The Viscount's Kiss (2 page)

“Then I'll see to the horses,” the young man said as he absently unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, exposing his neck and some of his chest. Both were as tanned as his face.

Perhaps he was a doctor on a vessel.

The driver started to sit up. “Maybe I'd better—”

“No, you should rest,” the young man ordered. “Enjoy having such a charming and pretty nurse, Thompkins, and leave the horses to me. Tell her about the time I tried to drive your team and we wound up in the ditch.”

The driver grinned, then grimaced. “Aye, my lord.”

My lord? A noble physician? That was very interesting…except that she should be thinking about how they were going to get to Bath and what she should do when they got there.

“First, I need a few words with your nurse,” the nobleman said, taking her arm and drawing her a short distance away.

Concerned the driver was more seriously injured than he had implied, she ignored the impropriety of his action and tried to ignore the sensations it engendered, like little flames licking along her skin.

“Is the driver seriously hurt after all?” she asked anxiously.

“No, I don't believe Thompkins has a serious concussion,” he said, to her relief. “However, I'm not a doctor.”

“You're not?” she blurted in surprise. His examination had certainly looked like that of a medical man.

He gravely shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. I have a little medical training, so I know enough to be aware that he should be kept conscious, if at all possible, until we can fetch a physician. Can you do that while I see to the injured horse and ride to the next inn on one of the others?”

“Yes, I think I can keep him awake.”

The young gentleman's lips flicked up into a pleased smile that again sent that unusual warmth thrumming through her body. As she returned to the driver and tried to soothe her nerves, he started toward the guard holding the horses.

She heard the nobleman ask the guard where the pistols were as she began wiping the blood that had slowed to a trickle.

“Under my seat,” the man nervously replied, glancing
at the high backseat at the rear of the coach, for mail coach guards generally carried pistols as well as a blunderbuss, to fend off highwaymen.

“I'll hold the horses while you put that poor beast out of its misery,” the young gentleman offered.

“What, you want
me
to shoot it? I couldn't!” the guard protested. “I can't be destroyin' government property! It'd be my job. Besides, I'm to look after the mail, not the animals.”

“Surely an exception can be made if a horse has broken its leg,” the young man replied.

“I tell ya, I'm supposed to guard the mail, not take care o' the horses!”

“I will not allow that poor animal to suffer.”

“
You
won't? Who the devil are you?”

“Shut yer gob, Snicks,” the driver called out. “Let the viscount do what has to be done.”

He was a viscount? A
viscount
had kissed her?

“I'll pay for the horse if need be,” the young nobleman said as he marched toward the overturned coach with such a fiercely determined look on his face, he hardly seemed like the same man.

The guard scowled but said no more as the viscount found the pistol which, like the blunderbuss, looked as if it had been made early in the previous century.

With the gun behind his back, murmuring something that sounded like an apology, the viscount approached the injured horse. Then, as the guard moved as far away as he could, the nobleman took his stance, aimed and shot the horse right between its big, brown, limpid eyes.

As the animal fell heavily to the ground, the viscount lowered his arm and bowed his head.

“Couldn't be helped,” the driver muttered roughly. “Had to be done.”

Yes, it had to be done, Nell thought as she returned to dabbing the driver's wound, but she felt sorry for the poor horse, as well as the man who had to shoot it.

The viscount tucked the pistol into the waist of his trousers before returning to Nell and the driver. Between the pistol, his sun-darkened skin, open shirt and disheveled hair, he looked like a very handsome, elegant pirate.

Pirate. The sea. A viscount who liked spiders who'd gone to sea…

Good heavens! He had to be Lord Bromwell, the naturalist whose book about his voyage around the world had made him the toast of London society and the subject of many articles in the popular press. Like so many others, Lady Sturmpole had bought his book and talked about his remarkable adventures, although she didn't bother to actually read
The Spider's Web
.

No wonder he could be calm in a crisis. Any man who'd survived a shipwreck and attacks by cannibals could surely take an overturned coach in stride. As for that kiss, he must often be the object of female attention and lust. He probably had women throwing themselves at him all the time and assumed she was another who was intrigued and infatuated by his looks and his fame.

And because he was famous, the press might take an even greater interest in a mail coach overturning, perhaps noting that Lord Bromwell had not been the only passenger and asking her name and her destination and why she was in the coach….

With a growing sense of impending doom, wishing she'd never caught the coach, never gone to London, never
decided to go to Bath and, most of all, never met
him
, Nell watched as the handsome, renowned naturalist swung himself onto the back of one of the horses and galloped down the road.

A
s Lord Bromwell—known as Buggy to his closest friends—had expected, the sight of a dishevelled, hatless, cloakless man mounted on a sweat-slicked coach horse charging into the yard of The Crown and Lion caused quite a stir.

A male servant carrying a bag of flour over his shoulder toward the kitchen stopped and stared, openmouthed. Two slovenly attired men lounging by the door straightened.
The washerwoman, an enormous basket of wet linen in her arms, nearly dropped her burden, while a boy carrying boots paid no heed where he was going and nearly ran into one of the two idlers, earning the curious lad a cuff on the side of the head.

“There's been an accident,” Bromwell called out to the hostler as the man ran out of the stables, followed by two grooms, a stable boy and a man in livery.

Bromwell slid off the exhausted horse and, after unwrapping the excess length of the reins from around his hands, gave them to the stable boy. Meanwhile, the grooms, liveried fellows, idlers, bootblack and washerwoman gathered around them. “The mail coach broke an axle about three miles back on the London road.”

“No!” the hostler cried, as if such a thing were completely impossible.

“Yes,” Bromwell replied as the inn's proprietor, alerted by the hubbub, appeared in the door of the taproom. He wiped his hands on the soiled apron that covered his ample belly and hurried forward at a brisk trot that was impressive for a man of his girth.

“Gad, is that you, Lord Bromwell?” Jenkins exclaimed. “You're not hurt, I hope!”

“I'm perfectly all right, Mr. Jenkins,” the viscount replied, slapping the worst of the mud from his trousers. “Unfortunately, others are not. We need a physician and a carriage, as well as a horse for me, for I fear we won't all fit in one vehicle. Naturally I shall pay—”

“My lord!” Mr. Jenkins cried, his red face appalled, his hand to his heart as if mortally offended. “Never!”

Bromwell acknowledged the innkeeper's generosity with a smile and a nod. He'd always liked Mr. Jenkins,
which made his father's disparaging treatment of him even more painful to witness.

“You there, Sam,” Jenkins called to the hostler, “get my carriage ready and saddle Brown Bessie for his lordship—the good saddle, mind.

“Johnny, leave those at the door and run and fetch the doctor,” he said to the bootblack. “Quick as you can, lad.”

The boy immediately did as he was told, while the hostler and grooms returned to the stable, taking the coach horse with them. Adjusting her heavy basket on her hip, the washerwoman started back toward the washhouse and the two idlers returned to their places, where they had a good view of incoming riders and vehicles.

“Come in and have a drink o' something while they're getting the horse and carriage ready,” Jenkins offered. “I expect you'll want to wash, too.”

Bromwell reached up to touch his cheek and discovered he was rather muddy there, too. “Yes, indeed I would,” he replied, following the innkeeper toward the main building, a two-storied, half-timbered edifice, with a public taproom and dining room on the lower level and bedrooms above.

Although Bromwell had lost what vanity he'd possessed years ago, believing his looks nothing to boast of especially compared to those of his friends, as he walked behind Jenkins through the muddy, straw-strewn yard, he couldn't help wondering what his female fellow passenger had made of his appearance.

More importantly, though, what the devil had possessed him to act like a degenerate cad? To be sure, she was pretty, with the most remarkable green eyes, and he'd noticed her trim figure clad in a plain gray pelisse
when she'd briskly approached the coach before getting on in London. But he'd met pretty young women before. He'd even seen several completely naked during his sojourn in the South Seas. Indeed, while he'd found her pretty, he'd had no trouble at all pretending to be asleep to spare himself any conversation before he really had fallen asleep.

If he hadn't, he might have started to wonder sooner why a woman who spoke with such a refined accent and had such a manner was travelling unaccompanied.

She could be a governess or upper servant, he supposed, going on a visit.

Whoever she was, he should be thoroughly ashamed of himself for kissing her—and he would have been, had that kiss not been the most amazing, exciting kiss he'd ever experienced.

“Look here, Martha, here's Lord Bromwell nearly done to death,” the innkeeper announced as he entered the taproom and addressed his wife, who was near the door to the kitchen. “The mail coach overturned.”

Mrs. Jenkins, round of face and broad of beam, gasped and bustled forward as if about to examine him for injuries.

“No one has been killed or seriously hurt, as far as I can determine,” Bromwell quickly informed her. “Your husband has already sent for the doctor and has offered replacement transportation.”

“Well, thank God nobody was badly hurt—and ain't I been sayin' for years them coaches were gettin' too old to be safe?” Mrs. Jenkins declared, coming to an abrupt halt and resting her fists on her hips. She frowned at them as if
they
were personally responsible for the mishap and had
the authority to correct everything and anything amiss with the delivery of the Royal Mail.

“Aye, Mother, you have,” her husband mournfully agreed, agreement being the best way to react to Mrs. Jenkins's pronouncements, as Bromwell had also learned over the years. “Have Sarah bring some wine to the blue room while Lord Bromwell cleans up a bit—the best, o' course. He'll need it.”

“There's clean water there already and fresh linen, my lord,” Mrs. Jenkins said briskly as she turned and disappeared into the back of the inn.

“She's right, though,” Jenkins said as he continued to lead the way, even though Bromwell was as familiar with this inn as he was with the ancestral hall. “Them coaches are a disgrace, that's what.”

Bromwell remained silent as they passed through the taproom, although several customers turned to stare at him and excited whispers followed in his wake.

It was not just because of the accident or his dishevelled appearance, for he heard them uttering his name and, as was all too usual, the words
shipwreck
and
cannibals
.

He was never going to get used to this sort of curious scrutiny and the agitation occasioned by his mere arrival in a room, he thought with an inward sigh. Although he was glad his book was a success and increasing interest in the natural world, it was at times like these that he longed for his former anonymity.

Had the young lady in the coach known or guessed who he was? Did that account for her heart-stopping, passionate response?

And if so, what should he do when he saw her again? How should he behave?

Jenkins opened the door to the best bedchamber.
“There's clean water in the pitcher, although it's cold, and linen there,” he said, nodding at the simple white china set and towels on the washing stand.

“Thank you, Jenkins.”

“Sing out if you need anything, my lord.”

“I shall,” Bromwell promised as the innkeeper left the room and closed the door.

The inn's best bedroom was small compared to his room at his father's estate or the London town house, but comfortable and snug under the eaves, with inexpensive, clean blue-and-white cotton draperies, linen and basin set. A colorful rag rug lay on the wooden floor that creaked with every move he made, as would the bed ropes if he lay down.

His friend Drury had complained about that when he'd stopped here on his way to spend some time at Christmas a few years ago, Bromwell recalled as he stripped off his mud-spattered jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

He could just imagine the stunned expressions on his friends' faces if he told them what he'd done today. Not shooting the unfortunate horse—they would expect no less—but that he, good old shy, studious Buggy Bromwell, had kissed a woman whose name he didn't know and whom he'd only just met. They'd probably be even more shocked if he confided that he wanted very much to do it again.

Several times, in fact.

Of course he knew it was man's nature to seek sexual gratification and he was not abnormal in this regard (as certain very willing young women in the South Seas could attest), but he had always behaved with due decorum in England.

Until today.

His equilibrium must have been disturbed by the accident, he decided as he splashed cool water over his face,
then picked up a towel and vigorously rubbed his face. Men could act very differently under duress, as he'd seen more than once on his last voyage. Some of the men who could be courageous on land had become whimpering and helpless during a storm at sea and the men he'd been sure would flee at the first sign of trouble had stayed and fought for their companions' safety.

“I've got yer wine, my lord,” Mrs. Jenkins declared behind the door, taking him out of his brown study or, as his father would say, “another of your damn daydreams.”

“Come in,” he called as he rolled down his wrinkled sleeves.

The woman entered the chamber with the force of a strong wind, a wineglass held out to him.

“It's a miracle and a mercy nobody was killed,” she declared, her buxom body quivering with indignation while Bromwell downed the excellent wine in a gulp. “I've been telling Jenkins for years some of them coaches weren't fit to be on the road. You ought to get your friend Drury to sue. He never loses, I hear.”

“Drury only handles criminal cases,” Bromwell replied as he set down the glass and picked up his jacket. “This was an accident, caused by a stray dog and Thompkins's decision not to run it over. I won't go to court over that.”

He put on the soiled jacket that his former valet would have wept to see. Not knowing how long he would be at sea, or if he would even return, he'd given Albert a well-earned reference and paid him an extra six months' salary before dismissing him. Since his return, he hadn't bothered to hire another, much to the dismay of Millstone, the butler at his father's London town house, even though Millstone had to admit Bromwell had learned to tie his cravat like
an expert, having spent several hours practicing when there was nothing else to do at sea.

What would Millstone make of this latest mishap? Probably he'd just sigh and shake his head and comment that some men led charmed lives, although his lordship really ought to buy a new carriage. He could certainly afford it.

So he could, if he wasn't planning another expedition.

If he told Millstone about kissing the young woman, the poor man would likely drop down in a faint, as shocked and surprised as his friends would be—as shocked and surprised as he had been when it finally dawned on him that he shouldn't be kissing a woman he'd only just met.

Perhaps, as his father complained, he'd been too long away from England.

“Are the horse and carriage ready?” he asked Mrs. Jenkins, who seemed rather keen to linger.

“They should be by now, my lord.”

“Good.” He looked out the window at the sky gray with thickening clouds. “If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Jenkins, I must be on my way.”

She smiled. “Always the perfect gentleman, my lord!”

Not always, he thought as he hurried past her.

Not always.

 

Bunching the cravat tighter in her hand, Nell glanced up at the sky. The gray clouds were definitely thickening, and moving closer.

“Never fear, lass,” the driver said, wincing as he shifted. “Lord Bromwell'll be back with help soon. That lad can ride like the wind.”

She gave the driver a smile, but her eyes must have betrayed that she wasn't completely reassured, for he patted
her hand as his eyes drifted closed. “I've known him since he was six years old. Might not look like it, but he's the finest horseman I've ever seen. Brave, too.”

“But not, perhaps, a competent mail coach driver?” she suggested, trying to keep Thompkins awake.

To her relief, he opened his brown eyes again. “Well, to be sure, that wasn't his finest hour, but he was only fifteen at the time.”

“Fifteen? He could have been seriously hurt, or even killed!”

The driver frowned. “Don't you think I knew that? O' course I refused the first time he asked, and lots o' times after that, but he wouldn't let up till I gave in. And he had his reasons all worked out, logical-like, beginning with his skill and how far he'd go—only a mile or so. But that wasn't why I finally gave in. I knew he wanted something to brag about when he got back to school, so his friends would think he was as good as they were—although he's worth the lot of them and always has been and I said so at the time. But he got this look in his eyes, and well, miss, I didn't have the heart to refuse him. We didn't have any passengers that day and if the road hadn't been so slick in that one place, it would have been all right.

“Should have seen him at the start,” Thompkins continued, grinning at the memory. “Like one of them Roman charioteers, standing up and working the reins like an old hand until we hit that slick spot and went into the ditch. But no damage to the coach and we was only a little late. Not that it made a mite of difference to his father, though, when he found out what'd happened.”