An Unexpected Gentleman (The Haverston Family Trilogy Book 2)

by Alissa Johnson

  “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, 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 baronet 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 heals 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.” His 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 sheering 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. Montgomery, the magistrate. I want two guards on the baronet. Mrs. Mc Karnin, 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.r />
  “Connor—”

  “Shh.” He headed for the house without a single backward glance for the baronet. “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 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?”

  “Sir Robert,” Connor bit off.

  A brief silence followed.

  “Ah.”

  “Hell.”

  “You went through with it,” Connor snarled. “You delivered those damn letters.”

  “Sure and we did,” Gregory agreed.

  Michael’s voice turned defensive. “The rotter tossed us in prison. What did you expect?”

  “I expected you to follow my bloody orders!” Connor roared. “I told you to destroy the papers. I told you Adelaide wanted me done with it. You said you understood.”

  “And so we did,” Gregory replied.

  “A man ought be putting his wife first,” Michael agreed.

  “Then why the devil—?”

  “Well, she’s not our wife, is she?”

  Gregory peered over Connor’s shoulder. “Would you be caring for more than one husband?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “There you have it, lad.” Gregory’s wrinkled hand pounded on Connor’s shoulder. “She’s yours, entirely.”

  “Demands and all.”

  “She didn’t demand . . .” Connor dragged a hand down his face. “Go. Just go. I’ll deal with you later.”

  “But what happened to—”

  Connor slammed the door shut, then swore viciously when a soft knock sounded not five seconds later. “I bloody well told you—!”

  He swung the door back open to reveal a young, wide-eyed maid holding a bottle of brandy and two glasses. “Beggin’ pardon, sir,” she said nervously. “Mrs. McKarnin said I should bring this straight away. But if you’re not wanting—”

  “No. I want it.” He took the bottle, ignored the glasses, and muttered something Adelaide very much hoped was an apology. The maid bobbed a lightning-quick curtsy and dashed away.

  Adelaide studied Connor’s face as he turned. Color had returned, but it wasn’t what one might call a healthy hue. It was too dark, and steadily growing darker. He slammed the bottle down on the writing desk and began a steady pace at the foot of the bed. Hoping the exercise would serve to settle his temper, she decided to keep quiet for several minutes. She changed her mind when he began to flick dark glances in her direction every fifth step or so.

  She lifted a hand to gesture at the brandy. “What are you going to do with that?”

  “Drink it.”

  “Right from the bottle? Fine nursemaid you’ll be then,” she teased, hoping for a smile. “Will you at least share?”

  “No.” He all but snapped at her. “You’ll have laudanum.”

  A little indignant, she frowned at him and plucked at the counterpane. “Are you angry with me?”

  “No . . . Yes . . .” He spit out a word she’d never before heard and therefore assumed was highly profane, and then he stalked around the bed to crouch over her, his hands gripping the pillow on either side of her head. “Take me with you?”

  “Oh. That.” She offered him a weak smile. “I didn’t mean it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And did you mean to step in front of a bullet?”

  “Certainly not.” She’d meant to step in front of the gun. She distinctly recalled hoping bullets would not come into play.

  Apparently, Connor failed to see the distinction. His face took on a tormented expression. “It was for me to fight him. For me to protect—”

  “You were too far away. There was nothing you could do. And—”

  “There was. I needed more time, that’s all. I—”

  “Isn’t that what I gave you?”

  There was a long, long moment of silence in which a muscle in Connor’s jaw grew increasingly more active.

  “Yes,” he finally bit out. And it was amazing, really, how much reluctance could be fit into a single word. “But I’d have come up with it on my own. You had no business—”

  He broke off, his entire body tense and straining, and then, suddenly, the fight went out of him. The anger drained from his face, and a rush of breath spilled from his lips.

  “Oh, God.” A deep groan rumbled from his chest and bent he his head, resting his forehead against hers. “I thought I’d lose you,” he rasped, closing his eyes. “I thought . . .”

  “I thought the same.” She ran her palm up to stroke the knotted muscles in his neck. “But here we are.”

  And it seemed wondrou
s that they should be so, glorious that she could feel his breath, strong and sure against her skin. Closing her eyes, she let herself seep in the miracle of both. Connor was alive. He was whole and hale and safe. She couldn’t ask for more.

  She might have been killed.

  Connor struggled with the emotions warring inside him. There was anger, relief, and regret. But first and foremost, there was fear. Over and over again, he saw Adelaide stumbling back from Sir Robert. He watched helplessly as she collapsed to the ground, the bright stain of blood seeping through her gown.

  He’d never known such fear, not in the darkest hours after his parent’s death had he ever felt terror like this. He couldn’t be rid of it, couldn’t shove it aside or blanket it with anger. He could feel himself shake with it even now.

  “I want to . . .” He wanted to wrap her in cotton batting and lock her away. More, he wanted to erase her own memories, spare her every second of fear, every heartbeat of pain.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice shook. “Adelaide—”

  “Shh. You’re not at fault.”

  “If I’d stopped it all earlier. If I’d made it clear to Gregory and—”

  She gave a small huff of annoyance. “If Sir Robert had not hit you over the head with a dueling pistol and delivered you to a press-gang. If your father hadn’t neglected his wife and child. If—”

  He shook his head. “I should never have begun this. It was my fault Sir Robert took notice of you. I should never have brought you into it.”

  “I’m grateful you did. I’m so grateful to have found you.” She brushed her hand through his hair. “I love you.”

  A shiver of pleasure raced over him, followed by a steely determination. What was done was done. He couldn’t change the past, couldn’t retrieve what had been stolen from him, erase who he’d been, or ignore what he’d done. But he could learn from his mistakes. He could treasure what he had now. Careful so as not to jar her, he settled his weight on the mattress, then took her face in his hands.

  “You asked me why I compromised you, why I married you, and why I burned those papers. And I’ve given you . . .” He’d given her vague answers and half-truths. He wanted her. She mattered. He needed her.