Julia Justiss (12 page)

He had fortitude, as well. At their luncheon stop, Belle had read pain in the white line about his tightly compressed lips, the creases in his forehead, yet throughout what must have seemed an endless day of jolting discomfort, he had uttered not a word of complaint.

As she stood watching his still figure, she suddenly realized that to recuperate from his participation in today’s events, Captain Carrington would likely have to remain at Bellehaven, not for the simple overnight stay she had envisioned, but for several days at least.

What worried her most was that the prospect of him tarrying didn’t alarm her nearly as much as it should.

Watson’s next words, however, wiped from her mind the speculation about what sort of hold the captain seemed to exert on her.

“Lady Belle,” Watson said grimly, looking down at the red stain on the captain’s waistcoat, “his wound be bleeding again.”

F
IGHTING DOWN PANIC
, Belle scanned her memory for every treatment the doctor had administered to the captain. “Reynolds,” she called to the housekeeper who had followed in their wake, “I’ll need my medicine bag, brandy and hot water at once, please.”

As the woman bobbed a curtsy and hurried off, Belle bent to assist Watson. “Captain, can you hear me? We’re at Bellehaven now. We must get your jacket off and change your bandages. I’m afraid your wound has reopened.”

With a visible effort, Carrington managed to open his eyes. “Sorry…to be such a bother,” he whispered.

“Nonsense! But no talking now—you must rest.”

For the next several minutes, Belle blessed Watson’s strength as the prize-fighter held the captain suspended off the bed so she could strip his garments free with a minimum of disturbance. Noting with relief the housekeeper bringing in her supplies, she said to her patient, who had maintained a grim-lipped silence through the disrobing process, “I must cleanse the wound, then rebandage it.”

The captain nodded. Closing her ears to his occasional grunt of pain, Belle set to work.

“Doesn’t look so bad,” Watson said, inspecting the
wound she’d washed free of blood. “Flesh isn’t red nor hot to the touch and the blood be seeping just from this one corner. With all ye done today, Captain, you be lucky.”

“He would have been luckier had he remained in London,” Belle noted, guilt coloring her concern.

“So he would,” Watson agreed, “but we’d ’a been a far sight worse off without him. Let’s hope the Lord blesses them what helps the needy and sends him a quick healing.”

“Amen to that,” the captain inserted in a breath of a voice, surprising her. Admiration entered the mix of emotions pulling at her, that instead of utilizing his slight strength to request something or complain, Carrington had tried to lighten the moment.

With Watson’s help, Belle rebandaged the wound, the captain’s arms and neck going rigid as she pulled the bindings as tight as she could. They all released a sigh of relief when at last she motioned Watson to lay the captain back against his pillows.

A maid arrived with bread and soup. Forestalling Carrington’s feeble attempt to reach for the spoon, Belle said, “Please, Captain, let me. Save your energy for mending that wound.”

Mechanically he swallowed down the hearty chicken stew, though he shook his head at the bread. “Rest…now.”

Watson approached with a nightshirt the housekeeper had produced. “I’ll help you into this, unless you brung one of your own?”

A twinkle flickered in the captain’s eyes as he angled a glance at Belle. “Never wear ’em.”

Suppressing a chuckle, Belle hoped his good humor indicated the captain was beginning to recover from his exertions—permanently this time. But too worried about the possibility of his developing fever to relax, she said to Watson, “Stay with the captain while I change, please. I’m having a tray sent here.”

The butler nodded. Belle touched the captain’s forehead, reassured to find the skin, as Watson had said, warm but not hot. Then Carrington startled her by moving his hand to cover hers.

“You will…come back?” he whispered.

Something sharp and aching stirred in Belle’s chest. Pushing the feeling aside to be dealt with later, she squeezed his limp fingers. “Yes, of course.”

“Good,” he said, the word a bare exhale of breath before he closed his eyes again.

After changing out of her traveling clothes, Belle took up her vigil beside the captain’s bed. Watson stopped in several times, offering to relieve her while she rested, but Belle couldn’t bring herself to leave. Heavy on her chest weighed the fear that the captain’s heroic defense of them—a defense her lack of foresight had made necessary—would lead to a relapse that could kill him yet.

And so she sat though the long night, chair pulled close to the bed, ears alert for any change in his breathing. To her relief as the hours passed, her frequent, anxious checks of his forehead revealed no hint of a burgeoning inflammation. Several times she succumbed to the urge to let her fingers linger, brushing the dark hair off his brow or stroking the smoothness of his temples. Once, she thought he
murmured, “good,” but she was so weary herself that she might only have dreamed it.

She was not dreaming, however, when she woke the next morning, neck cramped from dozing on the arm of her chair, to find dawn light illumining the room—and her hand on the captain’s shoulder, tucked under his own.

She stared, torn by twin desires to snatch her hand free and let it remain. On some private, soul-deep level his peacefully sleeping figure drew her, a reaction as powerful and even more alarming than the shocklike tingle that leapt between them when he was awake.

It must be excessive worry and lack of sleep, she told herself, for there was no place in either his world or hers where any mutually acceptable relationship could develop between them. She ought to remove her fingers, steal silently out, perhaps get a bit of sleep herself. But she couldn’t seem to make herself draw away.

Instead, with her free hand, she gently stroked the captain’s forehead. An instant later, he stirred and the dark eyes opened.

His gaze darted about the room, as if he did not remember where he was. Before she could remind him, his eyes returned to focus on hers with an intensity that trapped the words in her throat.

Something stirred again deep within her chest when his lips curved into a smile. “You’re still here,” he murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper. “I’m glad.”

She forced herself to look away. “And I am delighted to report that you have not developed fever, which makes
it a very good morning indeed.” Only then did she recall he still held her fingers and tried to pull them free.

He resisted, retaining them a moment before letting go. “Did I keep you awake all of the night?”

“I dozed quite a bit of it. How are you feeling?”

Cautiously he eased to a sitting position. “Much improved, it appears. Takes more than a three-man skirmish to put a tough old soldier permanently out of action.”

“Thank heaven for that!”

“I fear you suffered more than I last night,” he said, indicating her armchair and the shawl that still covered her knees. “That can’t have been very comfortable.”

“’Tis little enough, after all you did yesterday.”

“As for yesterday, though I’m glad to have been of service, I should like to know more about the ambush. I wasn’t thinking too clearly afterward, but it did seen odd that highwaymen would attack as they did.”

She felt the heat as remorse and guilt washed color into her face. “I fear you are correct. We didn’t tarry after turning the men over to a magistrate, but I suspect he’ll discover that robbery wasn’t their intent. I suppose you deserve an explanation as well as my apologies for once again putting you in harm’s way.”

“I’d like the explanation.”

“And some breakfast, too, I imagine. Are you hungry?”

“Famished,” he admitted with a smile.

Relief eased the ache in her chest. “An excellent sign! I’ll send for something at once.”

After ringing the bellpull, she returned to face him. “Now, your explanation. Do you remember that afternoon
Jem came running to fetch me? I expect by now you’ve noticed my staff are rather…unconventional. I’d given shelter to a young girl who’d been tricked into service at one of the brothels in the theater district. Although I sent a rather large sum to pay off the madam, she was not satisfied.”

Belle felt color rising again in her cheeks. “Excuse me for putting it so crudely, but certain men prefer a virginal-looking girl like Jane and will pay handsomely for her. The madam sent a henchman to try to remove Jane from my house by force. After the attempt, I decided to leave London so as to take Jane out of danger.”

The captain frowned. “Should you not rather have turned the matter over to the authorities?”

“Both Mae and Watson counseled against it, feeling the law wouldn’t be overly concerned about the fate of a prostitute, no matter how young. I consulted a friend with connections in the government, but he agreed that without proof from more…credible witnesses, probably nothing would be done. Since it appeared that any redress under law would be slow to obtain at best, I decided to bring Jane to Bellehaven. And I—” she faltered “—I was so certain that the miscreants would no longer be a problem once we left London, I did not bother to inform you of the possible danger. For that, I am profoundly sorry.”

“If we were attacked by villains such as that, I can only be happy I was able to assist. However, I am afraid I shall have to impose upon your hospitality for longer than the overnight I’d initially requested.”

“Of course. You do…you do see how necessary it was
that I protect Jane?” she asked, wanting, for no good reason she could think of, his approval.

“Certainly, and it was admirable of you to do so, especially when it did in fact place you at risk.”

“Not that admirable,” Belle said in a low voice. “Such as Jane and I must help each other, for few others would trouble to assist us.”

“I’m not of as much use yet, but while I’m under your roof, I’ll aid in any way I can. Perhaps I could help Watson plan a strategy of defense to foil any attempts at Bellehaven, should the miscreants be so unwise as to pursue you here. If that would set your fears at rest?”

Though she told herself not to put too much credence in his unexpected offer, nonetheless Belle felt her worry over the household’s welfare lessen. “I hesitate to call upon you any further, but…yes,” she admitted, “I should feel better knowing we had a system of protection devised by someone of your military experience. But you must promise to do nothing more strenuous than plan—I’ll hire some local youths to assist Watson with the rest.”

A knock at the door was followed by the entrance of the butler, bearing a heavy tray. “Morning, Miss Belle. Captain, what a sight better you look!”

“Thank you, Watson. I’m feeling much better.”

“Will you assist the captain while I get myself presentable?” Belle asked.

“You could never be less than beautiful,” the captain replied, the quiet fervency of his voice making her suddenly uncomfortable. Retreating from the bed, she said, “I’ll leave you in Watson’s able hands.”

She felt his gaze follow her all the way out the door. Oh, please, she thought as she left, let him not spoil the fragile accord that seemed to be developing between them by beginning to pursue her.

And please, let him heal soon and leave—before it became too tempting to lean upon the strong shoulder he seemed to be offering.

J
ACK MENTALLY KICKED
himself as he watched Belle wrap herself in that cloak of cool dignity and walk out. Would he ever learn to check the admiring comments that rose naturally to his lips—and that she saw as empty gallantry?

Despite that faux pas, his spirits were high, for he felt infinitely better this morning, his chest less tight, the tenderness of his wound at a manageable level. Apparently, thank God, his heroics of the previous afternoon had not drastically compromised his recovery.

Nor did he mind having to linger a few days longer than anticipated at Belle’s. Would that his healing proceeded apace, that he might put them to good advantage!

Since Watson seemed determined to remain at his side, he might as well make a virtue out of the annoyance of his infirmity, Jack decided as the butler began spooning in his broth. Once Watson finished, Jack could solicit the man’s view of yesterday’s events—and the girl Jane.

Though it seemed unlikely, he wasn’t so jaded as to dismiss the possibility that she might have been an innocent somehow entrapped into life as a bawd. He had to suppress a smile, however, as he imagined his mama’s reaction,
should she learn he now resided under a roof that sheltered no less than three of the Fashionable Impure.

But someone had pursued Belle’s party with evil intent. Speculation about who might have done so and why banished the smile from his lips.

At Jack’s insistence, Watson allowed his patient to manage his own coffee cup. But as he turned to leave, Jack said, “Stay, please. I should like to learn more about Jane and her connection to the attack on us yesterday.”

Watson frowned. “I can’t rightly say if the two be connected, but it looks suspicious. Miss Belle brought Jane outta Mrs. Jarvis’s fancy house—a mean old witch, that one is. Pays a bully boy named Waldo to keep her girls and her customers in line. Appears Waldo fancied Jane, too. Though to my mind,” he added, scowling, “any bloke who’d touch a little slip of a thing like her needs a home lesson at the end of man’s knuckles.”

“This Waldo tried to steal her from Belle’s house?”

“Yes. Miss Belle was all for going to the magistrate, but Jane begged her not to, saying Waldo told her he’d have revenge on Belle and anyone who helped her if she did.”

“Did he, by God?” Jack said, incensed that someone would threaten Belle—a detail that the lady had neglected to mention.

“Aye,” Watson confirmed. “She done talked to some toff about getting the law into it, but in the end we convinced her ’twas best that we all leave the City.”

“So the men who attacked us meant to capture Jane?”