The Perfect Rake (29 page)

Gideon could jump the first man and risk it, of course, but with Prudence sitting motionless and silent, looking down the barrel of the long-nosed pistol, Gideon was not prepared to attempt anything that might endanger her. Silently he cursed himself for not carrying his own pistols. He usually did when traveling. Miss Prudence’s anxious need to flee had driven more rational thoughts from his mind, and he’d forgotten them, dammit! Unforgivable carelessness!

Gideon—brainless, besotted Gideon!—had come unarmed, and by doing so had endangered his love!

“What the devil do you think you’re about?” he growled at the highwayman. “There’s a village just ahead. If you shoot, you’ll be heard.”

“Aye, mebbe,” agreed the robber. “But they be nicely tucked up in bed, and I have a good fast ’orse, so if you’ll be so good as to hand over your val’ables, we’ll be on our way.” The pistol jerked toward Gideon suddenly. “Nice an’ easy, me fine gent—no sudden movements. You ’aven’t forgotten me partner, ’ave you? ’E’s watchin’, nice and quiet-like. Nervous, ’e is. Finger very light on the trigger, if you get my drift.”

Gideon put his hands where the highwayman could see them, one hand wrapped around the reins, the other resting protectively on Prudence’s knee. The robber was no fool, damn the fellow’s eyes! He’d made sure Prudence was between himself and Gideon. If Gideon tried anything, Prudence would be caught in the cross fire. Gideon was nicely hamstrung.

“Come on, missy, hand over the pretties, now.”

She didn’t make a sound. Gideon watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was sitting bolt upright, one hand clutching her reticule tightly to her, the other hidden in the folds of her cloak. He glanced at her face. She looked extremely pale, but that could be the moonlight. As he took in the expression on her face, Gideon’s heart sank. She was going to refuse to hand over her money; he could see it in her eyes and the stubborn, angry set of her jaw.

“Don’t argue with the fellow, Imp,” he said quietly. “Your safety is not worth the paltry sum you carry in your reticule.” He spoke loud enough for the robber to hear.

She glanced at him mutinously. Oh, Lord, he thought in frustration. Why risk herself for such a small sum when the majority of her money was in the stocking purse concealed beneath her skirts? He was going to have to somehow push her out of the way before he could tackle the robber. Perhaps if they appeared to wrangle over the reticule, it might distract the robber. He hoped Boyle would be able to deal with the one to the rear of them.

“Look, Sis, I know it’s your pin money and all you have left for the quarter,” he said, affecting a peevish tone, “but really, it isn’t worth it. Now give it over, do.”

He heard a cross little snort beside him. He turned to the robber and smiled ingratiatingly. “My sister is a little frightened.” He squeezed Prudence’s knee meaningfully.

“Runs in the family then, don’t it, sir,” the robber said mockingly. “Now hand it over. I’m out o’ patience.”

Gideon drew his purse from his pocket and tossed it to the robber. It contained a few guineas only; the majority of his money was in a secret pocket in his greatcoat.

“And I’ll take that little box thing on yer lap, miss.”

Prudence glared at the robber but handed over the Egyptian reticule without fuss. Gideon felt his breath release. Thank God. She was going to be sensible, after all.

“Right. And now I’ll ’ave that gold chain round yer pretty neck.”

Gideon felt Prudence stiffen. Her betrothal ring was on the end of that chain, he suddenly recalled. Oh, Lord, she was going to be difficult. If only the damned robber was on his side of the phaeton.

“’Urry up!” the man behind growled.

The man closest to her said, “See, my friend’s getting impatient, and when he’s impatient, missy, his finger gets tighter on the trigger. A hair trigger it is, too, and liable to go off at the slightest touch. Now hand over that gold chain!”

“I won’t. It is my chain, and you shan’t have it”

Gideon groaned inwardly. She was going to get herself killed for the sake of blasted Otterbury’s blasted ring. He loosened his hold on the reins, looping them inconspicuously around the brake handle on his right.

The robber gaped. “What did you say? Can’t you see there’s a pistol pointin’ straight at your heart, girl? Now hand it over!”

She lifted her chin. “No. It’s not very valuable, and you wouldn’t get much money for it, but it is personally very precious to me, so I shan’t give it to you.” She placed her hand protectively across her chest.

The robber blinked and swore under his breath. “Stubborn little piece, ain’t you? Well, in that case, I’ll just ’ave to help meself.” He urged his mount closer to the carriage and reached across to grab her.

It was Gideon’s chance. With one hand, he shoved Prudence backward and scrambled across her to take a flying leap at the robber.

Something slammed into his shoulder and he missed the robber and plummeted into the road. Something banged against his skull. A flurry of shots rang out. People were shouting. The horses reared and stamped, and the carriage moved jerkily back and forth in response. Gideon, confused and for some reason unable to stand, managed to roll aside to escape the wheels, but it was as if he’d rolled into white-hot coals of fire, the pain in his shoulder was so sudden and intense. There was a lot of cursing, then a thunder of hooves followed by relative silence.

“Steady those horses,” he heard Prudence call. “Now, or else your master will be crushed under the wheels.”

He heard Boyle respond, though the words were indistinguishable. There was a swish of fabric, and suddenly he was surrounded by softness, the acrid tang of gunpowder, and the smell of gardenias. Prudence gardenias. And a Prudence angel gazing down at him, all blurry and golden and beautiful, with a halo of gold. He gazed, momentarily entranced.

“Put the lantern in front so I can see his wound,” snapped the angel. The halo abruptly shifted, and Gideon was forced to squint against the sudden glare as a lantern was placed beside his head.

“He is alive,” she called, then murmured softly, “I’m sorry, oh, I am so very sorry…I did not mean…” She fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat and then ripped open his shirt. “Oh, good God, the blood.”

Blood?
He opened his eyes a crack and gazed up into her lovely face. She was frowning blackly. It was hard to tell if she was blazingly angry or frantically anxious. He tried to smile and pat her hand in reassurance.

She said, “Do not move, I beseech you! Any movement will make it worse!”

He could not argue with that. Whatever it was, it hurt like the very devil. There was a series of ripping sounds, and then she pressed down on his shoulder, hard.

It felt like someone had plunged a red-hot poker into his shoulder.

“Oh, sorry! I know it hurts, but truly I must do this to stop the bleeding.”

He had no idea what she was doing, but if she wanted to plunge a red-hot poker into him, he supposed he deserved it for forgetting his pistols. He concentrated on not making a sound. After what seemed like an eternity, the pressure eased slightly, though the poker was burning hotter than ever. She lifted a blood-soaked pad and peered at his shoulder. The face of his groom intruded into his view as well.

Gideon tried to say something, but for some reason his tongue wasn’t working.

“Looks like a flesh wound,” Boyle said.

“Oh, that’s good, isn’t it? I mean not good—for, of course, any wound is frightful, but it means no bone has been damaged.”

“Aye. Bones is one thing,” said Boyle, “but he could bleed to death yet from that little hole.”

There was a small, feminine gasp, and Gideon felt the grip on him tighten convulsively. His senses ebbed and flowed. Vaguely he heard Boyle say, “Sorry, miss, didn’t mean to alarm you, but I was a soldier, see. We’ll have to get him up in the phaeton, get him to a surgeon fast as possible. But first, we’ll see what we can do to stop that bleeding. Now if we can just bind that pad back in place…”

Gideon felt a sharp wave of pain. As if from a distance he heard, “That’s it, miss, good and tight so as it’ll stanch the bleeding…” Above him, Prudence’s face wavered for a moment as the flaming poker was plunged in his shoulder anew.

When he opened his eyes again, he heard Boyle say, “I’ve secured the horses so they can’t move, so if you’ll move, miss, I’ll see if I can pick him up.”

Pick him up? As if he was a helpless child? Gideon tried to instruct Boyle to do no such thing, and to announce that he would mount the carriage himself, thank you very much! But even as his thick and muzzy tongue tried unsuccessfully to form the words, he felt Boyle’s arms slide under him, there was a jolt, and everything went black.

Prudence peered worriedly at Lord Carradice. He was still extremely pale, though not as pale as when Boyle and several sleepy ostlers had carried him into The Blue Pelican at Maidenhead the previous night and had laid him out on the settle in the parlor. He’d been as pale as death then.

She would never forget that dreadful drive—the groom whipping the weary horses over Salt Hill and stopping to waken the inhabitants of the first house they came to and asking for the direction of the nearest surgeon, only to be told the closest one was at Maidenhead, another five miles farther on. So on they’d journeyed, at as fast a pace as the poor horses could manage; Boyle swearing, the whip cracking, the carriage swaying and bounding, and Lord Carradice lying warm and heavy in Prudence’s arms, bleeding to death, for all she knew, with darkness all around.

Prudence had clutched his prone body to her, hugging him tightly against her heart. He lay sprawled across her body, insensible, his head cradled in the hollow between her chin and her breast. With one arm she’d held his body securely against her; with her other hand she pressed as firmly and steadily as she could on the pad that covered his wound, the wound that welled warm sticky blood over her fingers the whole time.

She felt so miserable, so frightened, so guilty. If he died…

But he had not died.

Now he lay in bed, his eyelashes dark crescents against the pallor of his skin. He lay propped up against his pillows, a bandage around his head and shoulder, and a loose brocade dressing gown draped around him for warmth. Apart from the dressing gown, he was naked from the waist up. The surgeon had advised against trying to clothe him until his gunshot wound was a little better. It was a flesh wound, which was a blessing, she’d been told. But even with the smallest of wounds, there was always a danger of infection and fever, said the surgeon. They were to watch for fever, especially. The head injury was another matter; until he awoke, no further diagnosis could be made.

Prudence lightly touched the skin of his chest. It felt warm, not hot, dry, not clammy. That was good, was it not? She pressed her whole palm to his skin. It felt good.

Too good. She had never touched a man’s naked chest, never even seen one. Not Phillip’s, even with the intimacy they’d shared, and not any other man’s. At Dereham, even the farm laborers worked fully clothed at all times, no matter how hot the weather.

Her fingers stroked through the hair that was sprinkled lightly across his chest. Starting in a wedge, the darkness seemed to arrow down, down below the sheet tucked so firmly around his midriff. It was fascinating to be so close to him. She ought not to be so fascinated; she was supposed to be checking for fever only. But she couldn’t seem to help herself.

His eyes opened.

Prudence leaned forward and laid a hand on his arm. “Oh, Gid—Lord Carradice, thank heavens! I’ve been so worried. How are you feeling?”

Lord Carradice smiled faintly. She’d almost called him Gideon. “All the better for seeing you, my Prudence.”

She frowned anxiously. “Yes, but how do you feel? You look frightfully pale.”

Gideon reached out and patted her hand. “I feel perfectly well, my dear,” he lied. Her fingers clutched his convulsively, and he felt a great deal better.

She gazed at him, her expressive little countenance reflecting a series of emotions: relief, distress, guilt, anxiety. That worried pucker was back between her brows, blast it, deeper than ever. Damn that robber! “I’m sor—” he began.

“I’m so very sorry about what happened,” she blurted distressfully. “I truly never meant you to be injured like that.”

He squeezed her hand, wishing he had more strength to gather her against him and smooth out her worries with his other hand. “Do not wrinkle your lovely brow over my injuries, my Prudence. I’m as right as rain. I’m impervious to highwaymen; it’s only beauteous redheads I have a weakness for.”

She seemed to flinch at that, and avoided his gaze. Gideon frowned, but before he could ask her what troubled her, she said, “I know, oh, I know. I am so very sorry. Indeed, I could not regret it more deeply, I assure you! I would give
anything
for it not to have happened.”

Gideon smiled at her passionate tone. The extreme degree of guilt she was exhibiting, the very heartfelt nature of her distress—it could signify only one thing. His gallant defense of her had broken though the barrier of her propriety. His act had forced Miss Prudence to acknowledge there was more between them than simple dalliance, and now she felt guilty for so misjudging him. If that was the case, it was worth getting shot for. He caressed her fingers gently. “So you finally admit it, do you?” he said softly. “About time, Miss Imp.”

She snatched her hand back. “Of course I admit it. I have confessed freely to the fault. But you cannot deny you are at least a tiny bit responsible for what happened. Why did you have to jump across me like that at that moment?”

Jump across her? He frowned until he realized she was back to talking about the highwayman. He gave her a very masculine look and explained, “You were in between that blackguard and me. I had to get across you to get to him. It’s not your fault.”

“No, but if you had warned me at least, signaled your intention in some subtle fashion, it would never have—”

The role of protector suited him, Gideon decided. He rather enjoyed her feminine flutterings after the event, her concern for his well-being. “My dear girl, how would warning you have changed the situation?” His tone was pure indulgence.