JMcNaught - Something Wonderful (6 page)

The visor of her helmet abruptly clanked down across her face again, and Alexandra sighed with irritation, longing to take the heavy helmet off and carry it Deciding that Thunder was unlikely to feel either the energy or the inclination to try to run off with her, particularly after his exhausting day at the "lists," Alexandra pulled him to a stop, then let go of his reins and transferred the heavy shield she was carrying to her left hand. Intending to take off the helmet and carry it in the crook of her right arm, she reached up to pull the helmet off, then halted, her attention suddenly drawn to the muffled, unidentifiable sounds coming from the perimeter of the woods, a quarter of a mile ahead near the road.

Frowning slightly, wondering if she was about to encounter a wild boar, or a less threatening—perhaps edible—species of game, she withdrew her rifle from its scabbard as quietly as her armor would allow.

Suddenly the serenity of the night was shattered by the explosion of a gunshot, and then another. Before Alexandra had time to react, old Thunder bolted in wild-eyed confusion through the thinning woods—galloping blindly, straight toward the source of the shots, his bridle reins flicking the ground beside his flying hooves, with Alexandra's legs clamped in a death grip against his sides.

The bandit's head jerked toward the eruption of clanking metal from the woods beside them, and Jordan Townsende tore his gaze from the deadly hole at the end of the pistol that the second bandit was aiming straight at his chest. The sight that greeted him made him doubt his eyesight. Charging out of the woods to his rescue atop a swaybacked nag was a knight in armor with his visor pulled down, a shield at the ready in one hand and a rifle in his other.

Alexandra stifled a scream as she crashed out of the woods and catapulted straight into the midst of a moonlit scene more sinister than any of her worst nightmares: A coachman was lying wounded in the road beside a coach, and two bandits with red handkerchiefs concealing their faces were holding a tall man at gunpoint. The second bandit turned as Alexandra clattered down on them—and pointed his gun straight at her.

There was no time to think, only to react. Tightening her grip on her rifle and unconsciously counting on the protection of her shield and breastplate against the inevitable bullet, Alexandra leaned to the right, intending to launch herself at the bandit and knock him to the ground, but at that moment his gun exploded.

In a frenzy of terror, Thunder stumbled and lost his balance, pitching Alexandra helplessly through the air to land in a heap of rusty metal atop the second bandit. The impact nearly dislodged her helmet, sent her rifle skidding uselessly into the road, and knocked her half-unconscious.

Unfortunately, the bandit recovered before Alexandra's head stopped reeling. "What the bloody hell—" he grunted and, with a mighty shove, pushed her limp body off him and delivered a vicious kick to her side before running over to help his accomplice, who was now engaged in a physical struggle with their tall victim for possession of the pistol.

In a blur of panic and pain, Alexandra saw both bandits pounce on the tall man, and she heaved herself forward with a strength born of sheer terror—crawling, scrambling, and clanking toward the dark gleaming shaft of her rifle lying on the rutted road. Just as her hand closed around the stock of her rifle, she saw the tall man wrest the pistol from the thin bandit and shoot him, then crouch and whirl, pointing his pistol straight at the other one.

Mesmerized by the terrible deadly grace of the tall man's swift maneuver, Alexandra watched him coldly and calmly level the gun at the second assailant. Still sprawled on her stomach, she closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable explosion. But there was only the loud click of an empty gun.

"You poor, stupid bastard," the bandit said with an evil laugh and lazily reached inside his shirt, pulling out his own pistol. "Do you think I'da let yer grab that second gun off the ground if n I didn' know fer sure it was empty? You're going to die real slow for killing me brother. It takes a long time for a man to die when he's been shot in the stomach—"

Her mind screaming with fear, Alexandra rolled onto her side, rammed the bolt of her rifle into place and sighted down the barrel. When the bandit raised his pistol, she fired,. The powerful recoil slammed her onto her back, knocking the air from her chest. When she turned her head in the dirt and opened her eyes, the bandit was lying in a shaft of moonlight, the side of his head blown off.

She hadn't merely wounded him as she'd hoped to do, she had
killed
him. A groan of terror and anguish rose in her throat and tore from her constricted chest, and then the world began to spin, slowly at first, than faster as she watched the tall man kick over the bandit she'd killed, then start toward her, his long-legged gait swift, menacing somehow… The world spun faster, carrying her down through a black hole. For the first time in her life, Alexandra fainted.

Jordan crouched down beside the fallen knight, his hands rough in his urgent haste to tug off the helmet so he could assess the injuries to the inhabitant of the suit of armor. "Quick, Grimm!" he called over to his coachman, who was staggering to his feet, recovering from the bandit's blow which had knocked him unconscious. "Give me a hand with this damned armor."

"Is he hurt, your grace?" Grimm said, rushing over to his master's side and kneeling down.

"Obviously," Jordan said brusquely, wincing at the cut on the left side of the small face.

"He wasn't shot, was he?"

"I don't think so. Hold his head—gently, dammit!—while I pull this monstrosity off him." Tossing the helmet aside, Jordan pulled off the breastplate. "God, what an absurd costume," he uttered, but his voice was worried as he surveyed the limp body before him, looking for a bullet wound or a sign of blood in the moonlight. "It's too dark to tell where he's hurt. Turn the coach around and we'll take him to the inn we passed a few miles back. Someone there, will be bound to know who his parents are, as well as the direction of the nearest doctor." Reaching down, Jordan gently grasped his young rescuer under the arms, shocked to discover how light in weight the lad beneath the armor was. "He's just a boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen," Jordan said, his voice gruff with guilt at the harm he had evidently caused the courageous youth who had charged to his rescue. Effortlessly scooping the child into his arms, he carried him to his coach.

Jordan's arrival at the inn with an unconscious Alexandra in his arms caused a furor of lewd comments and bawdy suggestions from the occupants of the common room who, because of the lateness of the hour, were deeply in their cups.

With the supreme indifference of the true aristocrat toward lesser mortals, Jordan ignored the raised voices and stalked toward the barmaid. "Show me to your best room and then send the innkeeper to me at once."

The barmaid glanced from the back of Alexandra's curly dark head to the tall, impeccably dressed gentleman and scurried off to carry out all his commands in the order they had been given, beginning with the inn's finest bedchamber.

Gentry, Jordan laid the lad upon the bed and unfastened the laces at the neck of the boy's shirt The boy groaned, his eyelids fluttered open, and Jordan found himself staring into an amazingly large pair of eyes the startling color of liquid aquamarines, fringed with absurdly long, curly lashes—eyes that were gazing back at him in disoriented bewilderment. Smiling reassuringly, Jordan said gently, "Welcome back to the world, Galahad."

"Where—" Alexandra wet her parched lips, her voice an unfamiliar croak. Clearing her throat, she tried again and managed little more than a hoarse, thready whisper. "Where am I?"

"You're at an inn near where you were hurt."

The gory details came flooding back, and Alexandra felt hot tears burn the backs of her eyes. "I killed him. I
killed
that man," she choked.

"And saved two lives by doing it—mine and my coachman's."

In her dazed state, Alexandra seized on that reassurance and clung to it for all the comfort it offered. Not able to focus perfectly yet, she watched as if from a distance as he began running his hands up and down her legs. No hands but her mother's had ever touched her person—and that not for years and years. Alexandra found the sensation both faintly pleasant and oddly disturbing, but when the man's hands began gently probing at her lower rib cage, she gasped and clutched his thick wrists. "Sir!" she croaked desperately. "What are you doing?"

Jordan's gaze flicked to the slender fingers gripping his wrists with a strength that seemed born of fear. "I'm looking for broken bones, stripling. I've sent for a doctor and the innkeeper. Although, since you're awake now, you can tell me yourself who you are and where to locate the nearest physician."

Alarmed and indignant at the exorbitant cost of a physician's services, Alex burst out desperately, "Do you have any idea how much a leech
charges
nowadays?"

Jordan stared down at the pale lad with the amazing eyes and felt a deep stirring of compassion mingled with admiration—a combination of emotions that was completely foreign to him. "You incurred these injuries on my behalf. Naturally, I'll stand good for the charges."

He smiled then, and Alexandra felt the last vestiges of haziness abruptly clear from her mind. Smiling down at her was the largest and unquestionably the most handsome male she had ever seen, ever imagined. His eyes were the silver-grey of satin and steel, his shoulders very wide, his baritone voice rich and compelling. In contrast to his tanned face, his teeth were startlingly white, and although rugged masculine strength was carved into the tough line of his jaw and chin, his touch was gentle, and there were tiny lines at the corners of his eyes to testify to his sense of humor.

Looking up at the giant who loomed above her, she felt very small and fragile. Oddly, she also felt safe. Safer than she had felt in three years. Loosening her grip on his hands, she raised her own hand and touched her fingers to a cut on his chin. "You've been hurt, too," she said, smiling shyly at him.

Jordan caught his breath at the unexpected glamour of the lad's glowing smile and froze in amazement when he felt an odd, inner tingle from the boy's touch. A boy's touch. Brusquely shaking off the small hand, he wondered grimly if his boredom with life's ordinary diversions was turning him into some sort of perverted dilettante. "You haven't yet told me your name," he said, his tone deliberately cool as he began exploring the boy's lower ribcage, watching his small face for any sign of pain.

Alexandra opened her mouth to give her name, but gave a shriek of outraged panic instead when he suddenly slid his hands onto her breasts.

Jordan jerked his hands away as if they'd been scorched. "You're a girl!"

"I can't help it!" Alexandra flung back, stung by the sharp accusation in his voice.

The absurdity of their exchanged words struck them both at the same time: Jordan's black scowl gave way to a sudden grin and Alexandra started to laugh. And that was how Mrs. Tilson, the innkeeper's wife, found them—both on the bed, laughing, the man's hands arrested a few inches above Miss Alexandra Lawrence's gaping shirt and bosom.

"Alexandra Lawrence!" she exploded, barging into the room like a battleship under full sail, sparks shooting from her eyes as they leveled on the man's hands above Alexandra's open shirt. "What is the meaning of this!"

Alexandra was blessedly oblivious to the portent of what Mrs. Tilson was seeing and thinking, but Jordan was not, and he found it nauseating that this woman's evil mind could apparently accuse a young girl of no more than thirteen years of collaborating in her own moral demise. His features hardened and there was a distinct frost in his clipped, authoritative voice. "Miss Lawrence was hurt in an accident just south of here on the road. Send for a physician."

"No, do not, Mrs. Tilson," Alexandra said and lurched into a sitting position despite her swimming senses. "I'm perfectly well and wish to go home."

Jordan spoke to the suspicious woman in a curt, commanding voice. "In that case, I'll take her home, and you can direct the physician to the bend in the road a few miles south of here. There, he'll find two thugs who are beyond needing his skill, but he can ensure they're properly disposed of." Reaching into his pocket, Jordan withdrew a card with his name engraved on it beneath a small gold crest. "I'll return here to answer any questions he may have, once I've taken Miss Lawrence to her family."

Mrs. Tilson muttered something scathing under her breath about bandits and debauchery, snatched the card from his hand, glowered at Alexandra's unbuttoned shirt, and marched out.

"You seemed surprised—about my being a girl, I mean," Alexandra ventured uncertainly.

"Frankly, this has been a night of surprises," Jordan replied, dismissing Mrs. Tilson from his mind and turning his attention to Alexandra. "Would I be prying if I were to ask you what you were doing rigged out in that suit of armor?"

Alexandra slowly swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand. The room swayed. "I can walk," she protested when the man reached out to lift her into his arms.

"But I'd prefer to carry you," Jordan said firmly and did exactly that. Alexandra smiled inwardly at the blithe way he stalked through the common room, serenely indifferent to the staring villagers, carrying in his arms a disheveled, dusty girl clad in breeches and shirtsleeves.