Julia Justiss (7 page)

A
WAKING GROGGILY
to the sensation of his chest aflame, as he struggled to consciousness Jack tried to summon the words to rebuke whichever trooper had been clumsy enough to knock a flaming brand out of the campfire and nearly incinerate his officer.

As he instinctively turned from the heat, a blast of pain engulfed him, so searing that it drove every vestige of sleepiness from his head. His eyes flew open, the half-formed words tumbling out in an unintelligible gasp.

“Awake at last!” said a cool, soft voice. “I was beginning to fear you would never come back to yourself.”

Narrowing his focus against the agony radiating downward from his shoulder, Jack halted his gaze at a candlelit face haloed against the room’s darkness. A face of such perfect, classical beauty he was momentarily distracted from his pain. Then memory flooded back.

Lady Belle. His challenge. The protector on her blade coming loose.

Lady Belle trying to kill him.

As he gritted his teeth and cautiously shifted to see her better, he noted that she had very nearly succeeded.

“You must be thirsty. At least, the doctor said you would be when you finally reached consciousness.”

He
was
thirsty, he discovered. His tongue seeming too thick for speech, he nodded. As Belle put a glass to his lips, he leaned forward and drank greedily, ignoring the immediate protest from his shoulder. Before he’d barely slaked his thirst, dizziness assailed him and he sagged back against his pillows, his eyes fluttering shut.

Damn and blast, he thought in disgust. He had about as much strength as a newborn kitten.

“Dr. Thompson said I could give you laudanum for pain, once you were fully conscious. You…are conscious?”

He opened his eyes, as much to prove it to himself as to reassure her. “Yes.”

Picking up a spoon and a small brown bottle from a tray beside the bed, she asked, “Do you want—?”

“No,” he said, recalling the nightmarish narcotic-induced sleep he’d endured after being wounded at Corunna. “Pain is…tolerable. Don’t like being cloth-headed.”

“As you wish. The doctor also said you might have difficulty breathing, if the injury affected the lung.”

“Hard to tell,” he said with a grimace, “but I can breathe.” Inhaling deeply enough to utter more than a few words at a time, however, was a different matter.

“Praise heaven!” She opened her mouth as if to say something else, then hesitated.

Jack might be in a sorry state, but he wasn’t half-dead enough not to feel a spark of masculine response as she ran the tip of her tongue over those plump lips. “Do you remember…how you became injured?” she said at last.

Why she had tried to kill him? he asked himself. A disturbing vision of her lovely face contorted with hate flickered through his mind and he inhaled sharply, then gasped as another surge of pain seared his chest.

He struggled to regain his concentration. If he could induce her to describe what had happened, maybe he could find out what had prompted her violent response.

“It’s all…rather hazy.”

“It cannot possibly be sufficient, given the injuries you’ve suffered, but I owe you an enormous apology. You had challenged me to a fencing match—you remember that?”

He nodded, prompting her to continue.

“Sometime during the match,” she said, moistening her lips again, “the protector on my blade became dislodged. Being unaware of this, when you chanced to drop your guard and I saw a chance to score a hit, I took it. I never dreamed…!” She stopped again, her eyes and expression mirroring a clear distress. “The fault is entirely mine.”

“Had I done you some injury,” he asked, gritting his teeth against the increasing pain of each inhaled breath, “that you felt moved to attack?”

Her face coloring, she didn’t immediately reply. So she knew her response had been disproportionate. Why? he wondered anew.

“Of course you had done me no injury,” she said after a moment. “I—I merely wished to test my skill against one who was accounted a superb swordsman.”

“Our relative positions now…argue against that,” he observed wryly.

“There is no way I can make restitution for all you have suffered, but I have arranged to oversee your care until you are sufficiently recovered to be transported to your family’s estate, which Lord Darnley assured me you would wish as soon as possible. At the moment, you are lodged in my house on Mount Street. Not a very…respectable arrangement, I realize, but there seemed no other recourse, you being far too ill to be left—”

“Nay, madam, don’t apologize! I should be…in bad case indeed had you returned me to Albany. Only hope I’ve not been…too much of a charge.” He attempted a smile. “Many a gentleman would consider…a sword wound a trifling cost…to lie where I do now.”

“Not if theirs were the chest pierced by the blade,” she retorted, ignoring his attempt at gallantry. “In any event, I shall arrange for your journey as soon as the physician allows. Though I fear,” she added with a sigh, “that shall not be soon enough to prevent the troubling news of your present…situation from reaching your family.”

“My family will thank you,” Jack replied, surprised that Lady Belle seemed aware of the distress his mother might well experience upon hearing her only son was being nursed by the ton’s most celebrated Fashionable Impure. Odd, he thought, that a woman who had embraced a calling like Belle’s would spare a thought over how an association with her would be viewed by respectable people.

“Do you feel up to drinking some broth?”

At her question, he realized he was indeed hungry, though broth didn’t appeal. “Feel like having the steak…I didn’t finish for breakfast.”

“Beefsteak might be a tad ambitious,” she replied with a smile.

Despite the pain, Jack’s breath caught at how the sudden warmth of that expression, seen for the first time up close, magnified the natural beauty of her face. Though she was garbed in a high-necked, plain gray gown, her hair once again pulled severely back, the Quaker austerity of dress and coiffure seemed to emphasize rather than detract from the perfection of her features.

A smiling Botticelli angel, bending over his sickbed.

Extraordinary that a woman of her profession could exude such an aura of innocence. He felt that he might be content to spend the rest of his days simply gazing at her.

No wonder Bellingham had been so besotted.

And you, Carrington, had best keep a tight hold over your senses during the time you spend under her roof.

“Besides, that would have been breakfast yesterday,” she continued while he remained speechless, staring like a lackwit. “’Tis evening now, so you were unconscious nearly a day and a half. Indeed, I was beginning to feel I must call Dr. Thompson back to check you again.”

“That long?” Jack asked, shocked. As he studied her, recovering now from his bedazzlement, he noticed shadows beneath her eyes…and pulled up by the bed, a chair with a shawl draped over its back. “You tended me…all that time?”

“My companion Mae, though she possesses the kindest heart imaginable, turned queasy at the sight of you, the footman was little better, and I feared that my butler, a former prize-fighter, might not be gentle enough. But now that you are awake, I shall send Watson in and rest.”

“Please do! I apologize for being…such a burden.”

“Having been the instrument of your injury, ’twas only right that I do everything possible to assist you. In any case, I should not have been able to sleep until you regained your senses, giving me more confidence in your eventual recovery. Now, the doctor tells me rest and quiet are essential for healing, and I know you—and your family—will wish to have you on your way as quickly as possible.”

With that, she offered him another sip of water, bracing his shoulder as he leaned forward to drink. This time, Jack found his meager strength fading even more quickly—and now that he’d had time to sort out the gradations of pain and pressure in his chest, he discovered that breathing was becoming more difficult, as well.

He couldn’t stifle a groan as she eased him back against his pillows. There was so much more he wanted to ask her, but the words seemed to elude his grasp. “Sleep…might be…wise,” he admitted.

“You’re sure about the laudanum? Sleep, then.”

For the few moments before the vortex of pain and fatigue sucked him down to oblivion, he savored the feel of her fingers, gently stroking his face.

F
OR THE NEXT TWO DAYS
, Jack dozed and woke and dozed again, except when roused for the doctor’s periodic visits, experiences uncomfortable enough that afterward he several times accepted Belle’s offer for a bit of laudanum. Mercifully, a small dose dulled the agony enough for him to sleep without filling his dreams with nightmarish visions.

Or perhaps being wounded in the safety of London,
rather than in the middle of a grim winter retreat through the wilderness, allowed him to rest undisturbed. Whatever the reason, he awoke on the fifth day to find his mind and senses had at last escaped the haze of pain and laudanum.

Except for an itchy tickle of beard, he was reasonably comfortable, his soiled garments having been removed at some point in favor of a plain nightshirt, and his body washed. He gazed about him, able now that a tepid daylight illuminated the room and he was finally lucid to take stock of his surroundings.

He lay in a handsomely carved canopy bed, its hangings and the curtains at the windows a rich blue damask, a hue mirrored in the Turkish carpet upon the floor. The room itself, its walls painted a pale blue, boasted a fine plastered cornice, classical broken pediments over the windows and a doorway flanked by inset pilasters.

’Twas a bedchamber such as one might find in the home of any ton aristocrat of superior taste and unlimited funds. Lady Belle’s late protector had obviously been endowed with both, Jack decided.

Though the constant pain had eased, he still possessed very little strength, and moving even a small distance remained a teeth-gritting endeavor.

His vain effort to reach his water glass was interrupted by the entrance of a tall, hulking man whose dark livery proclaimed his status even as his crooked nose and huge fists spoke of a previous occupation. This must be Belle’s former prize-fighter-turned-butler.

“The maid what built up the fire said you was awake,” the man said. “Lady Belle sent me to ask iff’n you was
wishful of having a shave. She done washed you off some when you first come, but she didn’t trifle none with them whiskers. I’m Watson, by the way, Lady Belle’s butler.”

“Jaimie Watson?” Jack said, a memory beginning to surface. “Defeated Molynieu back in ’09, in one of the best bouts of fisticuffs ever seen?”

The big man’s face brightened. “You saw the match?”

“No, I was on the Peninsula at the time, but troopers who witnessed the event talked of it for months.”

Watson smiled. “’Twas my best fight.”

“Don’t start him talking about the Fancy, or you’ll never get your shave,” Lady Belle said as she entered.

Conversation ceased as Jack let the beauty of her wash over his senses. She was garbed today in a plain, high-necked gown of a medium blue that underscored the brilliance of her deep blue eyes. With her golden hair pulled back in a simple chignon, her cheeks and lips devoid of artificial enhancement and her rigidly upright stance, she might be taken for a governess. Yet the sheer loveliness of her unadorned beauty still caused him to suck in a painful breath.

“Good morning, ma’am. How charming you look!” Jack said—and immediately regretted it, for at the banal compliment, he saw her almost physically withdraw.

“You seem better, Captain,” she said coolly.

Forewarned now, he copied her matter-of-fact demeanor. “Much better, thank you.”

“Should you like a shave before breakfast?”

Jack had never considered himself vain, but in the face of her luminous beauty he was feeling decidedly unkempt.
Bad enough, he thought, to have practically cocked up your toes in front of a lady you hoped to impress without looking like a hooligan who’d ended up on the wrong side of an altercation with the Watch.

“That would be wonderful. I understand I have you to thank for making me more presentable.”

She shrugged. “You needed to be stripped out of those bloody garments—which are ruined, I’m afraid, so that I insist you allow me to replace them. It seemed best to do so while you were still unconscious.”

The idea of her stripping him down, laying hands on his naked skin, even for the prosaic purpose of cleansing it, sent a ripple of arousal through him. After spending several days in an enfeebled state, he thanked his body for this hard evidence that he was finally on the mend.

“Watson, you have the shaving utensils ready?” Belle interrupted his wandering thoughts.

“Aye, Lady Belle.” While Belle helped Jack to a sip of water, the butler brought in water, soap and razor.

While Watson shaved him, Belle recounted the doctor’s findings and informed him that both Darnley and Ludlowe had called to check on him and would return in the afternoon.

After Watson finished, a boy trotted in carrying a covered dish. “Mornin’, Miss Belle, Cap’n,” he said, fixing a curious and entirely undeferential gaze on Jack.