Julianne MacLean (3 page)

Adele swallowed hard, watching Lord Alcester’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep intake of breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose as if a severe headache had suddenly taken root.

“Are you all right?” she asked, feeling strange asking such a question. She couldn’t imagine him ever not being completely in control.

As soon as he met her gaze, his color returned, and he stood. “Yes.”

She found herself trying to read his thoughts, but couldn’t.

“I need to wrap your wound,” he said. Then he was gone before she had a chance to say a word.

A minute later he returned with a small cloth in a bowl of water, and a bottle of whiskey. He shrugged out of his long black coat. “There’s nothing downstairs to use for bandages. My shirt will do.”

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, like a knife gouging into her wound.

Lord Alcester knelt beside her. “Sit still. 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 we could use my petticoat for bandages. It has a bullet hole in it anyway.”

He considered it for a moment, and nodded.

Adele swallowed. “If you would be so kind as to avert your eyes while I remove it?”

He paused. “Do you need assistance?”

Assistance? Her pulse drummed at the suggestion. She thought of his mistress, the actress, and wondered how many times
she
had accepted his so-called assistance.

Adele was astonished by the sudden depraved direction of her thoughts. It was exhaus
tion, surely. She’d hardly slept in three days.
Think clearly, Adele. Clearly. He is merely offering to help, in order to spare you pain.
“I can manage, thank you,” she replied.

He left the room without a word, 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. “You might want 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 would bring.

He continued to rip and tear the petticoat, looking 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 somewhere more comfortable.”

“Thank you.”

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.”

He continued to stare down at her. “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 didn’t feel
pain
anywhere. Except for a headache. But I suppose a lady couldn’t be sure. Or could she?”

Good God, what kind of question was that?

His face revealed no hint of awkwardness. He bent down and dipped the cloth into the bowl of water and gently squeezed it out. He lifted his gaze to meet hers. It seemed, by the look in his eyes, that he understood the level of her anxiety. He subsequently responded with calm composure.

“It depends,” he said softly. “Pardon my candor, but did you notice any blood when you woke up?”

She swallowed. “No, but couldn’t he have…”
Lord, this was awkward.
“Couldn’t he have cleaned it up?”

She’d certainly never had a conversation like this before.

“I suppose, if he were an exceedingly neat
person.” Lord Alcester smiled, and Adele knew he was trying to ease her worries.

Continuing to rinse the cloth in the bowl, he said, “My suspicion is that you are probably fine, Miss Wilson. I believe you would know if something was wrong. But if you wish to be certain, a physician can examine you.”

“He would 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…if I was with child?”

The idea was unsettling, to say the very least, but she had to ask.

“Not yet, I don’t think, but let’s deal with one thing at a time, shall we? It may not even be an issue.”

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 indeed the true heir to the gentleman’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.

Lord Alcester held the cloth above her wound and squeezed water over it. “The Osul
ton family physician is a very good man,” he said. “I’d trust him with my life. He’ll be discreet, if you can wait until you reach the manor. You’re not unduly worried?” His scrutinizing eyes lifted to look into hers. He often seemed to be assessing things.

“I am, but I can wait.”

He nodded, appearing satisfied, then turned his attention back to the task of cleaning 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 she couldn’t. It began to tremble.

“Try to relax,” he whispered, glancing up at her again. “Breathe deep and slow.”

She did as he suggested, keeping her eyes on his the entire time. The rage and fury had faded from his expression. Now there was something lazily seductive, almost hypnotic, in his look. All the knots in her muscles began to untie themselves, while she stared at him.

“That’s better,” he said.

Slowly, the blood washed away, along with the tension in her neck and shoulders. Her breathing slowed. He had quite a way with his hands, his eyes, and his voice.

Lord Alcester leaned down 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 amber liquid over the gash. 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 just above the wound. “God in heaven!” she ground out.

“My apologies, Miss Wilson.”

He set the bottle down and reached for the bandages he’d fashioned from her petticoat. “I’m going to wrap the wound tightly to keep pressure upon it and reduce the bleeding.”

Adele nodded in agreement. He tried to press a bandage to the gash, but couldn’t reach it, as she had in the meantime 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 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 pushed her legs apart before—and forced herself to surrender to the gentle pressure of his hand. Slowly, he spread her legs wider, into a V on the floor, while she quickly and discreetly tucked the fabric of her skirt down to cover her more private area. She hoped he didn’t notice her doing it.

“Perhaps you could bend your knee slightly,” he said.

Adele did as he asked. He reached for more bandages and wrapped them around her thigh. His movements were swift and efficient. Before she knew it, he was tying the last one tight and sitting back.

“There.” He stood up and offered his hand down to her. “We’re finished. You can breathe now.”

She hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath until he’d said it.

He helped her rise to her feet. As soon as she tried to take a step, pain flooded through her leg. She felt suddenly dizzy and nauseated. “My word.”

“Let me help you.” He wrapped his arm around her waist. “Hook your arm over my shoulder and 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 as a whole. He did not waver or lose his balance.

“It will be difficult to walk for a few days,” he said.

“How will we ever get me out of here? For one thing, I don’t have shoes. And it’ll be torture to ride.”

“No shoes?” He paused. “I’ll go and come back with a coach and driver, and I’ll bring you shoes. It will take only a few hours. We’re not far from the nearest village.”

She didn’t like the thought of being alone
here again—alone with a dead man—but she would do her best to endure it, because it couldn’t be helped.

They reached the door and hobbled together out into the hall. Adele glanced over her shoulder at her kidnapper still lying on the floor, and hoped she would not have to look at him again.

They reached the top of the steep stairs. Adele stopped and looked down. “This is going to be a challenge.”

He turned to her and held his arms open. “Please, allow me.”

Good God, 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 up like a doll in strong, able arms, and descended the narrow stairs effortlessly. When he reached the bottom, he carried her into 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. The house had obviously been abandoned some time ago, and opened up again by her kidnapper.

Lord Alcester set her down gently in the dusty chair. Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled almost immediately afterward as darkness began to descend.

“Excuse me, Miss Wilson,” he said, “while I take my horse to the stable before it gets much darker.”

“Of course.” Yet she didn’t want him to go.
She had been trapped here alone for three days, helpless and locked in a room; she had just been shot; she didn’t know where in the world she was, whether it was Scotland or Ireland or France for that matter. She was an ocean away from her home, and he was all she had.

He 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 she’d heard when the two men had entered, and could only imagine what had occurred between them.

Lord Alcester settled the hat on his head and turned to face her. His eyes glimmered with assurance. “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 he shut it out quickly when he slammed the door behind him.

Adele sat alone in the silent stone cottage, staring at the door and trying to come to terms with her situation. She couldn’t believe she had been kidnapped and shot. Bookish Adele Wilson, who avoided adventure at all costs…

Her sisters were sure to be shocked when she told them her tale about being trapped in a proverbial tower and rescued by a “white knight.” It was embarrassing, actually, to think of him that way. She had always called those ro
mantic fairy tales silly and unrealistic, and she’d always said she would have preferred to see those heroines rescue themselves.

Well, she couldn’t exactly call Lord Alcester a white knight anyway. He was more of a black knight, with his striking, ebony features. She remembered how intense and angry he had appeared when he’d first entered her room. Her knees had turned to jelly.

Then he’d killed a man.
For her
.

A cold shiver moved through her as she replayed that horrific moment in her mind, when she’d gazed into that dark barrel of death. She had been impossibly lucky. If her kidnapper had fired a fraction of a second sooner…

For the first time since that terrifying moment, she was able to fully contemplate it, and felt the fear shiver through her again. She labored to smother it, and turned her mind toward a silent prayer of thanks. How grateful she was to be alive.

And how grateful she was to Damien Renshaw—her future cousin. True, his reputation made her uncomfortable, and she would never get over the embarrassing fact that he had seen her naked thigh. But Lord Alcester was bold and brave and he had come to her rescue, galloping across England to what seemed like the ends of the earth. He had been her champion, when despite her own efforts, she had been unable to rescue herself.

She inhaled deeply and felt a rush of something she couldn’t understand move through
her—a tingling sensation. Adele glanced at the door and considered the night ahead, trapped in this isolated cottage with him, and suddenly found herself wishing with a disturbing sense of dread that in his place, the one to come to her rescue had been Harold.

Osulton Manor

“H
arold should not have sent him, Mama. It was a bad decision.”

Eustacia Scott, Lady Osulton, lifted her impatient gaze from her embroidery and glared at her daughter across the blue drawing room. “Contrary to what you might think, Violet, your brother is not a stupid man. He trusts his cousin.”

“I hardly know why, considering Damien’s reputation with women.”

“You
do
know why. They are best friends, and they share a bond that goes back many years. Damien is very protective of Harold, he always has been, and Harold knows it. He knows
Damien would not betray that loyalty.”

Violet shook her head at her mother. “That may be true, but this American girl—Miss Wilson…Can
she
be trusted? Damien is a very attractive man, and you know what they say about those Americans.”

“No, I do not know what they say.”

“Oh, Mama, don’t be so provincial.”

“I am not being provincial. I simply do not listen to gossip or idle generalizations.”

Violet harrumphed. “The Americans are passionate, Mama. How do you think they won at Yorktown? They were feral and wild, overtaken by a blazing fire in their veins—not unlike Damien can be sometimes. When they want something, they are unwavering and they spare nothing. They are like stubborn, unstoppable rams.”

Lady Osulton began to stitch faster. “From my understanding, what Miss Wilson wants is
Harold
.”

“She wants a title. And Damien has one, too. Plus good looks.”

“A lesser title.”

Violet raised a severely arched eyebrow. “I don’t think it matters to these Americans. One is as good as another.”

Lady Osulton laid down her embroidery and gazed across the room in shock. “Surely that can’t be true.”

“Oh yes, it is. Most of them don’t even
know
that an earl outranks a baron, or a marquess, an earl. I heard it from the Countess of Lans
downe, and she herself is an American, though no one seems to remember that. She changes her voice, you know, and copies our accents.”

Lady Osulton lifted her embroidery again, though she had not fully recovered from the inconceivable notion that
anyone
could think one title was as good as another, American or not. She couldn’t hide the tremor of incredulity in her voice.

“The Countess of Lansdowne doesn’t concern me. All that matters is that Harold has chosen a wife, when I thought he would never look up from his silly scientific experiments long enough to even think of it. And if Damien is our most reliable courier to bring her home, then Damien it shall be, because I want that gel brought back here.”

“Oh, Mama. You know her money is her only recommendation.”

She laid down her embroidery again. “I know no such thing, and shame on your vulgar tongue!” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “Sometimes I wonder how you and Harold could possibly be brother and sister. He would never say such a thing to torture me. Harold is such a polite boy.”

Violet had to work hard not to roll her eyes at her mother’s melodrama. “I’m only being honest, Mama. The estate is not performing as it should, and I can’t bear another reduction in our spending.”

Lady Osulton picked up her embroidery again and resumed her stitching. “Don’t talk
about that, Violet. You know I don’t like it.” A moment went by before she spoke again. “The fact is, Harold has taken a fancy to someone, and I am greatly relieved. I don’t care where she comes from, and I have every intention of welcoming her into this family like one of our own. She will provide us with an heir, after all. I only want what’s best for this family, Violet. That’s all. I don’t care about the money.”

“Of course you don’t, Mama.”

But it was generally understood by all members of the prestigious Osulton household that Violet—wanting a substantial dowry of her own to snare the best husband possible—most certainly did.

The storm raged on, and the cottage creaked and groaned like an old ship. Damien sat on the floor, slouching against the wall sipping coffee out of a tin cup, his long legs stretched out in front of him, one bent at the knee.

He gazed at Miss Wilson’s profile in the firelight while she sat before the hearth, quietly watching the flames dance, and wondered why Harold had neglected to mention that she was unimaginably beautiful.

“I have found the perfect woman,” he had said with a dumbfounded, besotted smile when he’d returned from America. “She is so good, I believe she must be a saint. She is polite and obedient with her parents. She is agreeable and genuine. I don’t believe she is even capable of having a bad thought. She is purity and good
ness and perfection personified. And I, heaven help me, am in love.”

For some reason, Damien had imagined she would be plain. She was many things, but not that.

Regarding the other qualities Harold had described, Damien couldn’t argue. Harold had been right. There was something sweet and angelic in her nature. Damien knew it now, even though he had just met her in the most strange and bizarre circumstances. The woman exuded virtue.

He disregarded the virtue for a brief moment, however, to let his experienced gaze roam free down the full length of her body. She had long, graceful legs and a curvaceous figure. With freckles and full lips and long, curly, honey-gold hair, she was the kind of woman who could make a man dream of things that were—in a polite manner of speaking—quite the
opposite
of pure and saintly. Which was ironic, he thought, feeling slightly amused as he imagined the men who must have salivated over her in the past—and gone to confession straight afterward, whether they were Catholic or not.

Damien took another sip of his coffee. Truth be told, if she were any other woman besides his cousin’s virginal fiancée, he would likely be sharing the chair with her right now—holding her on his lap, offering comfort in the form of gentle caresses and soft kisses. They were stranded alone in a remote cottage, after all, and she’d been through a terrible ordeal. It was a
most palpable opportunity, and he was a man who enjoyed women.

As he continued to watch her, however, he came to the opinion that she wouldn’t require his consolations anyway. There had been no tears today. No hysterics. She’d remained calm and clearheaded through all of it. In fact, she’d earned his respect the instant she’d announced her name, while holding a chair up over her head.

A gust of wind whistled down the chimney and shook the flames. Miss Wilson sighed. Damien looked at the tattered dress she wore and imagined what she would look like in her opulent Newport mansion, covered in silk and jewels. She was probably desperate for her maid right now.

“I suppose this isn’t what you’re accustomed to,” he said, just before he raised his coffee cup to his lips. “I’ll wager that right about now, you’d love to run screaming back to your gold-plated bathtub in New York.”

She tilted her head at him. “I beg your pardon, Lord Alcester. I hope you don’t think I am overindulged and have never known hardship.”

Enticed by her unexpected response, Damien rested an elbow on his knee. “You’re not?”

“No,” she replied somewhat tentatively.

How damnably charming she looked. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to continue.

“I don’t mean to be defensive,” she said, “but I wouldn’t wish you to be misinformed about your cousin’s future wife. Or to entertain prejudices about Americans in general.”

He narrowed his gaze, suddenly in the mood to toy with her. She was certainly an attractive plaything. “But I thought all American heiresses were overindulged.”

She paused, as if taken aback. “That is not so, my lord. Not so at all. In fact, I’ll wager that I’ve survived worse circumstances than you have. I can’t imagine you’ve ever gone hungry, or went around without shoes on a regular basis each summer—indoors
and
out.”

“Without shoes?” He had to concede. She had him with that. She also surprised him with her “wager.” Perhaps there were tiny embers of wickedness smoldering somewhere in the depths of this perfect angelic creature after all.

She seemed to suddenly comprehend the intricacies of her argument, and squeezed her eyes shut. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. You English already think we are beneath you as it is.”

“
You English
?” he repeated, drawing his dark brows together, feeling very pleasantly intrigued by their conversation. “Clearly
we English
are not the only ones with prejudices. Tsk tsk, Miss Wilson. What is the world coming to when people of different nationalities cannot get along, I ask you?”

She stared at him for a few seconds, looking surprised until she realized he was teasing her. Then she smiled. It was a dazzling smile—sweet and scintillating at the same time, and so very genuine.

It was the first time Damien had seen her
smile, he realized. She’d been nervous and uncomfortable until this moment, looking at him as if he were something to be feared. Perhaps now she would relax.

He, on the other hand, felt his own relaxation slip.

Damien dropped his gaze to his coffee, suddenly understanding very well why Harold had been so taken with her. Not only was she magnificent in every way a woman could be, but there was something elusively indefinable about her as well—a sensual, earthy nature that seemed to glow with warmth. A man like Harold, who was shy around women, would be seduced by such natural charisma.

When their smiles died away, she returned to the thread of their conversation. “I suppose Harold described my summer home in Newport to you,” she explained, “and it didn’t sound at all like I had to go without shoes.”

“He told me about your diamond-studded champagne glasses.”

She was suitably embarrassed and lowered her gaze, shrugging as if to apologize for the glasses.

Damien seized the opportunity to glance down at the lovely fullness of her bosom beneath her thick, wool bodice. He experienced a pang of guilt, because she belonged to his cousin, but it was quickly overcome when he returned his gaze to her face and made a solemn vow to keep it there.

“We didn’t always have money,” she said innocently, which charmed him, because she was not even remotely aware of his lusty interest in her bosom. “Papa earned his fortune on Wall Street when I was ten.” She stared pensively into the fire. “Sometimes when I look at my life, it seems like it’s divided in two. Before the money, and after. So you see, I’m not quite as overindulged as you think. At least, I wasn’t always.” She inhaled and let the breath out slowly, looking faintly reminiscent.

“I miss those old days,” she said. “I used to enjoy running about barefoot. I still do on occasion, when I’m alone in the woods, which unfortunately is very rare. But
please
,” she said, her bright smile returning, “keep the part about my running about barefoot to yourself.”

He inclined his head, trying not to become too diverted by the enticing image of her doing
anything
barefoot.

“But perhaps I owe it to Harold to tell him,” Damien said. “He doesn’t know he’s about to marry a wood nymph.”

Her responding smile made his breath catch.

She let her head tip onto the chair back and gazed into the flames again, looking tired. Damien allowed her some peace, though he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her enchanting profile. As he stared at her, he contemplated their situation.

If she were a different woman, and these were different circumstances, he
would
find a way to
have her tonight. In his arms. Crying out his name as he took her to the heights of passion.

But she was
not
another woman, so he would
not
have her. Tonight, or any other night. There was no point in even thinking of it.

“It’s getting late,” Lord Alcester said, rising to put another log on the fire. “You must be tired. I can help you up the stairs if you wish.”

Adele watched his broad back as he set the log on the charred remains of another, and used the poker to stir the heat. She felt a tremor of panic. She did not want to go back upstairs. She’d been locked in that room for three days, and her kidnapper was up there. Dead.

Lord Alcester leaned the poker against the stone hearth and turned to face her. He stared down at her for a long moment. “I’ll move the body,” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts.

She considered it, but the sickening dread remained. “I would rather not go back up there. Could I sleep down here?”

He gazed at her for another few seconds, and she recognized a flicker of sympathy and compassion in his eyes—an expression that eased the tension in her shoulders.

He nodded. “I’ll bring the bedding down.”

He immediately went upstairs, and she listened to the sounds of his movements across the floor, then his boots tapping slowly back down the stairs. He reappeared with the hay tick, dragging it across the floor and setting it down a safe distance from the fire. He took the blan
kets and shook them out on the other side of the room, then spread them on the tick.

“You can sleep here,” he said. “I can go upstairs, or I can sleep in the chair, whichever you prefer.”

“The chair, if you don’t mind.”

He nodded, then held out his hand to her. “May I assist you?”

She gazed at his large, rough-looking hand and set her own inside it. He helped her up, and she crawled onto the makeshift bed and got in. She pulled the blanket over her, while he helped straighten it around her feet.

“I’ll be glad to leave here tomorrow,” she said, lying back and looking up at him, so tall standing over her.

He smiled gently. “I know.”

He knelt in front of the fire again and used the poker to move the log, making sure it was catching the flame. Then he sat down in the old chair. Adele closed her eyes and tried to go to sleep. For about fifteen minutes, neither of them spoke. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire. Then Adele opened her eyes again and looked at her rescuer. He was staring at her.

“I can’t sleep,” she said. “I haven’t been able to sleep at all over the past few days.”