The Danger of Desire (8 page)

“Don’t trifle with me,” he growled through gritted teeth. “If you ever, ever try that crap again, I’ll blister your arse so hard, you won’t sit down for a month!”

But she was limp—out cold. Stunned, he loosened and transferred his grip to one hand and placed the other on her chest to make sure she was still breathing. God’s balls, what a scrapper. She must get into fights often. One of her hands was already bound up in bloody, filthy rags, wrapped around what was obviously a grievous injury.

No, not a fight. The wall. The wall with the glass shards and the shine of blood. She had hurt herself. Badly. Her fingers looked swollen. He touched them, and she cried out.

She came to fast enough, still fighting, still refusing to yield. Her body bucked and twisted beneath him. And then, for some reason, some strange, unholy reason, Hugh looked down. He looked down at her chest and saw, through the none too clean linen of her shirt, the unmistakable pink, pebbled shape of a nipple. His eyes automatically slid across to the other, but he could see that breast was still covered in the heavy cotton banding with which she had bound her chest. It must have slipped during their tussle. His gaze snaked back of its own volition, to dwell on the rounded bud pressing up impudently against the soft, worn fabric.

A jolt of pure lust, hot and unadulterated by thought, shot through him like a pistol. Christ almighty! He had obviously remained celibate for far too long, to be even so much as thinking, let alone feeling, erotic impulses for the scrap of rags and vitriol writhing beneath him. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? She was writhing. Beneath him. The bones of her pelvis were jutting up against his arse. And unmistakably, he found it highly erotic. He was as stiff as a cannon.

He flung himself off her with another foul curse and came to his feet. It took several long gulps of air before Hugh could get a complete grip upon himself and his extremely wayward thoughts. And his wayward body.

He was inconveniently and undeniably attracted to her. There was no getting around it. It was something he had not foreseen when Admiral Middleton had given him his instructions, nor had he thought about it when he had first noticed her in the street.

Now, that was a bloody lie. He had noticed her precisely because she had been attractive, or at least her ankle had been. But only God knew why he was attracted physically to the dirty ragamuffin that Jinks had shown into the study. She smelled. He ought to be repulsed. But he was not. He was drawn to her.

She tried to rise. Her head wobbled weakly before she curled onto her side, drawing her injured hand closer to cradle against her chest. And then she went still.

Before he could check himself, or caution himself that it might be another one of her foul tricks, he was back down on the floor, kneeling at her side. Hugh touched the girl’s shoulder, and she rolled onto her back, limply unconscious. He put his fingers to the side of her neck—she was devilishly hot. Flushed with fever, no doubt because of the putrid hand.

“Jinks!” he called through the door. “Are you still here?”

His man appeared, hauling in air with his hands on his knees. “I was coming, sir. Could hear you all the way across the street. Thought you was being murdered.”

“I was. She’s out cold. And ill, it would seem. I’m going to need hot water and salts. And a strong soap.”

“Right y’are, sir.”

“And Jinks, do be careful. The little bitch bites.” He’d need lye soap for his own arm as well.

But instead of shifting her over his shoulder like a sack of mealy potatoes, as would be prudent, he scooped her up and cradled her snug against his chest. Damned if he knew why. She was nearly insubstantial in his arms. He could hardly credit the fight she’d put up earlier.

“Biter, is she now?” Jinks eyed her cautiously as he held open the door. “Best wash tha’ out, then.” He nodded at Hugh’s forearm. “She’s like to give you the rabies. She be mangier than a rabid dog at any rate. Where to?”

“The kitchen. We can tie her to the table if we have to. Damn her eyes, she’s no good to me if she loses her hand.”

“That bad, sir?”

“I don’t know, Jinks. I just don’t know. Just get the water heated and we’ll find out.”

Once down the kitchen stairs, he laid her carefully on the deal table and set to pulling off the threadbare jacket that enveloped her spare frame. He told himself it was to see if she had any other injuries, and to be able to treat her hand as best he could, but he knew there was another reason when he found his hands straying to the buttons of her tattered shirt. He forced himself to step back.

Hugh busied himself with practicalities. He lit a lantern and set it close. The bandages, such as they were, were only old rags, discolored and stiff with dried blood and God knew what else. He’d have to cut them off.

“Have we got a scissors? And a bowl. That’s right.”

Jinks filled a large bowl with steaming water from the kettle, added a heaping measure of coarse salt, and returned to the cabinets to find the scissors. He came back and handed them over, and Hugh began to cut away the bandages as best he could, but he could see they would have to be soaked before they’d come off. And God knew what he’d find underneath.

“God’s balls.” It was bad. He glanced at the girl’s pale, still face, the high spots of fever the only color in her cheeks. Her heart-shaped face seemed delicate under the rime of grime. Fragile almost, despite what he knew of her hardened character.

She might be useless to him now, but he wasn’t so callous as to leave her solely to fate. He would do his best for her, whatever he could. “Send for a surgeon. See if you can get Pervis, up at the hospital. And you’d better make sure we’ve got a clean knife.”

CHAPTER 6

T
he first thing Meggs saw were the beams of a low ceiling above her head. She blinked to clear her eyes. The flickering light made her dizzy. She tried to raise a hand to block the light, but the movement brought a sickening blade of pain.

A deep, quiet voice sounded inside her ear. “Shh. Be still.”

But she had never been very good at obeying commands. Especially when she was frightened. She tried to move, to sit up, but found herself pressed firmly down into what had to be the slightly uneven slats of a table. And the voice was holding her down.

“Let me go,” she demanded, but her voice was weak and desperate.

“You’re in no shape to go anywhere.”

Meggs turned toward the voice and found it was the captain, holding her arm out in a grip like a vise. She could feel his hands hard on her forearm, but nothing more. His body was resolutely blocking her view. All she could see were white, white bandages, bloody-red water, and the cold glistening steel of a big knife laid on the table next to her head.

Panic rose, sharp and metallic, raking at her throat. “What have you done? Let me see. What have you done?”

A different voice answered, crisp and business-like. “Saved your hand, I hope. It was quite septic, but I think we’ve cleaned the putrefaction now. I think you’ll keep it.”

“No! Let me—” Meggs pulled her feet under her before the words registered.
Saved her hand
.

“Shh.” That was the captain again. The words rumbled through his body and into hers where he held her arm against his chest. “Don’t fight. Easy now. Thank you, Pervis. Much obliged.”

“You know where to find me? Keep me apprised of any difficulties, will you? I can find my own way out.” And then the snap of a bag and footsteps as Pervis, whoever he was, left.

The captain turned to view her with a faint crease in his brows, as if he hadn’t expected her silly display of fear and squeamishness. “I’ll let you sit up if you promise not to faint again.”

Relief made her philosophical. Or careless. That was it. She felt strangely, as if at long last, she hadn’t a care. Fear had a way of sorting out priorities. “Never fainted a day in my life.”

“You did today. You’ve been out for a few hours now.”

“Didn’t faint. Smashed my head against the bloody floor, didn’t I?”

She felt the chuckle rumble through him. “You did at that.” He reached around to gently probe the back of her skull. “How’s it feel?”

His hands on her head made her feel strange and light and exposed. “Like a hammer’s been at it.”

“Apologies. Sit up, handsomely now, and let me finish this bandage. You’re as weak as a kitten.”

“Still gave you that black eye.”

He smiled over his shoulder at her. “And nearly cracked my jaw.”

“We’re even then, are we?”

“Not with this hand. Do you think you’re ready to rise?”

But Meggs found she couldn’t sit up, or didn’t want to, tucked tightly into the sheltering curve of his back as he held her arm clamped against his ribs. Instead she found herself turning, curling into him, into the heat that fairly rose off his linen shirt. Into the fresh clean smell of him. Like a new-mown field. Like heaven.

He still wore nothing but his rolled up shirtsleeves. She watched the light play off the golden hair on his forearm as his strong fingers wrapped her hand in a tight bandage. But his arm was bandaged as well.

“What happened?”

“You passed out.”

“No. What did you do to my hand? And yours?”

“Soaked it in hot brine to loosen the crusted bandages and open it up to release the ... Well, then we washed it. With strong soap. Something you could use more of, Miss Tanner. Something you should have done to this laceration at the start. I assume you cut yourself going over that wall, two days ago?”

Something inside, her pride she supposed, bridled at that—all that superior tone. But all she had left to answer was cheek. “Oh, yeah. Stupid me. How could I ferget? I got
loads
of soap and hot water in me lovely flat, up in Mayfair.”

He stilled and turned back to look her in the eyes. “Like that, is it? Not even soap?” His face sobered until she could see that uncompromising granite. “Where do you live?”

When he looked at her like that, she felt more exposed than if she’d been naked. And he could go shove his bloody worthless pity. “Here and there. Never you mind.” She tugged at her hand, still held so soundly in his.

“Well, as long as you take lodgement here, you’ll wash. Regularly. You and the boy.”

Boy? God and all the bloody weeping angels in heaven. “What boy?” she squeaked. Lord help her, she did. She squeaked like a rusty eel cart. Old Nan would be ashamed of her, giving herself away like that. But old Nan wasn’t Timmy’s sister.

“Your brother, young Mr. Tanner. He came sneaking around the back looking for you. He got to worrying about you, he said. With good reason.”

“The boy don’t have no part in this. Where is he? Let me see him.”

“Easy there. Handsomely with that bloody hand—we’ve put a number of stitches into it. The boy’s being bathed. And fed.”

“Why? Whatchoo need to bathe him for?” She fought her way out of his grip to slip off the other side of the table. There were pots hanging from a rack above, close to hand. She could cosh him with one, if need be. “You keep your filthy hands off that boy. I won’t let him be your plaything.”

“My play ...” he stuttered. His confusion quickly changed to a ferocious frown even as a high wash of color appeared across his cheekbones. “God’s balls, girl. I am not a predator. I did not lure the child here for any such nefarious purpose.”

“Right,” she spat. “An’ I’m the queen’s sister. Everything about you is ‘nee-farious.’ Wouldn’t want me, want us, otherwise, would you?”

“I don’t want the boy. I only want
you
. I only spoke to
you
. But he seems to think he’s necessary. He seems to think
you
can’t get along without him.”

“I told him to—” Meggs bit her tongue. Hard. She didn’t need to be telling the captain every little bit of her business. “Where is he? Let me see him.”

“Don’t get your britches in a twist. He’s eating us out of the larder.” He shot a thumb over his shoulder. “You ought to feed yourselves more often—”

“Bloody shite for brains! You let him gorge himself? He’ll be heaving it up in no time. Where is he?” She clutched her way doggedly around the table and across the spinning room. “Tell me!”

Himself hooked his thumb toward a set of rising stairs. “Breakfast room. I didn’t want him down here when we were working on you. And he needed feeding. You two have obviously been hauling sharp for far too long.”

Meggs didn’t want to hear anything more to add to the nasty feeling of guilt swirling around in her innards. “He needs Lenten fare, not a gorging.”

She wove her wobbly way to the stairs he indicated, climbing up to the ground floor where smooth mahogany balusters swept upward in a dizzy, sinuous line all the way up three flights to the top floor. She could hear the captain following hard on her heels but paid him no mind.

“Tanner?” she called to the empty hallway.

“Meggs?”

She could hear him down the hall. She braced her way across the corridor, followed by the captain and then the fairy man, too late to do anyone any good, damn his pointy ears.

“Don’t feel too good, Meggs.” Timmy was lovely clean, but he had indeed eaten everything he could get his hands on. Several empty dishes stood on the tabletop.

She took him in her arms. “I know, you silly little piglet. Shh.” She brushed his lovely clean hair away from his forehead.

“Meggs?” There was acute discomfort in his voice.

“I know, love. Come on. You’ll have to shoot that cat.” She fetched a stew bowl off the table by dumping its remaining contents onto an empty plate and began to rub his back as he started to heave.

“Aww. That’s it for me,” complained the fairy man. She sent his back a vicious look.

The captain stepped forward and took her shoulders. “You’re not strong enough. Your hand needs—”

Another glare, one that ought to have made his damn cods shrink up inside his body for cover, kept the captain quiet as Timmy heaved up his supper. But he didn’t leave, the captain, at least not for long. He came back with a cool, clean cloth for her to wipe Timmy’s pale face, and he took away the damned bowl without a single comment.