In Bed With the Devil (9 page)

“Yes, of course.”

“You took a strap to the boy who polishes your boots because they weren't shiny enough?” Catherine asked.

“Are you questioning me in my home, Lady Catherine?”

“Yes, I rather think I am.”

He snorted. “You need a man to put you in your place.”

She felt fingers digging into her arm. She knew Winnie was warning her. Do not poke a stick at a tiger. Oh, but it was tempting, so very tempting.

“It's rather late, my father's expecting me. I should go”—
without seeing Whit
. But she knew she was in danger of saying something she shouldn't.

“I'll see you out,” Avendale said.

He followed her out to where her carriage waited. Catherine forced herself to place her hand in his when he offered to assist her. His fingers closed painfully around hers.

“I believe you're a rather bad influence on my wife,” he said in a low voice.

Catherine's heart thudded against her chest. “Are you threatening me?”

“Of course not, but I'm not certain you understand a wife's place in the world.”

She met and held his gaze. “On the contrary, Your Grace, I fear it is you who doesn't understand a woman's place.”

Before he could say anything further, she stepped up and into the carriage. She tugged her hand free of his.

“Take care, Lady Catherine. You never know what dangers are about.”

Oh, she had a very good idea about the dangers. The carriage moved forward and Catherine took several deep breaths to calm the erratic beating of her heart. Just before the carriage turned onto the street, she glanced over her shoulder.

Avendale was still there, watching her.

T
raveling in his coach, Luke couldn't help but be irritated by the amount of time he was spending preparing himself for his nightly visits to Dodger's. He'd never before been on a schedule. Now he was on one every night—not only for when he went to Dodger's but for when he left. Catherine insisted. Three at the latest.

After all, she needed her beauty rest.

Not that he attributed her beauty to the amount of sleep she indulged in. He had a feeling she could go a week without sleep and still be ravishing. It was more than the alabaster of her skin or the honey of her hair. It was the confidence that she exuded—as though she somehow demanded that when a man looked at her, he would see naught but her perfection.

He'd known a good many beautiful women, but he'd never given much thought to exactly why they were beautiful. Catherine in particular puzzled him. She wasn't striking, and yet he was hard pressed to think of anyone he found more attractive.

Not even Frannie could compare, and yet, he saw more perfection in her features, and so it stood to reason that she should be the more beautiful of the two. Certainly, gazing at her had always brought him pleasure, but he saw something else there when he looked at Catherine. Something he couldn't identify, something he couldn't understand.

But it wasn't for Catherine that he'd taken to properly preparing himself for his late-night outings. It was for Frannie. He was taking an inordinate amount of time each evening because of Frannie.

Before he'd asked Frannie to marry him, he'd simply gone to Dodger's whenever he wanted, and while he never dressed as a beggar, he'd certainly never taken the time to shave, bathe, and change into fresh clothing. He brushed his hair, he applied sandalwood cologne. He was always properly decked out.

For several nights now, he'd gone to all this trouble, all this bother. It wasn't as though Frannie had an opportunity to notice. As soon as he led Catherine through the back doorway into the private hallway where customers were forbidden, she disappeared into Frannie's office, closed the door, and they were secreted away until Catherine came out, prepared to go home.

Frannie would give him a sweet smile, but by then his breath was tainted with whiskey, his hair was furrowed from the numerous times that he'd combed his fingers through it, and he was no longer in an agreeable mood because for the first time in his life he was losing at the
gaming tables. He was distracted, not concentrating on the gents at the table. He wanted to know what was going on behind that blasted closed door.

To further add to his irritation, Jim's reports were of little use. Today Catherine had again visited with the Duchess of Avendale—apparently she was helping the duchess with a party that she was giving—bought a new fan and a new parasol, gone into a bookshop and come out with a purchase, which Jim, with a few well-placed coins, had learned was
David Copperfield
. According to the shop owner, Lady Catherine Mabry had a fondness for Dickens.

She'd also stopped by Frannie's orphanage. Had simply stood on the street and looked at it. What was that about? How did she even know the orphanage existed?

Now they were heading home and he knew no more at that precise moment than he had when he'd picked her up several hours earlier.

“So when will I see some progress?” he asked curtly.

“When we're ready.”

“Surely by now you've taught her something.”

“I've taught her a great deal.”

“Give me an example.”

“I'm not going to list out our accomplishments. You'll see them when we're ready.”

“Can you give me an estimate as to when that might be?”

“No.”

“I'm most anxious to wed her.”

“Yes, I know.”

She said it on a sigh as though she could hardly be bothered to care.

“I thought you were equally anxious for me to see about your business,” he reminded her.

“I am…I was…I…”

“Having second thoughts?”

“No, not really. I just—I've heard that Marcus Langdon is seeking to prove you're not the rightful heir.”

What did that have to do with their arrangement? How had she heard? And how had he not? Still, he wasn't about to let on that her words had taken him by surprise.

“You sound concerned. I assure you there's no cause to fret. He's threatened to do this on numerous occasions. Usually when he wants an increase in allowance.”

“You provide him with an allowance?”

“Don't be shocked. It's not uncommon for a lord to see after those entrusted to his care. The old gent requested that I see after them, and so I do.”

“Out of guilt?”

“Why can it not be out of kindness?”

“Are you a kind man then?”

He laughed. “Hardly. You know what I am, Catherine. Or more importantly, what I am not. I'm not the rightful heir. I'm not the true grandson to the previous Earl of Claybourne. But he entrusted his titles and his estates to my keeping, and keep them I shall.”

“Do you not worry that I'll go to the courts and speak on Mr. Langdon's behalf?”

“I don't worry in the least. We're partners in
crime now, Catherine, you and I. Seek to drag me down, and you shall fall with me. You'll have to explain when I told you. And when it comes out that you've been in my company all these many nights…”

He let his voice trail off into the velvety darkness, with the unspoken promise of retribution. One he'd never carry out. He was not in the habit of harming women—in any fashion. Not that she'd know that. She'd expect the worst of him. Even though there were moments when he thought she was different, he knew that deep down she saw him as everyone else did: a cad, a scoundrel, a man whose life was built on the foundation of deception—and sooner or later, the façade would crumble.

And he saw her as…a lady. High-born. Elegant. Her rose scent had begun to invade his clothes, take up permanent residence in his nostrils. Throughout the day, he'd discover times when he thought he could smell her. He'd find himself looking around, wondering if she were near, if she'd somehow managed to sneak up on him. When he was walking the crowded streets, he'd sometimes think he heard her voice. He wanted to keep as much distance as possible between them, and yet, she was somehow managing to weave her way into his life.

He wanted to ask her how her day was. What she'd talked to her friends about. He wanted to know which one of Dickens's works was her favorite. Who else did she read? What did she do that Jim wasn't able to spy on? What made her happiest? What made her sad?

A horse suddenly whinnied, the coach jostled then stopped.

“What the devil?”

“What's going on?” she asked.

Luke reached for the cane sword he kept beneath the seat, because he never knew when he might be required to walk through the London streets. “Stay here.”

He leapt out of the coach and closed the door firmly behind him. It was so very late and the street was empty.

Save for the six ruffians who now stood before him. One man held a knife to his footman's throat, another did the same with his driver. He imagined they'd come out of the shadows, leaping onto the coach, taking both men by surprise—even though Luke had trained them better.

It was very easy to become complacent.

“Is this a robbery, gentlemen?” he asked calmly. He could see other knives, as well as wooden instruments that could be used for bludgeoning.

“It will be, m'lord, once we've sent ye to the devil.”

 

Catherine's heart was pounding so hard that she could scarcely breathe. She moved the curtain aside only a fraction. There was more shadow than light but she could see Claybourne was surrounded. His only weapon was his walking stick.

Then in a lightning-quick movement, he pulled it apart to reveal a rather nasty-looking swordlike instrument.

“I believe, gentlemen, you'll be breaking fast with the devil this morning, not I.”

He lunged toward the man who held his footman and the footman somehow managed to break free of the hold and send the ruffian to the ground.

Claybourne's move was a feint, Catherine realized, a ploy to simply distract that man so the footman would be at an advantage, because no sooner had Claybourne made a motion to go one way, he reversed direction, making a jabbing motion toward the man who held his coachman. But the coachman had already elbowed his captor and was skillfully avoiding the knife.

While both his servants were now doing their best to fend off the men attacking them, Claybourne was left to deal with the other four—who were taking unfair advantage of the situation. But then she supposed that was what these sorts of cads were accustomed to doing.

Claybourne had somehow managed to kick one of the men in the stomach. Doubled over, he'd dropped his weapon—a large wooden stick. Catherine thought if she could retrieve it, she could give him a few good whacks on the head and even the odds a bit. Before she could think it through clearly, she'd opened the door and stepped out—

Claybourne's back was to her and a man with a wicked-looking knife was coming up behind him.

“Nooo!” she screamed.

She felt the agonizing fire erupt across her palm, and only then did she realize she'd put her hand up to stop the knife from slicing Claybourne. The man wielding the weapon seemed to be in shock that he'd attacked a lady.

Catherine looked at the crimson flow invading her glove and staggered back.

“Let's go, mates!” someone yelled.

She was vaguely aware of someone grunting, the echo of pounding footsteps.

“Catherine?”

She blinked. Claybourne was kneeling beside her. What was she doing on the ground? When had she fallen? Why was it suddenly so very dark?

“He was going to kill you,” she murmured. Or thought she did. The words seem to come from a great distance.

“That's no excuse to put yourself in harm's way.”

The insufferable ingrate lifted her into his arms and carried her to the coach. He'd barely gotten her inside before following after her, sitting beside her. “Here,” he said, and she felt him wrapping something around her hand as the coach lurched forward.

“Your servants—”

“They're fine.”

“What's that?”

“My handkerchief.”

“It'll be ruined.”

“Good Lord, Catherine, your hand is likely ruined. I don't give a damn about a bit of cloth.”

“Your language is vulgar, sir.”

“I believe the occasion warrants it.”

“Indeed it does.”

He chuckled, a soothing sound that made her want to reach out and comb her fingers through
his hair, assure herself that he was indeed unharmed.

“Who were they?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he said quietly.

“They wanted to kill you.”

He said nothing.

“Why?” she asked.

“I'm a man with many enemies, Catherine.” He tucked her up against his side, pressed his lips to the top of her head. “But never before have I had a lovely guardian angel.”

“I
t's my hand, not my legs,” Catherine said as Luke swept her into his arms as soon as she appeared in the doorway of the coach intending to step out.

Luke had instructed his driver to go to his residence straightaway, to the back, where none would witness who was coming inside.

“Yes, but the faster I get you indoors, the more quickly I can have a look.”

“I'm quite capable of moving quickly.”

“Stop complaining and just accept that on this matter you'll not win.”

“Such a bully,” she muttered, before nestling her head more securely against his shoulder.

Luke was smiling before he realized it. How was it that she managed to stir to life every emotion possible in him? First she irritated him like the devil, and then she had tried to protect him. He'd spun around in time to see her, to see the knife slashing—and his stomach had dropped to the ground. Fury had almost blinded him. At that precise moment, he'd thought he could
have killed all six ruffians without breaking a sweat. They must have realized their mistake in turning on her, must have seen the murder glittering in his eyes—to have run off as they had. Luke couldn't bear the thought of losing her, and even as he thought that, he realized she wasn't his to lose.

They were merely partners. He should have felt a detachment where she was concerned, but what he was beginning to feel toward her was an appreciation. It bothered him that he was coming to care for her, that he thought of her far more than he should.

The footman darted ahead and opened the door that led into the kitchen. Luke shouldered his way through. “Go fetch my physician. Quickly now.”

“Yes, m'lord.”

Catherine stiffened in his arms. “No, no, we can't have anyone else aware that I'm here.”

“It's all right. He's very discreet.”

Gingerly he set her in the chair. Reaching out, he turned up the flame in the lamp that Cook left on the table every night. He liked the rooms in his house lit. He'd had too many nights in utter darkness.

Turning from her, he grabbed a knife. Then he pulled out a chair, settled it in front of her, sat down, and placed the knife on the table.

“What are you going to do with that? My hand is already sliced.”

If she weren't so pale with a fine sheen of sweat across her brow, if she hadn't been so damned brave, he might have lashed out at her. Instead he just asked quietly, “Do you not trust me at all?”

She nodded, and he wasn't certain if she was nodding yes, she didn't trust him or yes, she did. It suddenly occurred to him that it really didn't matter. All that mattered was that he trusted her.

Very gently he took her hand. He could feel the small tremors traveling through it. “This is likely to hurt,” he said as he began to remove the handkerchief.

“You say that as though it's not hurting now.”

“Is it hurting very badly?”

Catherine tried not to look, tried so hard not to look, but there was so much blood, it was as though each drop were a magnet for her eyes. “It hurts like the very devil.”

He chuckled low. “You're such a brave girl.”

She didn't know why his words warmed her, why she cared that he had a good opinion of her. “There's so much blood.”

“Yes,” he said quietly, removing the last of the cloth, revealing the ghastly parted flesh with the river of crimson running through it. She wondered how much worse it might have been if the knife hadn't had to first slice through her glove.

“Oh, dear God.” She turned her head away as though closing her eyes wasn't enough.

His hold on her hand tightened. “Don't swoon on me.”

“I'm not going to swoon.” She didn't bother to keep the irritation from her voice. “I hate that you think I'm such a ninny.”

“I assure you, Catherine, that particular thought regarding you has never once crossed my mind.”

She heard a scrape of metal over wood and opened her eyes in time to see him lifting the
knife. Very gingerly, he used it to slice her glove further, to the end. Then he very carefully parted the cloth and slowly peeled back the material, gently tugging it off each finger. She was suddenly having a very difficult time drawing in a breath, the room had grown incredibly hot, and she feared she
might
be in danger of swooning—even though she'd assured him she wouldn't.

She imagined him in a bedroom, removing clothes from a woman—from her—with the same care. Revealing every inch of her flesh for his perusal. He was studying her hand as though he'd never before seen bare fingers. He slowly trailed his finger along the outline of her hand.

“I don't think it's too bad,” he said quietly.

Swallowing, she nodded.

“If you ever put yourself in harm's way like that again, I'll put you over my knee.”

“And do what?” she asked indignantly.

He lifted his gaze to hers, and she saw the worry in his eyes, before he smiled. “Kiss your bare bottom.”

Her face must have shown shock at his words—she could only hope it revealed shock and not desire—because he shook his head. “My apologies. That was entirely inappropriate. I forget who you are.”

“And who is that?”

“Not one of Jack's doxies.”

She didn't want to contemplate him kissing a woman's bare bottom, kissing anything for that matter.

He held her gaze, held her hand. Looking into his eyes was so much more welcoming than look
ing at her raggedly torn palm. They drew her in, made her forget that he'd almost been killed. She reached up with her unwounded hand and brushed the hair back from his brow. She should ask him to slice off that glove as well so she could feel his skin against her fingertips. His eyes darkened, his gaze became more intense, grew closer as he leaned in—

The door opened and they both jumped.

“What trouble have you gotten yourself into now, Luke?” the man asked, closing the door behind him. He reminded Catherine of an angel, with a halo of blond curls around his head. His eyes, as blue as the sky, widened. “What have we here?”

“A bit of a mishap,” Claybourne said as he rose from the chair.

The man set his black bag on the table and took the chair Claybourne had vacated. “
Who
have we here?”

“You don't need to know,” Claybourne said.

The man smiled. “I treat far too many to remember all their names. I'm William Graves.”

“You're a physician?” Catherine asked.

“Quite right.” He placed his hand beneath hers with extreme gentleness, but she didn't grow warm, her breath didn't catch, and she didn't feel in danger of swooning.

“I'm Catherine,” she felt compelled to say.

“Are you one of his rescued lambs?” he asked as he studied her wound.

“No, she is not,” Claybourne snapped. He dragged a chair over and sat beside her. “You're not here for gossip. How badly is she hurt?”

“It's rather nasty, but it could have been worse.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “I want to stitch it up. It won't be pleasant, but it'll heal better, more quickly.”

He seemed to be asking for her permission, so she nodded.

“Very good.” He pressed a cloth to her palm. “Hold this in place while I prepare things. Luke, go fetch some whiskey.”

He took objects out of his bag and laid them out on the table. Then making himself quite at home, he began moving around the kitchen, setting a kettle of water on the stove.

“You shouldn't bother with tea,” Catherine said. “I really don't think I could drink it.”

He smiled at her. “You'll be drinking the whiskey. The water is so I can keep things clean. I've noticed that those I treat in squalor tend to die of infection more so than those I treat in tidy houses.”

Claybourne walked back in, holding a bottle and a glass filled to the brim. “Here, drink this.”

Taking a sip of the bitter brew, she grimaced.

“All of it,” he ordered.

“I don't know if I can.”

“The more you drink, the better it tastes.”

She took another sip. It didn't taste any better.

“It's not tea, gulp it,” he ordered impatiently.

“Don't be tart with me. I saved your life.”

Setting the bottle on the table, he sat again in the chair beside her. “Yes, you did.”

He trailed his fingers tenderly along her cheek. It was all she could do not to turn her lips into his palm. She moved her head beyond his reach and
concentrated on taking several gulps of the whiskey. It did seem the more she drank, the better it tasted. She was becoming light-headed, which made her want to curl up in Claybourne's lap and sleep, safe and secure.

Dr. Graves came to stand in front of her, took her wounded hand, and placed it on the table. “Close your eyes and think about something else.”

She closed her eyes and started to think about—

She took a sharp intake of breath and her eyes flew open as liquid fire poured over her palm. “Oh, dear God, what was that?”

“The whiskey,” Dr. Graves said.

“You poured—”

“I think it kills germs. Try to relax. You're going to feel a stab—”

“Catherine?”

A warm hand cradled her cheek, turned her head. She gazed into eyes so silver, so filled with concern. “Think about something else,” Claybourne ordered.

She shook her head, trying. To her mortification, she flinched and released a tiny squeak when she felt something sharp being jabbed into her flesh.

Claybourne leaned near and then his mouth was blanketing hers, skillfully plying her lips apart. Oh, the fool, did he not fear that she might bite down—

He tasted of the whiskey that he'd ordered her to drink, and she wondered if he'd needed some to fortify himself for what she was about to endure. She didn't know if it was his whis
key mingling with hers or his mouth plundering hers that was such a distraction, but she was suddenly only vaguely aware of something happening with her palm and incredibly aware of the taste, feel, and tangy scent of Claybourne. His hands were rough in her hair. She heard a hairpin drop to the floor. She was surprised they didn't all tumble out.

Deepening the kiss, he swirled his tongue over hers, and she thought if she were standing that her knees would have been too weak to support her. She knew she should pull back, should slap him with her one good hand, but he was so incredibly delicious. And while she knew it wasn't desire for her that prompted his actions, but simply desire to distract her, still she was grateful for the moment, grateful to have one more opportunity to experience his kiss. She'd been haunted ever since he'd kissed her in the library. The kiss hadn't been nearly long enough then, and she knew that no matter when this kiss ended, it wouldn't be long enough either.

The kiss seemed to encompass more than her mouth. It seemed to reach into the very core of her womanhood and awaken yearnings she'd never before known. Desire rushed forward, dulling everything else. She knew she was wanton, loose, shameful to harbor this intense craving for him to come nearer, for him to press more than his lips against hers. She thought of all the warnings he'd given her that first night. She risked more than her reputation with him; she risked her heart.

“Luke? Luke, I'm finished.”

Claybourne broke free of the kiss and drew back; he seemed as dazed as she.

“Not sure I've ever seen quite so inventive a distraction,” the doctor said.

“Yes, well, it worked didn't it?” Claybourne got to his feet, snatched up the glass of whiskey she'd set aside earlier, and downed the contents in one long swallow.

Oh, yes, it had worked. Her hand was not only stitched but it was wrapped in a white bandage.

“It's common to feel dizzy after such an ordeal,” Dr. Graves said. “Give yourself a few moments.”

She nodded. “Thank you, thank you for your attentions. I assume Claybourne will pay you for your services.”

“He paid me long ago.”

“You're another one of Feagan's children, aren't you?”

He gave her a wry smile, before coming to his feet and beginning to put the tools of his trade back into his bag. “In about a week, anyone should be able to remove the stitches for you. But if you'd rather I do it, just have Luke send word.”

“Thank you,” she said again.

“It was my honor to be of service.” He snapped his bag closed, stopped to whisper something to Claybourne, and then made his way out the door, leaving her alone in the room with Claybourne. She dearly wanted him to move nearer, to touch her, to kiss her. The whiskey was influencing her thoughts. Or perhaps it was simply the ordeal of the night. Their surviving had created a bond between them that hadn't existed before.

“How will you explain it?” Claybourne asked.

“Pardon?” She felt as though her thoughts were moving through honey, especially those that concerned him. How would she explain wanting him to kiss her again?

“The hand?”

“Oh.” She looked at it, turning it one way and another. It was aching. Perhaps she should drink more whiskey before she left. “I'll just say I cut it on a piece of glass or something. There's really no one to challenge me. One of the advantages to my brother traipsing all over the world.”

“I should get you home now.”

“Oh, yes, indeed.”

To her surprise, in the coach, he didn't sit opposite her as a gentleman should, but he sat beside her, his arm around her, holding her as close as a dear friend—or dare she think it,
as a lover?

“I'm sorry this happened,” he said, his voice low and intimate within the confines of the coach.

She was incredibly exhausted. All she wanted to do was sleep. “Not to worry.”

“About the kiss—”

“Don't be concerned. I shan't mention it to Frannie. I know it was the only recourse you had to distract me.”