Authors: Elizabeth Hoyt
Princess Serenity laid a small white hand on Longsword’s arm. “The witch will kill my father on the morrow if I do not rescue
him. Will you help me?”
Longsword looked at the dead dragon, at the white hand on his sleeve, and into Princess Serenity’s sea-blue eyes, but he had
decided on his answer before she had ever spoken. “I will help you. . . .”
—from
Longsword
“Beatrice!” Reynaud yelled again, though he knew she couldn’t hear.
She’d fainted, slumping to her left side on the steps. A palm-sized bloodstain on her right side and back was revealed, and
the sight filled him with irrational terror. He’d seen far more blood in battle—had seen horrific wounds, men without arms
or legs, bodies blown apart—and not lost his composure. Yet his hands shook as he reached for her. She was as light as a child
as he lifted her in his arms. He felt the wet fabric against his fingers; the blood was soaked into her skirts as well, and
for a moment he froze, afraid she was dying.
Her brown eyes stared up through a mask of blood, dull and lifeless. He was too late.
No.
No, this woman could not die. He would not allow it.
He gripped her against his chest and turned to where she’d said the carriage was waiting. He didn’t trust this area; the attackers,
whoever they were, knew he’d be here. He needed to get her away. Needed to get her to his own home. There he could guard her
and tend to her, and she would be safe. He sprinted past houses, his heart thumping in his chest. She moaned and clutched
his waistcoat but did not open her eyes.
There! He saw the Blanchard carriage as he turned the corner and ran toward it, yelling an order to the coachman. He saw the
man’s wide eyes, the footman’s startled face, and leaped into the carriage without waiting for the steps.
“Go!” he bellowed, and the carriage lurched into motion, the coachman swearing at the horses.
He held her across his lap and looked into her face. It was flour-white, so pale that tiny freckles he’d never noticed before
stood out on her cheeks. Oh, God, he would not let this happen. He brushed a lock of hair from her eyes, but his hand was
bloody, and he only smeared crimson across her temple. Dammit. He needed to see how bad the wound was.
Reynaud reached under his coat and drew out his knife. The carriage swayed as they rounded a corner, and he braced himself
with feet and elbows. Carefully he sliced through gown, stays, and chemise, from low on her hip to the top of the bodice,
both in back and in front. He pulled the fabric away and saw the wound. It was a two-inch cut at her side just to her back,
raw and ugly against the expanse of her smooth pale skin. The assassins had been aiming for him and had caught her instead
as he held her in front of himself, an inadvertent shield. Fresh blood flowed clear and bright red from the wound. The fabric
had stuck, and he’d reopened the wound when he’d pulled it away.
He swore softly and cut a swath from her underskirts, wadding it and pressing it against the wound. He wrapped his other arm
about her shoulders and held her close to himself, her head under his chin. She was so soft, so small in his arms, and he
could feel the blood soaking the wadded bandage, wetting his fingers.
“Come on,” he whispered.
Outside, houses and shops flashed by. They were making good time, but they still weren’t at his town house yet. The coachman
shouted something, and the entire carriage lurched heavily. Reynaud slid across the seat, crashing into the coach’s side painfully,
trying to cushion the movement with his body.
Beatrice moaned.
“Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.” He stroked her fair hair back with the hand that held her and pressed his open mouth against her
forehead, whispering, “Hold on. Just hold on.”
The carriage halted, and he was standing with Beatrice in his arms before the footman had the door all the way open.
“Turn your back!” he snapped to the gawking man.
Reynaud climbed from the carriage, conscious that Beatrice was almost nude to the waist. He leaped up the town-house stairs
just as the butler opened the door.
“Send for a doctor,” he told the gaping butler. “And I’ll need hot water and cloths in Miss Corning’s room at once.”
He started up the stairs but was blocked by St. Aubyn coming down.
“Beatrice!” The older man’s naturally red face paled. “What have you done to my niece?”
“She was stabbed,” Reynaud replied curtly. Only the concern in the other man’s voice kept him from knocking him aside. “Not
by me.”
“Dear God!”
“Let me pass.”
St. Aubyn fell back, and Reynaud surged past him, mounting the steps as quickly as possible. Beatrice’s bedroom was two floors
above. He could hear her uncle panting behind him. By the time he reached her room, the door was open and her maid was turning
back the bed.
“Lord have mercy,” the woman murmured. She was a capable-looking sort, short, red-haired, and sturdy.
“Your mistress has been stabbed,” Reynaud said to her. “Help me get her gown off.”
“Now, see here!” St. Aubyn sputtered from the door. “You can’t do that!”
“She’s bleeding,” Reynaud said, low and intense. “I can hold the bandage as the maid works. Or would you rather preserve your
niece’s modesty and let her bleed to death?”
St. Aubyn gulped but said nothing, his eyes fixed on Beatrice’s face.
Reynaud nodded at the maid, and St. Aubyn turned away with a mutter and closed the door as she began pulling Beatrice’s gown
off. A gentleman would’ve averted his eyes, but Reynaud hadn’t been a gentleman for some time now. He watched as the maid
undressed Beatrice. Her breasts were high and round, the nipples a pretty pink. The maid pulled the gown from her legs, and
he stared with possession at her feminine triangle, so vulnerable, so sweet, scattered with dark gold hair. This was his woman,
and he’d failed to protect her. The maid pulled the covers up over Beatrice’s breasts and one arm, leaving her right side
bare so he could press the now-sodden cloth against the wound.
“Where’s the damned doctor?” he growled.
No sound had come from Beatrice’s lips as the maid had moved her. She slept deeply.
“Build the fire in the fireplace,” he ordered the maid.
“Yes, my lord.” She hurried to the fireplace and heaped coals on the embers there.
“What’s your name?” he asked her when she returned to the bed, as much to distract himself as anything else.
“Quick, my lord,” she said.
“How long have you been with your mistress?” His mind was running in circles, like a mouse trapped in a glass jar. Where was
the doctor? How much blood had she lost? Was the bleeding stopped?
“Eight years, my lord,” Quick replied. “I’ve been with Miss Corning since she came out.”
“A long time, then,” he said absently. He laid the back of his hand against Beatrice’s cheek. Still warm. Still alive.
“Yes, my lord,” the maid whispered. “She’s such a gentle mistress.”
The door opened and several footmen came in with cloths and hot water. One of them was Henry, looking grave at the sight of
his unconscious mistress.
“Has the doctor been sent for?” Reynaud asked him.
“Yes, my lord,” he replied. “Right away ’e was sent for, and Lord Blanchard has gone down to wait for ’im.”
Reynaud nodded. “Bring a new cloth here.”
“Will she be all right, m’lord?” Henry asked as he gave him the cloth.
“God, I hope so,” Reynaud replied.
He replaced the torn piece of underskirt with the clean cloth. The wound was merely oozing now. That at least was good. He
closed his eyes. If he still believed in praying, he’d be on his knees right now.
A commotion on the stairs made him raise his head. A tall thin man in a gray bob wig strode into the room, closely followed
by St. Aubyn. The doctor took one all-encompassing look at Beatrice and then turned to Reynaud.
“How is she?”
“She hasn’t woken from her faint,” Reynaud said. “But the bleeding is slowing.”
“Good. Good. A stab wound, I was told?” The doctor stepped close. “May I?”
Reynaud relinquished the bandage, and the doctor raised it, making approving murmurs. “Yes. Yes, I see. Only a few inches
and not deep, I think. Good. We’ll close it while she still sleeps. Bring me the water.”
This last was said to Henry, who brought a basin over.
Reynaud stood to give the doctor room, feeling uncommonly useless.
The doctor splashed water on the wound and wiped at the blood. “Need to see to sew.” He took an already-threaded needle from
his bag. “Can you hold the edges together?” he asked the maid.
She paled.
“I’ll do it,” Reynaud muttered. He gently pinched the wound closed.
“Ah. Good.” The doctor inserted the needle into Beatrice’s flesh.
Reynaud winced as the blood welled fresh around the needle prick. Beatrice moaned.
“Hurry,” he whispered to the doctor. To see her in pain would undo him now.
“Haste makes waste,” murmured the doctor, carefully pulling the bloody thread through. He placed the second stitch, moving
deliberately.
“Christ,” St. Aubyn muttered.
Reynaud glanced up. The usurper’s face was pasty, and for once he felt pity for the man—St. Aubyn looked sick with worry for
his niece.
Reynaud looked down again to where the doctor’s needle was poking into tender flesh. “There is no need for so many in here.
All of you go, except for the earl and Quick.”
Feet shuffled to the door.
“One more to close it completely,” the doctor said.
Beatrice moaned again.
“Can you hold her shoulders?” Reynaud said tightly to the maid. “Don’t let her move.”
“Yes, my lord.” She went to the head of the bed.
The doctor tied a knot, slowly and carefully. Reynaud frowned at his hands, silently urging him to hurry.
“That’s got it,” the doctor finally said, and snipped the thread.
“Thank God.” Reynaud felt a bead of sweat slide down his face.
“We’ll bandage her,” the doctor said briskly, “and then it’s in the hands of God.”
Reynaud nodded and stood, watching closely as the doctor did just that. He produced a bottle of some potion from his bag,
gave instructions to administer the medicine when the patient woke, and then left just as abruptly as he’d come. The usurper
followed him out of the room, presumably to see him to the door, and Reynaud turned to Quick.
“Let’s make her comfortable.”
The maid nodded and brought over a fresh basin of water. She sponged and patted dry the area around the bandage while Reynaud
gently wiped Beatrice’s face clean. She still had not woken, and he frowned at her as he took the pins from her hair and combed
flaxen locks over the pillow. At least she did not look as if she was in any pain.
“She’s as settled as she’s going to be, my lord,” Quick said. “I’ll just stay here if—”
“No,” he said swiftly, interrupting her. “I’ll stay. Leave us, please.”
The maid looked uncertain for a moment, but when Reynaud stared at her, she bobbed a curtsy and left the room, closing the
door behind her.
Reynaud unsheathed his knife and laid it on the bedside table. He took off his wig and set it on a chair. Then he pulled off
his boots and climbed into the bed. Carefully, tenderly, he gathered Beatrice to him, her uninjured side against him as he
lay.
He brushed the hair from her face, feeling helpless. All his strength, all his determination, mattered not a whit here. It
was up to Beatrice and what strength she had.
“Wake up, sweetheart,” he whispered into her hair. “God, please wake up.”
T
HERE WAS SOMETHING
warm against her side. Big and warm and, oh! so very nice to lie next to. Beatrice shifted a little, intending to burrow
her nose into the warmth, but something cut into her side. “Ouch.”
“Don’t move.”
Her eyes flew open at the deep voice, and for a moment she simply stared up at black eyes framed in thick black eyelashes.
He did have such pretty eyelashes; it almost made her jealous. Why a
man
should have…
Her mind ground to a halt over the thought and then carefully retraced her steps. A
man
…
Beatrice blinked up at Lord Hope. “What are you doing in my bed?”
“Taking care of you.”
The words were soft, but his face wasn’t. She studied him lazily, too tired somehow to get up. He’d left off his wig, and
the hair on his shorn head was barely longer than the stubble on his chin. It lay sleek and flat against his head. She wanted
to touch it, to see if his hair was soft or prickly. The three birds flew about his right eye, all of them similar but all
slightly different. And his midnight eyes watched her back, his brows knit as if with concern.
“Why do you need to take care of me?” she whispered.
“You were hurt,” he said, “and it was my fault.”
“How?”
“There were three assassins outside of Jeremy Oates’s town house.”
She remembered now—the man with the walleye and the other two smaller men, loitering. “Why? Why were they there?”
“To kill me,” he said grimly.
She reached up a hand and traced one of the bird tattoos near his eye. “Why is someone trying to kill you? Do you know?”
He closed his eyes at her touch. “No, I don’t know. Vale thinks it’s someone from our past.”
“I don’t understand.” Her hand dropped.
“I don’t either.” He opened his eyes, which were blazing black. “All I know is that it’s my fault that you’re hurt.”
She frowned, still confused. “But why is that your fault?”
“I failed to protect you,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows bemusedly. “Is that your job? To protect me?”
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
And he bent his head very slowly toward her. She watched him nearing, the birds getting ever closer, and she thought,
He’s going to kiss me.
And then he was.
His lips were far softer than she would’ve thought—and they moved over hers gently but firmly. He’d kissed her once before,
but that time it’d been so swift she’d hardly had time to assimilate the sensations. This time she could. His bristly cheeks
scratched hers, but she didn’t mind. She was caught up in the sensation of his mouth, the smell of his neck—warm and masculine—and
the sound of his breathing coming faster as he kissed her. He ran his tongue lazily over her lips, and she was so enchanted
that she parted them, letting him in. He surged into her mouth, tasting of man, and she moaned, softly, just a little, but
it was enough for him to pull back.