A Breath of Scandal (2 page)

A shadow loomed before him. “So yer awake, are ye?”

Julian stared mutely at the hulking figure.

“The Jackal says yer a spy. We’ll find out soon enough when we unload on the beach near Dumfries.”

It took a moment for the ship’s destination to register in Julian’s head. “Dumfries! That’s in Scotland. I thought …”

“Aye, I know what ye thought. The Jackal changed our destination. He learned that agents were waiting for us in Cornwall. We’re to head up Solway Firth, unload our cargo on the beach when we see the signal, and wait for the wagons that will transport it to London and Edinburgh.”

Pain made concentrating difficult, but Julian saw no logic in the sailor telling him these things. Unless, of course, the Jackal had no intention of letting Julian live.

Julian shifted on the narrow bunk, stifling a groan as pain radiated through his body in wave after wave of raw agony. Gingerly he touched his shoulder, surprised to find a crude bandage over his wound.

“I did that,” the sailor bragged. “I ain’t a doctor, but I’ve patched many a sailor in my time.”

“Why did you bother?” Julian asked wearily.

“The Jackal wants ye kept alive for questioning. He’s curious about the man called Scorpion. And he wants to make sure yer the agent who’s been a thorn in his side for so long. Soon as ye give up yer information, he’ll have ye killed.”

It would be a cold day in hell before he’d give anything of value to the Jackal, Julian swore. “How long before we reach Solway Firth?”

“Four days. Ye been out like a light fer longer than that.”

“I’m thirsty.”

The sailor plunged a dipper into a bucket of water and handed it to Julian. Julian managed to drink half of it before the effort became too much and he handed the dipper back to the sailor.

“I’ll bring ye something to eat if there’s anything left after everyone’s had their fill.” The sailor headed out the door. “And don’t think ye can escape ’cause there’s nowhere ye can go. Nothing but miles of water out there.”

Julian stared at the closed door so long that it began to swim before his eyes. He had four days. Four days in which to plan his escape. Silently he pondered his chances for survival. He was wounded, weak from loss of blood, feverish, and could expect no help.

He was as good as dead.

Four days later Julian was still weak, still feverish, and had yet to devise a viable plan of escape. He dragged himself from the filthy bunk to the porthole and peered out into the darkness. The ship was anchored in the firth, a few hundred yards from shore. His view of the activity taking place on deck was obstructed, but he heard sounds indicating that the contraband was being lowered to jolly boats waiting in the water below.

Julian returned to the bunk to conserve his strength for the ordeal he knew he’d soon have to face. The wait was long and agonizing, but when the door to his prison was flung open, it was almost anti-climactic.

A sailor appeared in the doorway. “Can ye walk?”

“Well enough,” Julian said grimly as he rose stiffly and shuffled forward.

The narrow corridor and ladder leading up to the deck was almost beyond his capability, but somehow he managed. Then cool, damp air hit him like a jolt of adrenaline when he most needed it.

Julian made a move toward the railing and felt the barrel of a pistol pressing into the middle of his back. “Stay here till they’re ready to take ye to shore,” the smuggler warned.

Julian glanced wildly around him. Every able-bodied man was engaged in some activity or other as they moved about the deck with grim purpose. It was now or never, Julian thought as he girded himself to make a last-ditch effort to escape. Accepting death meekly didn’t appeal to him. He might still die in the attempt, but time had run out. And should he never be identified as Scorpion, the Jackal would pose no threat to his family.

There was Emma, his beautiful sister, who had grown up too fast and was already a handful. And Sinjun, who had finally found a woman he loved enough to give up his decadent ways. Sinjun’s son would do the earldom proud, especially since Julian planned to produce no heirs. After Diana’s death, Julian had vowed never to marry. No other woman or child of his would die on his account.

Julian inched closer to the railing, pretending an interest in the activities below. His guard followed, glancing down to see what had caught Julian’s attention. Taking a deep breath, Julian gripped the railing and vaulted over, launching himself up and away from the boats below. He fell. Down … down … into the dark, churning sea.

He was dimly aware that the railing was suddenly crowded with sailors. Gunshots broke the silence of the night; bullets struck the sea around him, spraying water into his face. Then a bullet plowed into him, and pain explode in his brain. His arms went numb, his body sank, and water closed over his head.

Scottish coast

C
olorful Gypsy skirts stirred by brisk sea breezes whipped wildly about Lara’s long, bare legs as she stood on a cliff above the firth, watching the tide roll out. How she would miss the untamed land of her birth when she returned to London to take up residence with her father.

Lara sighed heavily. She hated balls, routs, and stuffy dinner parties, but her father wanted her to have a season in London. At twenty, she should have had her season behind her, but she had resisted. Raised by her Gypsy mother in a Romany camp until the age of thirteen, Lara hadn’t even known of her father’s existence. Her mother had revealed his name as she lay dying from a lung disease. It had come as quite a shock to Lara to learn that her father was an English nobleman who never knew she existed.

Not knowing her father had never mattered to Lara, for she loved her life with the Rom, and worshipped her grandmother Ramona and grandfather Pietro. But Serena, Lara’s mother, had insisted that Ramona and Pietro take Lara to her father upon her death. To her father’s credit, he had welcomed her with open arms.

The one thing that saved Lara from being miserable in her new life was her father’s generous and loving nature. He had allowed her to return to Scotland and the Romany camp each summer to be with her grandparents. But Lara feared this summer would be the last, and she felt as if a large part of her life was about to end.

Lara glanced down at the pounding surf. The outgoing tide had exposed an inviting crescent of beach that spoke to the untamed Gypsy in her. With the exuberance of a wild child of nature, she flew down the narrow path leading to the beach, her dark eyes glowing with the pleasure of being young, lighthearted, and free of strictures for a few more weeks.

Lara ran along the beach, her bare feet leaving small prints in the wet sand. She lifted her face to the warm sun and laughed aloud from the pure joy of being alive on this fine day.

“Lara! Ramona is looking for you. ’Tis time to move on.”

Lara looked over her shoulder and grinned at Rondo, the playmate of her youth, now a handsome man of twenty-three, looking down at her from the cliff above.

“Must we leave?” Lara complained. “ ’Tis so beautiful here.”

“Pietro wants to reach Lockerbie in time for the big fair. Our horses should sell well there.”

Lara nodded, then turned for one last look at the beach and sea beyond, absorbing the untamed beauty of sand and water and towering cliffs into her pores. Her inquisitive gaze settled on a bundle of rags that had washed up on the beach. Her curiosity piqued, she started forward.

“Lara, where are you going?”

“There’s something on the beach.”

Rondo sounded impatient. “Leave it. ’Tis probably nothing of importance.”

But it
was
something. Lara felt it in her bones, heard fate calling to her. She dropped down on her knees beside the bundle, tentatively reaching out to touch something that looked more solid than mere rags. She encountered flesh and bone and let out a startled gasp.

A human body!

She turned the body over. It was a man, one precariously close to death. She found a weak pulse. His face was ashen, his lips blue and bloodless.

“Rondo, come quickly! ’Tis a man!”

Rondo scrambled down the path. “Is he alive?”

“I think so.”

He pushed her aside. “Let me have a look.”

For some unexplained reason Lara was loath to leave the man’s side. Something within her whispered that this man needed her. She watched with bated breath as Rondo felt for a pulse and placed his ear against the lifeless chest.

“Aye, he’s alive, just barely.”

“Do something. We can’t let him die.”

“I don’t see why not. He probably came from one of the smuggling ships operating in these waters. He’s dressed like a peasant or a common sailor.”

“Don’t be so hard-hearted, Rondo. Press the water out of his lungs.”

Grumbling, Rondo turned the man on his stomach, straddled him, and began pumping in and out.

“ ’Tis no use,” Rondo said.

“Keep pumping,” Lara urged. For some obscure reason it seemed important to keep this man alive.

Rondo renewed his efforts and was rewarded when a gush of water spurted from the man’s lungs. He gagged and coughed, but his eyes remained closed and his breathing ragged.

Lara’s voice was anxious with worry. “Let’s take him to Ramona. She’ll know what to do.”

“I don’t know why it’s so important to cart a man who probably won’t live out the day up the cliff,” Rondo complained. “He’s a
gadjo
.”

“Rondo, please. He’s a human being.”

“You know I can refuse you nothing,” Rondo said as he hefted the man over his shoulder.

“He’s bleeding!” Lara cried when she saw blood dripping down one limp hand onto the wet sand. “Hurry!”

Lara led the way up the path, looking back frequently to make sure Rondo followed. They reached the top, and Lara instructed Rondo to take the wounded
gadjo
to her wagon.

“ ’Tis not right,” Rondo complained. “You’re a maiden.”

“Just do as I say, Rondo. I’m going for Ramona.”

Pietro intercepted Lara before she reached the gaily painted wagon her grandparents shared. “What is it, little one?”

“I found a wounded man on the beach, Grandfather. Rondo carried him to my wagon. I need Grandmother to heal his wounds.”

“What kind of wounds?”

“I don’t know. There’s blood, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. Please fetch Grandmother. Tell her to bring her healing tools and herbs.”

Pietro must have sensed his granddaughter’s urgency, for he hurried off to do her bidding, allowing Lara to hasten back to her wagon.

“How is he?” she asked as she ducked inside.

Rondo had finished his cursory inspection of the unconscious man. “He’s seriously wounded, probably shot more than once. Someone wanted him dead … badly. The
gadjo
will bring trouble to us, Lara. ’Tis best we let him die.”

“What’s this about dying?”

Ramona ducked inside the wagon, pushing Rondo aside to look at the man lying on her granddaughter’s bed. Her dark face was deeply lined and her hair streaked with gray, yet somehow she appeared ageless. Her ample figure was garbed in clothing every bit as colorful and flamboyant as her granddaughter’s.

“Who is he?”

“There’s no identification on him,” Rondo said. “Look at him. The rough clothes and scuffed boots are those of a peasant.”

“Can you save him, Grandmother?” Lara asked anxiously.

Ramona’s brown eyes held the wisdom of ages as she looked beyond Lara, to something only she could see.

“He is
gadjo
,” she intoned dryly.

“And I am half
gadjo
,” Lara reminded her.

Brow furrowed, Ramona studied her granddaughter intently, then returned her gaze to the wounded man.

“I will do what I can. Rondo can remain to help me remove his clothing, but you must leave. You are still an innocent.”

Lara wanted to object but knew Ramona would fight her on this, so she left the wagon without an argument. She joined Pietro outside. His thick, gray brows were knitted together with worry.

“Who is he?”

“We don’t know, Grandfather, but he’s as near death as a man can get.”

Pietro suddenly looked alarmed. “ ’Tis not good, Lara. I fear this man will bring trouble to our people. What if his enemies come looking for him?”

“I don’t know,” Lara said, looking down at her dirty toes. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. Rondo thinks he’ll die, so that problem will probably never come up.”

Pietro held out his arms and Lara walked into them. “Why is this man so important to you, little one?”

Lara had no answer. She bit her lip to keep them from trembling and shook her head, sending a tangle of shiny dark curls cascading over her shoulders.

“Ah, little one. You are so beautiful, so innocent, yet so filled with life.” He smoothed a wayward curl from her forehead. “You are fiery and untamed, just like your mother. Spirited and impetuous, too, and sometimes I fear for you. I hope your father finds a mate worthy of you.”

“Maybe I’ll never marry, Grandfather,” Lara ventured. “I will not marry without love.”

“I feel confident you will find a man to love, little one.”

Lara glanced toward the wagon. “What do you suppose is taking so long?”

“If anyone can heal the wounded
gadjo
, ’tis your grandmother. You must have patience.”

Patience, Lara thought, was something she’d never had in abundance. Then suddenly the door opened and Rondo staggered out. He was white as a sheet and looked ready to lose the contents of his stomach.

“Rondo! What is it?”

“Ramona is digging out the bullet in his back now, and the one she removed from his shoulder is festering. ’Tisn’t a pretty sight.”

“Bullets? More than one?” Lara said.

“Two. He was shot once in the shoulder and again in the back. The infection is serious and still might kill him despite Ramona’s healing skills.”

“I’m going in,” Lara said, striding resolutely toward the wagon.

“Lara, the man’s naked,” Rondo said, grabbing her arm.

Lara shrugged away. “Someone needs to help Ramona. Obviously you’ve no stomach for it.”