For the Love of a Soldier

by Victoria Morgan

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Unless something about Keyes has sparked your memory, he wasn’t at Hammond’s plotting my demise but here whining about his lost land, loose daughter, and growing debts. Stewart confirmed his whereabouts, which does eliminate one suspect. The man’s an idiot, not a cold-blooded killer.”

  “It must be nice to be confident of your immunity from idiots, but blind arrogance can’t stop bullets.” She yanked at his sleeve. “Let me see to your arm. There is blood on your jacket. He grazed you, and I should bandage the wound before we continue.” She ducked her head and tugged on his arm, leaning over to assess the damage.

  He shrugged off her efforts. “It’s just a scratch. You can check on it after we round up Autumn.” He settled Alexandra back in front of him and pressed his knees into Champion’s side, urging him forward.

  His tension eased at the feel of Alexandra’s slim body close to his, the warmth of her back against his chest, her thighs flush against his. She smelled good, too. Honeysuckle and something else he couldn’t put his finger on.

  Perhaps the day was not a total loss.

  The first drops of rain fell and he gritted his teeth. His thought was premature. The day was starting to get on his nerves. Where the hell was the mare?

  “Would Autumn return home on her own?” Alexandra said, hunching her shoulders against the wind, which had picked up along with the spitting rain.

  He drew her closer, leaning low to shield her body with his. No hardship there. “Probably. She’s no fool. There’s food there, and it’s dry.”

  “Smart horse. Let’s follow her lead.”

  “Right,” he muttered, his mood souring as the rain pelted his back. He started to urge Champion faster, but instead drew back on the reins. It was a long ride back to the house while the old hunting lodge was much closer. They could wait out the storm there. And he had food. They needn’t rush home immediately.

  He circled Champion around, feeling his dark mood lighten.

  He might salvage the day along with his plans—or drown in the process.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ALEX wrapped her arms around her waist in an effort to get warm. Unlike Garrett, she wasn’t soaked through. His body curled over hers had taken the brunt of the deluge. Other than her skirts, she had stayed relatively dry.

  She stood in an old weather-beaten hunting lodge, the rain pounding the roof like a herd of thundering elephants. She glanced at the ceiling, half expecting the water to leak through any minute.

  Garrett was seeing to Champion, hitching him to the posts under the eaves in the back. He said they could wait out the storm here, convinced it was a passing front. Alex believed otherwise, but was too cold and hungry to argue.

  Her eyes drifted over the room. There was a sofa, a scarred table, a few scattered chairs, and blankets draped here and there. The hearth held kindling and half-burned wood stacked in the fireplace. Evidence suggested the place wasn’t as abandoned as she had first surmised. It clearly was still used as a rustic refuge, perhaps providing succor for other riders caught in a storm. Eyeing the cozy throw blankets, she refused to consider the trysts the lodge may have hosted. She swallowed. This was a bad idea. She needed to leave before it got worse.

  Picking up her damp skirts, she hurried to the door, but a crack of thunder stopped her short. Leaving was not an option. Balefully, she scowled at the buck head mounted above the front door. Beneath an impressive array of antlers, coal black eyes stared straight ahead. As if amused at her predicament, a sparkling gleam lit the dark orbs. At least she hadn’t been stalked, stuffed, and mounted…she paused. That hadn’t come out right. Cheeks burning, she closed her eyes. This was ridiculous. Her nerves were running rampant, and she was not a hysterical female.

  If she were such a female, she would have panicked earlier. The dogs, the gunshots, and Garrett’s self-proclaimed “scratch” were enough to send most women into hysterics. While those incidents had her heart pounding like an orchestra in full concert, she had remained levelheaded enough to control Autumn. After that, Garrett had taken charge. She bit her lip as she recalled him whisking her onto his saddle, his arm curled around her as they raced along the wooded path. Her heart had played a different tune then, and opening her eyes, she sighed.

  He certainly had a commanding way about him. She didn’t mind his take-charge, protective manner. After her father’s lackadaisical care, she found she rather liked it. It was his arrogance that worried her. His dismissal of Keyes as an incompetent idiot, incapable of engineering Garrett’s murder, was ludicrous. Did the man truly believe the mastermind behind this deadly plot to be an intelligent man? Or a sane one? Contrary to Garrett, she believed the man behind these attacks to be a coward and an idiot.

  A man like Keyes.

  She jumped, barely stifling her cry when the front door banged open. Garrett staggered in, his hair dripping wet, his arms loaded with a stack of wood, a saddlebag dangling from one arm. “Thought we could build a fire. I found a dry cord of wood stacked out back under cover of the porch.”

  She rushed to shut the door behind him, securing the bolt. She was glad for his interruption, not ready to further contemplate that a neighboring estate might harbor a cold-blooded killer.

  Garrett unloaded the wood before the fireplace. “Storm moved in fast. We made it here just in time.” Straightening, he shoved his wet hair from his forehead as he looked around. “Looks like we aren’t the only guests who’ve sought refuge here. And they left some towels.” He grinned at her as he crossed to the sofa.

  Alex bit her lip as his thoughts echoed hers.

  He dumped the saddlebag on the nearby table, and then snatched up one of the smaller blankets from the sofa to dry his face. When he lowered the blanket, his hair was askew, his jacket soaked and plastered to his tall frame, and his eyes were alight with humor. “Not the view I planned to show you, but it’s dry, and we have food.” He nodded to the saddlebag. “Same plans, different venue.”

  Alex sighed as she approached him. “Here, you need to take off your jacket before you catch a chill. It’s soaked through.”

  “Just the jacket?” he teased. “My shirt is also wet. And my trousers.”

  Alex quirked a brow, not deigning to respond.

  He laughed. “Fine, but I thought you wanted to tend to my arm.”

  “Your scratch, that is?” She met his eyes. “I believe I can do that with your trousers on. Wet or not.”

  “Pity that,” he murmured.

  “The fire will dry them. Why don’t you light it?”

  His eyes darkened. “Why don’t I?” When she stepped back from him, he chuckled and shrugged out of his jacket.

  Before she could voice a protest, he dispensed with his cravat as well. He undid the top two buttons of his linen shirt, revealing a teasing triangle of skin. She exhaled. Why bother with the fire? One sultry look from the man, and she was burning up.

  Garrett turned to the hearth, collected matches from a metal box on the mantel, and bent to gather some wood.

  She caught her breath. He needn’t be worried about her missing the view. No scenic vista could rival the sight of Garrett bent over, his wet shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders, its damp patches plastered to his golden skin. Her eyes drifted lower, sliding over his fitted trousers to his buttocks, and she sighed again.

  This was a very bad idea.

  She jumped when a violent gush of wind rattled the windowpanes, reminding her she was trapped. Well, she was a practical woman, and it was time she made the best of a bad situation.

  Her eyes moved back to Garrett. The fire caught on the pieces of kindling he had stuffed beneath wood stacked like a pyramid. When he leaned over to blow the flames higher, she caught her breath. There was no denying that the best of her situation stood yards away from her.

  Straightening, Garrett planted his hands on his hips as he watched the flames climb.

  Drawn to both the man and the warmth of th
e fire, she crossed to his side. She noticed for the first time the red streak staining his torn sleeve below his shoulder. The sight sobered her and she grasped his arm. “Just a scratch?”

  He jerked when she started to pry his sleeve away, the material stuck to the blood. “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it later.” He walked to the table where he had dumped the saddlebag. “Are you hungry?”

  She was determined to stay focused on his wound. “You are no coward, so why won’t you let me tend to your arm?”

  Surprised, he looked at her and after a moment, shrugged. “Fine.” He unbuckled the saddlebag and withdrew a silver flask and a cloth packet. Untying the packet, he slid out a small serrated knife. Collecting both items, he grabbed a chair and dragged it before the fire. Dropping onto it, he slipped his hand into his sleeve, grunted once as he yanked it free of the blood-encrusted wound. He looked over at her. “Well, come on, Nurse Nightingale, don’t let the patient do all the work.”

  When she moved to his side, he handed her the knife. Amused, she turned it over in her hand, the firelight dancing over its blade. “Is this to keep you in line?”

  His eyes met hers. A gleam flickered in the gray depths. The moment dragged on long enough to ratchet up her pulse. “Let’s stick to ‘no’ for that.” He grinned at her dubious look and lifted his torn sleeve free of his arm and nodded to where he pulled the material taut. “Slash it here, and I can rip the sleeve off. It will do for a makeshift bandage.”

  She leaned over with the knife and cut the area he indicated. When she finished, he tore the sleeve free.

  “See, just a scratch.” He grabbed the flask, unscrewed the top, and poured some of its content over the wound. A sharp intake of his breath was his only reaction to what must have been a burning sting.

  The liquid washed the dried blood away to reveal a two-inch gash that could be defined as a scratch, but a mean one. He handed her the bandage. “Supplies were low in the Crimea. We learned to make do.”

  “So I see.” She accepted the swath of linen and slipped it under his arm. Her heart thudded as her fingers brushed his bare skin, the taut muscle of his bicep warm beneath her hand. The view was getting harder to ignore. Along with the burn…of the fire. She knotted the bandage and stepped back. “Did you ever meet Miss Nightingale?”

  He twisted his arm to view her handiwork, but he stilled at her words. “No. No, I didn’t.” He didn’t glance up but continued after a pause. “In the beginning there were no nurses. The wounded were left unattended and piled up in filthy corridors lining this dilapidated building rank with sewage, vermin, and disease.” His eyes lifted to hers. “More men died from disease than from their wounds.” He fell silent, his expression brooding as he stared into the fire.

  Upset by the bitterness darkening his words and his eyes, she moistened her lips. “Then Miss Nightingale arrived with her mission, her nurses, and a whole lot of gumption…or so I heard.” She shrugged.

  He looked up and stared at her with his usual quiet intensity. After another drawn-out moment, his features relaxed. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

  A flush warmed her cheeks, but his shared confidence warmed her heart. She held still, hoping he’d continue. When he didn’t, she took a deep breath and ventured into forbidden ground. “And you? Did her nurses treat you?”

  His hand tightened its grip on the knife, the other around the flask he still held. “No. I didn’t need them. I had Havers.”

  His words were final. Subject closed.

  Abruptly he stood and turned to face her. “And here I have you.” He smiled down at her, a familiar sparkle returning to his eyes. “And you are much prettier than Havers.” He leaned close. “Don’t tell him I said so. He’d be crushed.”

  She grinned and a warm glow spiraled through her.

  “But you must be hungry. Shall we see what Cook has packed for us? Something to go with your biscuits?”

  Baffled, she stared at him, unable to keep up with the man’s transitions. What biscuits? Her eyes widened and her hand slid to her skirt pocket, Garrett’s laughter rumbling through her as he crossed to the table. He set the flask and the knife upon it and proceeded to rummage through the saddlebag.

  As Garrett unpacked, Alex struggled to suppress her irritation over his reticence. Damn the man. She could help him if he would only let her, if he would only talk to her. She blew out a frustrated breath and went to assist him, but her eyes fell to his bandaged arm and another more pressing matter distracted her. She might not be able to heal old wounds, but if they worked together, they might be able to protect him from new ones and, more important, save his life.

  Keyes’s attack was a stark reminder of why she was here. Someone wanted Garrett dead, and she and Garrett were here to strategize a plan to prevent that. It was what he was paying her for, and it was time for her to uphold her end of their bargain.

  Garrett lifted his head, his hands full of wrapped parcels, a loaf of bread tucked under his arm. “We’ll make a picnic before the fire. Grab those blankets from the sofa and spread them over the floor.”

  She moved to do his bidding and once the blankets were laid out, she assisted him with the food. It was a veritable feast with sundry meats, cheeses, and the aroma of fresh, homemade bread wafting up to engulf them. Alex sat down and tucked her skirts around her, waiting until they both were settled before she ventured to speak.

  “Your bandaged arm reminded me that I am here for a reason. I can’t accept any payment for services I have not rendered, so…”

  Garrett’s spasm of coughs interrupted her. His eyes watered as he slapped his chest and struggled to catch his breath. At her raised brow, he shook his head. “My apologies.” He cleared his throat. “Just an interesting choice of words.” Amusement danced in his eyes, and he lifted his hand to cover his mouth as he coughed again.

  Understanding dawned, and she scowled at him. “Oh, for goodness sake.” Clearly the man considered only one type of services to be rendered by a woman. Annoyed, she thrust a flagon of water at him and continued on, refusing to traverse that path. “Look, you brought me here in the hopes that I could assist you in apprehending these men plotting your murder. I think it’s time we devise some sort of plan.”

  He grinned. “Having the company of a beautiful woman to share my exile with me is payment enough.”

  “That’s a lovely compliment. However, this is a business arrangement, and I suggest we take it seriously and figure out how to save your life, because I can’t collect payment if you’re dead.” He choked again, and she reached over and slapped him on the back.

  He shoved his plate of food away. “Point taken, but we’re not going to need any plans if I choke to death, nor is killing me going to help you get your monies.”

  “Point taken.” She grinned back at him. “Now about a plan…”

  “I have one.”

  “What?” She blinked at him, pausing as she lifted a piece of bread to her mouth.

  He wagged his finger at her. “At least I made sure you’re mouth wasn’t full first. I have a care for your life.”

  She shook her head. “I’m trying to have one for yours, but you do make it difficult.”

  He raised the flagon in a toast. “So I’ve been told.”

  “I’m sure you have. About this plan, were you intending to share it with me?”

  “I was waiting until my sister arrived, as we will need her and Brandon’s assistance. However, as you appear to be in a rush to earn your keep, we could do without them and proceed in another manner. You’ve been quite clear about your thoughts on being my mistress, but are you equally averse to the idea of pretending to be my mistress…?”

  She simply raised a brow and stared at him, her expression cool.

  “I take it that is a yes.” Amused, he shrugged, unrepentant. “A man can hope. Perhaps when we know each other better.”

  “I know you just fine now,” she drawled. “About Brandon and your sister and this plan…?”

/>   “Right. We’re going to return to the scene of the crime. Brandon is working with Hammond to orchestrate another event to which the same list of guests as the party where you overheard the plot against me will be invited. The killer’s name is on that list, and we hope he’ll accept the invitation, particularly if he knows that I’m there. As we’ve discussed, once you’re in the same room with the bastard, you might recognize his voice or observe some mannerism or gesture that might trigger your memory and help you identify him.

  “Kit is bringing gowns for you to wear, and she and Brandon will play chaperone so that your reputation is safeguarded. After all, we wouldn’t want you to risk ruin by being in my presence. However, you do look none the worse for wear so far.” He tossed her long-ago words back at her, a teasing light entering his eyes.

  After the initial surprise at his plan wore off, she smiled at his last quip. “It’s still early yet, but I think I shall survive.” Her eyes strayed to the fire, and she frowned because Garrett’s words of ruination had unwittingly stoked the embers of old fears.

  It was ironic, but despite the danger threatening Garrett, since she had come under his protection, Alex had felt safe for the first time in over a year. Lulled into this sense of false security, she had forgotten her own plight.

  Garrett could never ruin her because her uncle had already orchestrated that, enabling Lord Cheaver to savage her reputation beyond repair. Should her uncle find her or learn that she had sought protection from another man, he would make sure all knew of her disgrace. It would all come out, everything but the truth, and damn the consequences to those innocents who would be ensnared in his web of deceit. Should she attend a ball with Garrett and be seen in so public a forum, her uncle could very well find her. She swallowed the bile that rose to her throat.

  But how could she not assist Garrett?

  Surreptitiously she studied him as he stared into the fire, a companionable silence having settled between them. His black hair was damp and disheveled, a rakish lock sweeping his forehead. Her eyes dipped to his bandaged arm and she stifled the urge to reach out and, like the dancing light from the fire, let her fingers skim across his bare skin.