Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (3 page)

She darted a glance around his body, spied his horse, and shuddered.

“Shall we, then?” He held out his hand. “You would be doing me a great favor by coming with me. My ears are like two blocks of ice and I see you’ve a muffler trailing behind you I might ask to borrow.” He’d say anything to gain her trust and get her to come with him.

“Thank you, s-s-sir.” The wind howled through the branches and she braced herself against the tree. Gathering her strength again, she reached for the thin shawl at her feet and placed it in his outstretched hand. “The carriage I was in slid into a ditch.”

“I see.” He hadn’t seen any carriage and he would swear her eyes flicked. “Are there others?”

“My companion went for help l-l-long ago, but he didn’t return. I was waiting for the mail coach.”

Hmmm. He wasn’t sure he believed her story. No gentleman…No. No
man
would leave a woman behind to fend for herself. “There won’t be a mail coach in weather like this. In any case, I believe we’ll find shelter nearby.”

“Are you lost too?”

He smiled. “Will you trust me if I tell you the truth?”

She tilted her head and was apparently too polite to utter her opinion.

“Perhaps, a trifle,” he admitted. “But I’ve good directions and an excellent horse, who has yet to fail me.”

He had a nearly primal urge to pick her up in his arms, get her in front of a fire, offer her warm food, and comfort her. “Let me help you onto my mare.”

She appeared vastly embarrassed. “I don’t ride very well. Actually, I never learned.”

This was no surprise. Many poor could not afford the luxury of a horse. “You’ve nothing to fear. My horse is gentle despite her size. She doesn’t bite and she’s always well behaved. The same cannot be said of me, however—when someone is stalling.” He offered his hand once again to help her negotiate the deep snow.

“I’m sorry to be so craven.”

“It’s the cold. It scrambles the mind. But we mustn’t waste any more time.” He looked about. “The weather is getting worse by the minute.” He hoped she wouldn’t scuttle away like a feral animal in distress.

She glanced at his outstretched hand again and finally grasped it; his great paw engulfed her tiny one. Two steps forward and she floundered in a small drift, her balance as offset by the frost-filled air as her mind.

Without a word, he leaned in, grasped her about the waist and under the knees to haul her delicate form against the wall of his chest.

Her breath left in a rush. “Really, this isn’t necessary. I’m perfectly capable of—”

“I have it on the best authority that not walking another step was part of your prayer. Well, I know it would be part of mine—if I was in your position.” God, she was so wraithlike in his arms, and an animalistic surge of protectiveness flooded him. She was dangerously light and would freeze to death if he didn’t get her out of the elements in short order.

She struggled when he approached his mare. “Put me down. I can walk very well here on the road, thank you.” She climbed out of his arms onto her own two feet and rearranged her blankets. “I will follow the trail you blaze.”

He stared at her and then shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Her eyes bloomed with fear.

“You’ll have to keep your voice low.”

“Whyever for?”

“You’re hurting her feelings.” He tilted his head toward his mare, praying humor would help.

She glanced at the animal then raised her eyes to meet his. He was sure she would refuse again.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” she said quietly, her face drawn. And suddenly he noticed, despite the fading light, a slick, dark area on her snow-dusted blankets…a place that was
blood red.
The time for polite cajoling was over.

In one easy motion he regathered the reins in one hand and grasped the saddle’s cantle to remount. Before she could utter another word, he leaned down and hauled her up to sit in front of him, her legs dangling to one side. He didn’t dare try to examine where the blood was coming from—the elements were too harsh and she was too cold.

He should have seen the signs. Clearly, her mind was half lost to a freezing daze. In fact, she was now an inch closer to oblivion thanks to her obvious fear. He unbuttoned his heavy, long coat, deeply slashed on the sides for riding, and pulled her close to his heated body while refastening the closures.

“Put your arms around me, sweetheart,” he whispered into her temple while he turned her to face him better. “Hold on tight, now.”

She was making sounds of distress but tentatively grasped his sides. Michael transferred the reins to one hand to gather her more firmly against him.

His horse remained as rock steady as he knew she would. The mare was smarter than most humans alive, and he would trust her with his life. Hell, he already had, on numerous occasions. He’d never considered even once the thought of leaving her behind when he’d returned to England.

His horse lurched forward, plowing through the mounting layer of snow, while the woman now held onto his sides with a death grip.

“That’s it. Get closer—as close as you can. There now. No need to talk. We’ll be there in a trice.” He kept up the stream of comforting commands as his mare negotiated her steps.

An enormous blast of wind barreled down the long roadway and momentarily stole away his breath. He hunkered inward and grasped the waif closer still. It was then he noticed the most evocative scent emanating from her. He lowered his head and breathed deep, letting the heady fragrance wash through his senses. There was the hint of spring, of lilies of the valley, and the rains of March, and something else…of femininity—and of luxurious
affluence
. Who in damnation was this young woman? He exhaled and realized he didn’t even know her name. She slumped against him then, in exhaustion, or from loss of blood, he knew not which.

For Christ sakes
. What had he gotten into now? He was lost within the eye of a blizzard near Yorkshire with an injured, mysterious woman. Actually, if he was honest, this was nothing more than the usual madness fate had always tossed his way. Fate was surely a woman determined to flummox him at every twist in the uneven road of his damned life.

Sioux neighed and tossed her head. “I know, sweetheart, I know. It never fails…” He clucked encouragement, and at the haunting sound of the wind, he sang low—a song from his childhood.

The last thing Grace heard as the black veil of unconsciousness overtook the riot within her mind was the most beautiful voice singing above her, surely from the heavens. For once, she slumbered in peace—not tossing and turning like a leaf caught in the battering winds of autumn. How ironic it was that this could occur on the back of a mammoth horse while lost within the powerful grasp of the most daunting, immense man she had ever encountered.

He held not the carefully cultivated, jaded countenance of a lord. He appeared carved from the raw brawn of daring, with a side helping of rugged instinct. And those eyes…those audacious, lion-like eyes that fronted verve and intelligent cunning in the wicked ways of the world.

She should be terrified. She should be on her guard. But she was too weak to feel any of it. Her heart filled with the most illogical sense of security given her predicament, and it warmed her all the way down to her marrow.

F
inding Brynlow required greater fortitude and patience than Michael had anticipated. The barkeep at the last inn had not been jesting when he had said it was lost in a forgotten corner of Christendom. Yet, it was perfect. By the hazy radiance of a waxing crescent moon behind cloud cover and the still falling snow, Michael discerned the pale stone house tucked away in a stand of silver birch trees, the pastoral scene warming his heart.

He weaved his mare through the branches to find two large barns hidden beyond. Crystallized ice cracked and broke free as he dismounted and slid the woman off in one long motion to prop her against the stable’s door once inside. She moaned when he disengaged her from his warmth.

Carefully lighting a nearby lantern, Michael made short work of rubbing down and settling his horse in the comfort of a stall, then hefted his saddlebags and the semiconscious form of the woman to make his way to the dwelling.

It was obvious from what he could see of the inside of the small manor that Sam had had the wherewithal to establish the place with many creature comforts. Stopping to reposition the woman within his arms, Michael noticed a note on the small table beside the front stair.

Dear Mr. Ranier,

Begging yer pardon sir, but I’m for the village to look in on the missus who’s feeling poorly and staying with her sister. I’ve left the larder and animals in the barn well stocked. Don’t know if you’ll arrive on the day you wrote in yer letter but I’ll look in—in a day or two. I’ve left our eldest, Timmy, in the room above the stable.

Yours respectfully,
Bertie Lattimer

Well. The day was bringing nothing but good news, he thought dryly. He ducked his head and negotiated his way up the long, creaking staircase before nudging open the first door along the short hall. At least the bed was made up and wood lay in the grate. Carefully placing the woman on the bed frame, he turned his attention to the fat wood and flint box to nurse a fire.

There was a host of surprises awaiting him as he removed his fur-lined gloves, peeled off his wet coat, and rolled up his sleeves to unwrap the many-layered mystery of the beautiful woman before him. Beneath the dull blankets, Michael encountered a ragtag assortment of shawls. His calloused hands snagged the delicate silks, some marked with blood, until he removed the last impractical outer garment.

She truly was an ethereal creature. In the glow of the lantern light, she was a study in pink-hued femininity. Her cloak gave way to a rose silk gown stitched with silver thread. Four lengths of pearls lay draped in a heavy tangle around her delicate neck and entwined in her pale blonde hair.

Who in hell was she?

His gaze hooked on the red stains on her gown and dread corroded his veins. There was too much blood.

Well, rich or poor, aristocrat or waif, a wound was a wound.

He cursed each of the tiny, silk-covered buttons of her gown as his brutish, scarred fingers worked past the impractical lacy tapes of her chemise. Drawing aside the flimsy fabrics, he sucked in his breath when a good portion of her exquisite breasts were exposed.

Her flesh was too smooth and unflawed, leaving him hesitant to mar her in any way. Pink silk swirled around the tiny rosy tips and he swallowed. He concentrated on removing the corset and remnants of the chemise underneath.

It was a maze of whalebone and lace and like nothing he’d encountered on the no-nonsense women on the other side of the ocean. He snorted in disgust at the impractical, torturous nature of the beast and retrieved a pocketknife from his bag. With a few deft moves, he sliced through the stained layers and pulled apart the contraption and chemise beneath. Blood gushed from a deep gash below her breast and she moaned once. He pressed a shawl against the wound. Well, at least the blasted overly tight corset had helped staunch the flow of blood. And the injury wasn’t mortal—but it would need stitching.

He would have to rouse her from whatever state of frozen exhaustion to which she had succumbed, for she would have to be near death not to feel the pinch of the needle when he stitched her.

He juggled between pressing against the wound and reaching for a small kit in his bag.

Michael covered her breasts with another shawl and stroked her hair. “Blue Eyes…hey, wake up.” It was no surprise there was no reaction. Hell, if she hadn’t woken from his cutting through her corset…“Come now, sweetheart.” He shook her shoulders and she inhaled harshly. “That’s it. Look, you’ve got to wake up.” He jarred her again.

Her eyes slit open slightly.

“Good. You’ve nothing to fear. You’re safe. We’ve arrived, but we’ve got to see to your injury.”

She closed her eyes.

He sighed, then spied the gleam of a flask within the folds of her velvet cloak. He pulled off the stopper and splashed some of the contents between her lips, cursing the fact he’d sworn never to swig a mouthful himself. He had enough to atone for without adding another vice.

She coughed violently and tried to rise.

“That’s it. No, no. Don’t sit up.”

Grace’s eyes watered from the brandy fumes in her tight throat. But at least, for once, when she could breathe, it was without difficulty. Ill ease growing with each second, she glanced down and realized her state of undress. With horror, she grasped the shawl tighter to herself. “Good Lord…”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Looks like you’ve hurt yourself.” The towering giant’s slumberous golden eyes contrasted with the harsh angles of his face. “I’m afraid we’ll have to stitch it.”

She tried to hold back a cough, her voice faint. “Did you undress me?”

“Yes. But, uh, I didn’t look.” A fleck of humor warmed his expression. “Well, perhaps I did look. Once.” His eyes flickered. “All right, maybe twice.”

He was immense, hovering over her, taking up all the space in the small room. And yet…Why was it that a man could possess a stubbled face and weary eyes combined with disheveled hair and lines of exhaustion, and it all served to make him supremely handsome in a beastly sort of way? If she hadn’t been in so much pain, and lightheaded to boot, she would have been mortified down to her stockings given the situation.

As she watched him rifle through his bag, the awful feeling of helplessness invaded her in the face of such overwhelming masculine vitality. She had been determined never to leave herself vulnerable again. Frailty was the trait she most despised in herself.

“So, what happened to you, sweetheart?”

“Please stop calling me that.” She tried to still her shivering limbs with no success. “I fell against the carriage lamp during the accident.” He was glancing at her clutched hands and the heat of a blush overtook her.

“There’s no need to be bashful.” He drew a needle and a length of thread from his kit.