AN Unexpected Gentleman

by Alissa Johnson

  His low laugh floated over the wind as his hands came up to steady her. “Easy, sweetheart.”

  Grinning, she stretched up to kiss his cheek. The faint scratch of stubble tickled her lip. “I thought to come and find you in a minute.”

  “Now is better.” His hands slid down her arms, and he took one of her hands, twining their fingers together. “Walk with me.”

  Anywhere, she thought. “Connor?”

  His thumb brushed gently over her skin as he started them forward on the path. “Hmm?”

  “I was wondering, must all the garden be landscaped?”

  He frowned thoughtfully. “Aren’t gardens landscaped by definition?”

  “I suppose,” she conceded. “But wouldn’t it be nice to leave a piece of it as it is now? Just as we found it?”

  “We’ll leave the whole of it alone, if that’s what you want.”

  “No, Ashbury should have—Oh, look!” She released his hand and rushed ahead of him toward a patch of bluebells that were thriving amongst a tangle of weeks outside the gardener’s cottage. “This is why we should let part of the garden be as it is,” she called over her shoulder. “There are treasures in here.”

  Delighted, she bent down for a closer look. They weren’t in bloom, but come next spring—

  A flash of movement in the cottage caught her eye, and she straightened, expecting to see a maid with cleaning supplies. But it was Sir Robert who stepped through the open door, a pleasant smile on his face and pistol in his hand.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Brice.”

  Later, Adelaide would be unable to recall her immediate reaction to the sight with any clarity, but what she could remember would make her blush with embarrassment. She gave a small cry of alarm, and then she went perfectly still, the thick and icy grip of fear freezing her helplessly and uselessly in place.

  A gun. He had a gun.

  “Adelaide, back away.” Connor’s calm and steady voice cracked the ice.

  She risked a glance over her shoulder and realized with a sinking heart that he was a good ten yards behind her.

  Sir Robert shook his head. “She stays where she is. Or better yet . . .” His smile grew into a chilling grin. He transferred his aim from Connor to Adelaide. “Come here.”

  Connor’s voice snapped like a whip. “No.”

  Adelaide was in full agreement. There was no telling what Sir Robert would do if he had hold of her, but kidnapping seemed a very real possibility. She shook her head at Sir Robert. She’d rather be shot in her own garden than dragged off someplace else and shot there.

  Smile faltering, Sir Robert swung the weapon back on Connor. “Come here, or I’ll blow a hole through his gut.”

  Oh, God. Oh, God. He meant it. She took a hesitant step. She’d rather be dragged off someplace else than see Connor shot in the garden.

  Connor moved forward. “Adelaide, no.”

  “Ah, ah, ah.” Sir Robert waved the gun. “You move, she dies. She doesn’t move, you die. Are we clear?”

  Adelaide moved forward, keeping her eyes trained on the gun. Sir Robert grabbed her arm and yanked her forward the last few feet. For one brief second, she thought she might have been in a position to reach for his weapon, but the opportunity was gone almost before she’d recognized it. Sir Robert spun her around, splayed his fingers on her waist, and rubbed his thumb back and forth in a revolting mockery of a caress. “Told you I’d have her eventually.”

  The taunt was for Connor. Somehow, that infuriated her more than the indignity of Sir Robert’s touch. She’d not miss the next chance to try for the gun, she thought with dark determination. She’d not miss the chance to shoot him.

  There was no visible reaction from Connor. His voice was low and eerily calm. “Let her go, Robert. This is between you and me. She has nothing to do with it.”

  “Neither does this gun. All the same, I believe I’ll keep both for the time being.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Oh, all manner of things,” Sir Robert replied cheerfully.

  “Our feud is over. Let—”

  “Oh, is it?” Sir Robert’s voice became needling. “Because you say so? Because you’ve had your fun destroying what’s mine, and now you want to be done before—?”

  “I haven’t destroyed you. But I will. Harm a single hair on her head and I’ll—”

  “What?” Sir Connor snapped. “What will you do? You’ve ruined my name. Stolen my life.” He pitched his voice higher when Connor shook his head. “Don’t deny it. Don’t you dare deny it. I know it was you behind the sham investments. And you who sent those letters.”

  “What letters?”

  “What . . . What letters? Dozens of them! Bloody hundreds!” Sir Robert’s chest rose and fell against her back like an overworked pair of bellows. “A mob formed outside my door. I had to crawl out a window. A window, you bastard. I barely escaped Edinburgh with my skin. I can never show my face in society again. Every husband, father, and brother in Britain wants a piece of my hide. I can’t go home, and now I haven’t the funds to go anywhere else. So tell me, please, what worse could you do?”

  Adelaide’s mind whirled. He’d learned of the fictional investments. But husbands and fathers? The forged letters Connor had told her about? It couldn’t be true. Connor had burned those. He’d burned everything. She’d watched him. With a bone-chilling wash of dread, she realized it didn’t matter what she’d seen, what she knew. Someone had sent letters, and Sir Robert would never accept a denial of guilt from Connor.

  Connor obviously reached the same conclusion. “I’ll give you the funds to—”

  Sir Robert’s arm tightened around her waist. “Oh, you’ll give me more than that.”

  “I’ve two hundred pounds in my pocket. Let Adelaide go and you can have it. I’ll see you make it safely out of the country. Anywhere you want to go.”

  Sir Robert fell silent, and Adelaide held her breath. Maybe he would take the offer. Maybe he was considering the wisdom of retreat. Maybe—

  “Who the devil keeps two hundred pounds in his pocket?” Sir Robert’s voice was a strange mix of bafflement, amusement, and disdain. “Idiot mongrel.”

  “Take the money,” Connor pressed.

  Sir Robert snorted. “Live off your largesse? My every move subject to your will? Even if I were fool enough to take you at your word, I’d not debase myself with your brand of charity. I’d rather hang for a murderer. At least I’ll have the pleasure of watching the grief in your eyes as I swing.”

  “You won’t hang,” Connor said. “Your title will see to that. You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison or a madhouse.”

  The gun swung toward Connor. “Then we finish this now.”

  Adelaide jerked in her captor’s arms. “Take me with you!”

  “Adelaide, don’t be a fool,” Connor snapped.

  She ignored him. She had no intention of being foolish. She had no intention of going with Sir Robert, if she could help it. But she had to buy them time.

  “He’ll do anything you say,” she rushed on. “Give you anything you want if you have me. He’ll be completely under your power. Not for a few minutes, but as long as you like. You don’t have to be locked away, and you don’t have to take his charity. He’ll pay any price you name.”

  “He’ll hunt me down.”

  Connor’s face was murderous. “I’ll slaughter you, you—”

  “Is he smarter than you, then?” Adelaide goaded. “Faster, stronger—?”

  The gun nudged to her temple. “Shut up!”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “Think. What would be worse for him, my quick death or a lifetime of wondering?”

  She prayed that he would take the bait. And failing that, that her death would be quick and painless and, most important, give Connor the opportunity to rush Sir Robert, or hurl a rock, or dive for cover. Something, anything that would save him.

  “There’s twine in the cottage,” Sir Robert said suddenly.

  Adelaide
’s eyes flew open, and she heard the harsh release of her own breath. She’d done it. She’d bought them more time.

  Sir Robert jerked his head at Connor and began to edge them both away from the door. “Fetch it. But keep your distance.”

  Slowly, cautiously, Sir Robert moved them in a wide arc until their position and Connor’s were reversed. Connor disappeared inside the cottage and reappeared a minute later with a ball of twine in hand.

  “Toss it here and back away,” Sir Robert instructed.

  Connor lobbed it underhanded. It hit the ground with a soft thud, rolled, and stopped a few feet in front of her. He took two steps back then, but he was a little closer now, five yards away instead of ten. It wasn’t much, but it was something. She prayed it would be enough.

  Sir Robert’s arm slipped from her waist. He pulled the gun from her temple and used it to gesture at the twine.

  “Pick it up.”

  It was the chance she’d been waiting for. Without hesitating, she shifted her weight, shoved away the arm holding the gun, and rammed her shoulder into Sir Robert’s midsection as hard as she could. She heard his grunt and felt him stumbling away from her. The gun went off, and the sound was deafening, like a physical blow. Adelaide staggered back as Connor rushed by her in a blur. He plowed into Sir Robert at full speed, hurling them both into the ground.

  Sir Robert struggled to get out from under Connor’s weight. He swung the gun up, but Connor caught his wrist and gave it a brutal twist. Sir Robert’s mouth opened in a shout a second before Connor wrenched the gun away and brought it crashing down on the man’s skull.

  While Connor made swift work of tying the unconscious baron with the twine, Adelaide stood where she was, trembling from head to toe. There was a high-pitched whine in her ears, and the acrid smell of burned powder hung in the air. She barely noticed either. Her attention focused on Connor. He was alive. He was safe. And he was shouting something at her.

  “Are you hurt?! Adelaide, are you hurt?!”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not hurt.”

  But for some reason, her hand crept to her side, just above her hip. She felt something thick and warm against her fingers. Dazed, she looked down and saw red bloom through a tear in the lavender silk of her gown. A mist formed over her vision, her knees gave out, and suddenly she was seated on the ground.

  “I don’t feel it,” she heard herself say. “Shouldn’t I feel it?”

  Connor yanked the last knot tight and rushed to her side. She noted in a detached sort of way that his face was ashen as he took her shoulders and gently laid her down. His hand shook as he reached out and pressed his palm against the wound. Hard.

  The mist cleared, ripped away by the sound of her own scream.

  Now she felt it.

  She’d never known anything like it, the hideous mix of tearing and burning, as if someone was ripping at her with a glowing hot poker. And for a moment, she lost all reason. Nothing existed but the need to escape the pain. She struggled to get away, digging her heels into the earth, shoving at Connor with her right hand. She tried pushing him away with both, but lifting her left arm sent new waves of agony along her side and panic coursing through her veins.

  Connor kept the pressure steady. Bending over her, he caught her flailing hand and pinned it to the ground. “No, sweetheart . . . I’m sorry . . . Darling, don’t . . . Breathe through your teeth.”

  That last order was so outrageous, so preposterous, it actually succeeded in cutting through a layer of panic.

  “Breathe . . . through . . . my teeth?”

  “Try . . .” His breathing ragged, he arched over her protectively. A tremor racked his frame as he bent down to crush his lips to her brow. “Please. For me.”

  She tried, for him. With her eyes locked on his, she sucked in air through her nose and pushed it out through her teeth.

  “Slowly,” Connor said. His breath was hot and soothing against her skin. “That’s it . . . That’s it, love . . . Is it getting better?”

  She offered a jerky nod. Her side hurt like the devil, but it was getting better, and with every slow exhale, the pain dulled a little more.

  “I’m sorry,” she choked out.

  “No. God.” He crushed his lips to hers. “It’s all right. It’s all right, now. Just keep breathing . . . That’s it . . . Keep going . . .”

  Releasing her, he drew away to inspect her injury. She felt his hand lift from her side and heard the rending of fabric. To distract herself, she studied the locks on his bent head, the details of each golden strand and wave. The pain receded further, until it was a throbbing ache instead of a shearing burn.

  “It’s a flesh wound,” he whispered raggedly. “It’s only a flesh wound.”

  She took immediate exception to that.

  “It’s my flesh,” she ground out. There was no only about it.

  Connor flashed her a wobbly grin. “Don’t you trust me to take care of it?”

  She wanted to smile back but couldn’t quite summon the courage or the strength. Risking a peek at her side, she caught a glimpse of angry red flesh before Connor covered her injury with a makeshift bandage fashioned of his handkerchief and a strip from her chemise. “It’s not . . . mortal?”

  “No, sweetheart.” He leaned over her for a quick soft kiss even as he divested himself of his coat and laid it over her. “It missed the vitals. You’ve lost some blood, but it’s slowing.”

  She wanted to ask what the vitals were, exactly, and how could he be so certain they’d escaped damage, but she was distracted by the sudden arrival of several armed footmen.

  “’Ere they are!” One of them shouted. “Gardener’s hut!”

  Within moments, the housekeeper, butler, and several more armed footmen had joined them.

  “Dear heavens, what’s happened?”

  “Is that Sir Robert?”

  “Told ye there were a shot!”

  “Oh, missus—!”

  Connor brought silence and order with a few short commands. “Jennings, fetch the physician. Bernard, the magistrate. I want two guards on the baron. Mrs. McKarnin, have bandages, hot water, and honey brought to the master chambers. And brandy. A bottle of it.”

  He slipped an arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders, and carefully lifted her in his arms. Careful or not, the movement was jarring, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out. Connor’s manner was brisk and efficient, but there were deep lines of strain on his face. She hated seeing them.

  “Connor—”

  “Shh.” He headed for the house without a single backward glance for the baron. “Close your eyes. Rest.”

  Rest? Her heart was still pounding, her mind a morass of questions and lingering terror. And she had a hole in her side. It would be months before she would be able to close her eyes and rest. But to please him, and comfort them both, she wrapped her arm around his neck, laid her cheek against his shoulder, and watched the steady throb of his pulse in his neck.

  “Connor? The letters Sir Robert—”

  “Rest.”

  “I don’t want to,” she said softly. “I want to hear your voice.”

  His arms tightened around her. “You’re in pain. You need—”

  “Not so much now,” she said, thinking it was only a small lie. Her side throbbed mercilessly, but it was still an improvement over those first awful moments. “The letters Sir Robert spoke of . . . I thought you’d burned them.”

  He hesitated before answering. “I did. Some of them. I . . .” He trailed off, and something akin to a growl issued from his throat.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t burn everything. Hell, I didn’t burn half. I thought I’d only need a few so I could . . .” Color crept up his neck. “I burned them as . . .”

  “As what?”

  “A gesture.” The color spread a little further. “I wanted to make the gesture. It was symbolic . . . Gregory and Michael were to dispose of the rest.”

  “Oh.
I see.” Obviously, Gregory and Michael went through with their own plans. “Were there really hundreds of them?”

  “No,” he said, as he brought them through a side door into the house. “A couple dozen. Doesn’t matter. Even one was enough.”

  Chapter 30

  Conversation ceased as Connor carried Adelaide through the house, up the stairs, and into the master chambers where he laid her gently on the bed. Maids and footmen darted in and out of the room, carrying bandages, scissors, water, extra blankets, and wood. Connor replaced the blood-soaked handkerchief with clean linen. A maid lit a fire in the hearth, while the housekeeper and cook held a murmured debate over whether the honey should be applied to the bandages before or after the physician had the opportunity to examine the injury.

  Adelaide found the busy activity oddly soothing, until someone mentioned the word “sepsis.”

  “Out!” Connor bellowed, his face bleached of color. “Everyone out!”

  The staff hurried to obey, setting down their burdens and scurrying out the door. Over the shuffling of feet, Adelaide heard the slam of the front door and the pound of boots on the stairs.

  “Connor!”

  “Lad!”

  She stifled a groan. Michael and Gregory were home, and their timing could not have been worse.

  “What’s all this?” Michael called out. “Where’s the boy, then? He’ll want to hear—”

  “Aye, from me,” she heard Gregory say. “I’ll be telling him.”

  “The hell you will. He’ll hear it from me, or—”

  Connor marched to the open door. “I’ve heard!”

  Though Connor blocked most of her view into the hall, she could make out the edge of Michael’s round form and Gregory’s bony side as they came to a stop.

  “What’s this ruckus for? The wife abed? Why—”

  “She’s been shot, you—”

  “Shot?!” both men exclaimed at once.

  “I’ll be quite all right,” Adelaide called out, mostly for Connor’s benefit. “It’s only a flesh wound.”

  “A flesh wound, is it?” She heard a pair of relieved exhalations, something about spine, and then, “Who shot you, lass?”