “You’ll worsen the bleeding.” His voice seemed strained and impatient. Was he annoyed with her?
“I’m sorry,” she replied apprehensively. “I wanted to tell you that we could use my petticoat for bandages.
It has a bullet hole in it anyway.”
He considered that for a moment and nodded.
Adele swallowed. “If you would be so kind as to avert your eyes while I remove it?”
“Do you need assistance?”
Assistance! Her pulse drummed at the suggestion. Based on his reputation, he was probably a master at removing women’s underclothes.
Adele was astonished by the sudden depraved direction of her thoughts. It was exhaustion, surely. She’d hardly slept in three days. Think clearly, Adele. He is merely offering to help in order to spare you pain.
“I can manage, thank you,” she replied.
He left the room but remained just outside the door while she struggled to reach up under her skirts and free the ribbons at her waist. With more than a little discomfort, she slid the garment down over her hips.
“You can come in now.” She held the petticoat out to him.
He took it and began to tear it into strips. “If you’re in pain, you’re welcome to take a few swigs of that whiskey.”
She eyed it uneasily. “No, thank you.” She wanted to keep her wits about her in the coming hours, for she didn’t know what those hours might bring.
While Lord Alcester stood tall above her, ripping and tearing at the petticoat, he glanced around the bare room with assessing eyes. “You spent three days in here?”
“Yes.”
He met her gaze. “After I clean and bandage your wound, we’ll move you downstairs where you’ll be more comfortable.”
“I’m perfectly fine here,” she replied.
The sound of fabric ripping filled a long, drawn-out silence between them. Adele felt a great need to add conversation to that silence, for she needed to distract herself from her anxiety.
“I don’t even know what it looks like downstairs,” she said. “I was unconscious when I arrived, and sick when I woke up.”
Lord Alcester stopped ripping. “Sick and unconscious?”
“Yes. I was drugged on the ship. He kept me drugged until I woke up here.”
“Were you hurt in any way?”
She understood his meaning. He was wondering if she had been violated. She was wondering that herself, with more than a little concern. She knew nothing about such things regarding the female body.
“I’m not certain,” she replied. “I didn’t feel....” How could she put it? “I felt no pain anywhere. Except for a headache. But I suppose a lady couldn’t be sure about a certain kind of pain. Or could she?”
What kind of question was that?
Alcester’s expression revealed no hint of awkwardness. He knelt beside her, dipped the cloth into the bowl of water and gently squeezed it out. His eyes lifted to meet hers and he responded with composure.
“It depends,” he said softly. “Pardon my candor, Miss Wilson, but did you notice any bleeding when you woke up?”
“No, but couldn’t he have...?” Lord, this was awkward. “He disposed of my nightgown. Couldn’t he have…tidied up afterwards?”
She’d never had a conversation quite like this before.
“I suppose, if he were an exceedingly neat person.” Lord Alcester smiled gently at her, and Adele knew he was trying to minimize her concerns.
Continuing to rinse the cloth in the bowl, he said, “My suspicion is that you are probably fine. I believe you would know if something was wrong. But if you wish to be certain, a physician can examine you.”
“He’d be able to tell?”
“Yes.”
“Would he be able to tell if I was—” She stopped. She couldn’t go on.
“If you were what, Miss Wilson?”
“If I was with child?” The idea was unsettling, to say the least, but she had to ask.
“I believe it would be too soon to ascertain the answer to that particular question, but let us deal with one problem at a time, shall we?”
Grateful that Lord Alcester was direct and honest with her about this awkward topic, she considered what she knew about the English aristocratic code. A woman was expected to be a virgin upon marriage to ensure any child born of the union was the true heir to the man’s title. Perhaps Harold was worried. Perhaps Lord Alcester was worried, too. He was a member of that family, after all.
“I would like to be examined officially,” she said, remembering that she was to become an aristocratic lady herself. It would be her code, too. Best to follow the rules.
Lord Alcester held the cloth above her wound and squeezed water over it. “The Osulton family physician is a very good man,” he said. “I would trust him with my life, and you can rest assured that he will be discreet. I hope you are not unduly worried?” Alcester’s eyes met hers again. He often seemed to be assessing things.
“I am, but I will do my best to be patient.”
He nodded, appearing satisfied, then turned his attention back to the task of treating her wound. The droplets of water tickled her skin. A few times, her leg jerked upward from the intensity of the dribbling sensation—the odd combination of pain and tickling. She wished she could keep her leg still, but it was no use.
“Try to relax,” he whispered, glancing up at her again. “Breathe deep and count each breath.”
She did as he suggested, keeping her eyes locked on his. All the knots in her muscles began to untie themselves, while she stared at him.
Slowly, the blood washed away, along with the tension in her neck and shoulders. Her breathing slowed.
Lord Alcester bent to look more closely at the gash, then he reached for the bottle of whiskey. “This is going to hurt, but it must be done.”
“I understand.”
“Squeeze my arm if you have to.”
She didn’t want to.
He paused to give her time to prepare herself, then poured the alcohol over the wound. He might as well have poured liquid fire on her. Adele clenched her teeth together to keep from crying out.
As soon as he tipped the bottle upright, she leaned forward and squeezed her thigh. “Sweet Mary!” she ground out.
“Apologies.” He set the bottle down and reached for the long bandage he’d fashioned from her petticoat. “I’m going to wrap the wound now.”
Adele nodded in agreement. He tried to press a smaller bandage to the gash, but she had unconsciously pressed her legs together at the knees. She was clenching her teeth together, too.
He cupped her other knee in his hand and gently pushed her legs apart, again keeping his eyes fixed on hers the entire time. “It’s important to do this properly,” he said. “Relax if you can.”
She struggled to still her racing heart—for no man had ever parted her legs before—and forced herself to surrender to the gentle pressure of his hand.
“Perhaps you could bend your knee slightly?” he politely asked, then he reached for the bandage and wrapped it around her thigh.
His movements were swift and efficient. Before she knew it, he was tying a knot and sitting back. “There. All done. You can breathe now.” He lowered her skirt to cover her leg.
She hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath until he mentioned it.
He helped her rise but as soon as she attempted to walk, pain flooded through her. She felt suddenly nauseated.
“Let me help you.” He wrapped his arm about her waist. “Lean into me. That’s it.”
She began to limp beside him, and felt the thick, firm muscles of his shoulder and the solid, steady support of his body. He did not waver or lose his balance.
“It will be difficult to walk for a few days,” he said.
“But how will we ever get me away from here? For one thing, I don’t have shoes. And it will be torture to ride.”
“No shoes?” He paused. “Leave that to me. I will ride out at first light and return with a coach and driver for the journey, and I will bring shoes for you.
”
“What about him?” She gestured toward her kidnapper.
“I will alert the authorities in the morning and have someone come to collect him. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll make sure our names are not connected. We’ll be long gone by the time they arrive.”
They hobbled together into the hall and reached the top of the staircase. Adele stopped and looked down. “This might be a challenge.”
“Allow me.” He held out his arms.
He meant to carry her? Her heart did a little nervous flip at the thought of it.
Before waiting for her reply, he scooped her into his strong, able arms and descended the narrow steps effortlessly. When he reached the bottom, he carried her to the kitchen, where a faded upholstered chair faced the fireplace. Other than that, the room was unfurnished. There was only a small pile of kindling, some cooking utensils, and provisions to prepare a few meager suppers.
Lord Alcester set her down on the chair. Lightning flashed outside the window. Thunder rumbled almost immediately afterward as darkness began to descend.
“If you will excuse me,” he said. “I must take my horse to the stable before the storm is fully upon us.”
“Of course.” Yet she did not want him to go. She had been trapped alone for three days, helpless and locked in a room. She had just been shot. She was an ocean away from her home, and he was all she had.
Lord Alcester raised his coat collar up around his neck and picked up the hat that lay on the floor. He must have torn it off quickly when he’d first arrived. She remembered the violent commotion that ensued when he’d entered and could only imagine what had occurred.
Settling the hat on his head, he faced her. “The worst is over now.”
It was exactly what she had needed to hear. Had he known? He seemed very intuitive.
He opened the door and let in a powerful gust of wind carrying a pattering of cold, hard rain. The gale swept into the cottage and whirled like a tempest, but the room calmed quickly when he slammed the door behind him.
Adele sat alone in the silent kitchen, staring at the door and trying to come to terms with her situation. She couldn’t believe that she had been kidnapped and shot. Bookish Adele Wilson, who avoided adventure at all costs....
Falling for the Marquess (American Heiress Trilogy Book 2) Page 30
