The Viscount's Kiss (20 page)

For that brief instant, his hold relaxed. She pulled away and grabbed one of the heavy glass jars. He realized what she was going to do and knocked it from her hand. The jar shattered on the floor, spilling its contents.

Nell tried to rush past him to the door, but Sturmpole grabbed her shoulders and threw her toward the sofa. She slipped on the wet floor and fell hard on her knees. Ignoring the pain and broken glass, she scrambled to her feet, aiming for the table and the candleholder there.

Again he saw what she intended and stepped in front of her to block her.

She moved sideways and grabbed another jar. She threw it at him, hitting him on the shoulder. She grasped another and threw it, too, narrowly missing him but making him duck before it, too, shattered. Another hit the side of his face before breaking on the floor.

The air reeked of alcohol, her eyes watered and her lip still bled; nevertheless, Nell kept throwing jars of preserved spiders, aiming for Sturmpole's head or chest, making him keep his distance as she worked her way back toward the hearth and the cupboard where Justinian kept the cutlery, including all the knives.

I
t was breaking glass, Bromwell realized as he broke into a run along the wooded path. Breaking glass in the woods, where his lab was, and his spiders.

And Nell? God help him, was Nell there, too?

She hadn't been in the garden when he'd returned with the news of his father's unexpected generosity; he'd sought her out at once, while his father went to speak to his mother, as they'd decided in the carriage on their return from Bath. When he'd asked Fallingbrook where he could find Lady Eleanor, he'd said she'd gone out for a walk.

His heartbeat quickening at the louder and undeniable sounds of a struggle, Bromwell rushed into the building. He nearly slipped on the floor slick with alcohol and crushed specimens, and crunching with broken glass. A man he'd never seen before stood in front of Nell, who was by the hearth. Her lip was cut and bleeding, her gown torn and splattered with mud, and she held an upraised knife to protect herself from that lout who was obviously attacking her.

With a roar of pure animal rage, he launched himself at the attacker and tackled him to the ground, regardless of the broken glass. Straddling the man who did his best to buck him off, Bromwell got his hands around the brigand's throat and squeezed.

He was no chivalrous gentleman now. He was a primitive warrior prepared to kill to protect the woman he loved.

“Stop, stop!” Nell cried. “You'll kill him!”

The man's face was purple, his eyes bulging, as Nell's shouts brought Bromwell back to civilization—but only just. Spotting something lying on the ground amidst the ruin of his collection, he let go of the ruffian's throat with one hand and reached for it.

“This is a blow dart coated in the venom of a
Phoneutria nigriventer
, the most lethal spider yet discovered,” he said, his voice hoarse with his barely suppressed rage. “I have only to break your skin with it to see you die in agony or, if you do not die, be painfully rendered impotent for life—a more fitting punishment, perhaps, for the likes of you.”

Drawing in great rasping breaths, his eyes wide with terror, the man finally went still.

“Do you know who is this, Nell?” Bromwell demanded, glancing sharply at her.

Her face was palely aghast, the knife still clutched in her trembling hand. “Sturmpole,” she breathlessly replied.

Bromwell moved the dart a little closer to Sturmpole's mottled skin.

“He came upon me in the woods,” she continued. “He…he wanted me to….”

“I can guess what he wanted,” Bromwell said, his voice slightly calmer, although he was even more tempted to put an end to this rogue's life. Or at least prick him with the dart so priapism would set in. “He's going to be arrested and charged with attempted murder.”

“I wasn't trying to kill her!” Sturmpole protested, spittle on his lips.

“Whatever you were trying to do, you struck her and could have killed her. The evidence is there on her face. And there's the attempted rape at Staynesborough. You had better reconcile yourself to a long stay in a cold, damp prison, my lord.”

Still holding the dart near Sturmpole's neck, Bromwell got up and pulled him to his feet. “Nell, perhaps you'd be so good as to tie his hands with that length of rope near the door. Be careful. The floor is slippery.” He scowled at the nobleman, who kept his frightened, sidelong glance on the dart. “I'm going to charge you with destruction of property, too.”

“I'm sorry about your specimens, Justinian,” Nell said as she took hold of Sturmpole's hands to tie them. “I threw the jars at him to keep him away.”

“Then the specimens are well lost,” Bromwell replied, not regretting their destruction if it had helped her. “Nell, you hold the dart while I tie the knot. All those hours at sea have made me quite proficient in that art.”

Nell did as he asked, gingerly taking hold of the weapon.

“It's not really poison,” he said, his ire once more under control, and giving her the ghost of a smile when he saw her expression. “The only danger is its sharp point—which I would gladly have shoved into his neck,” he finished truthfully, “if he'd succeeded in his disgusting quest.”

Sturmpole emitted a moan, which Bromwell ignored as he started to frog march his prisoner outside. He halted when Drury appeared on the threshold.

The attorney couldn't have looked more surprised if he'd been told Nell was the Queen of England. “Good God, what's happened?”

“This oaf attacked Nell. I want him arrested and charged with attempted murder.”

Drury's shock was swiftly mastered, replaced with his usual cool composure. “Of course.”

Drury started to come inside, then realized what was on the floor. “Bring him here and I'll take him back to the hall.” He turned to address Juliette, who had arrived behind him. “Juliette, would you help Miss Springley?”

“I'll do that,” Bromwell said at once while wiping his hands on his trousers. Miraculously, he wasn't badly cut. “Juliette, perhaps you wouldn't mind going ahead and alerting the servants that we'll require assistance? And the apothecary should be sent for.”

Juliette immediately hurried away, while Drury took charge of the damp, scowling Sturmpole, holding him firmly by the arm.

“Don't get any ideas about trying to get away, my lord,” Drury said as he pulled him out the door. “My hands may not look strong, but I assure you, I am quite capable of incapacitating you and that prospect is far from disturbing.”

When they were gone, Bromwell closed the door, went to Nell and took her in his arms.

“If you hadn't come…” she murmured, leaning against him.

He held her close, all too aware of what might have happened. “I'm so sorry I wasn't here sooner.”

“You came before it was too late,” she said, choking back her tears. “I was so afraid!”

“But not too frightened to defend yourself—and very well, too,” he said, stroking her damp, matted hair, cherishing her, relieved beyond measure that she was safe. “You truly are the most remarkable woman.”

Her body began to tremble, a natural reaction to the attack and the shock and the vital energy she'd summoned to fight Sturmpole off.

“We had best get you to the hall and see to that cut. Have you any others?”

“I don't think so…but Justinian, I've destroyed your collection!”

“Never mind that,” he said, truly not caring as long as she was safe. “I'll get others. My father's agreed to fund the rest of my expedition—and I suspect his change of heart is due to a most remarkable young woman who championed me.”

“Oh, Justinian!” she cried. “That's wonderful!”

And then she began to sob in earnest. Loving her, adoring her, cherishing her, he gathered her up in his arms to carry her to the hall, holding her close to his heart.

Where she belonged.

Where she would always belong.

 

Justinian carried Nell back to the hall and up to her bedroom, calling for the servants as he went and issuing
orders like the aristocrat he was. She was too exhausted to protest, although he must be tired, and she didn't care what the servants thought. Dena came rushing up the stairs after them, all but ordering Justinian to let her take care of her.

Bromwell didn't stop until he set her gently on the bed. Ignoring the anxiously hovering Dena, he quickly looked at Nell's bruised, cut hands and even lifted her alcohol-scented, muddy skirts to look at her knees.

“I'll have to clean these abrasions later,” he said, turning her hands over and kissing the back of them. “Fortunately, they aren't deep and there's no glass embedded that I can see. I'll use my magnifying glass to be certain, though.”

“My lord, leave her to me,” Dena said. “I'll look after her. She needs a bath and a hot cup of tea and some clean clothes. You can tend to her wounds later.”

“I shall,” he promised as he stepped back and Dena quickly ordered another maid waiting by the door to bring a bath and plenty of hot water.

“I'm going to make sure Sturmpole's under lock and key,” he said, “then I'll return.”

His pointed gaze silenced whatever protests Nell or Dena might have made.

 

When he was gone, Nell wrapped her arms around herself. He was going to leave her soon, for much longer. Now he would have even more reason to go, because she'd destroyed his collection.

“Let me help you out of those clothes,” Dena said. “We'll get you washed and then you'll feel better.”

Having no strength to refuse, Nell silently submitted until she was naked beneath a dressing gown and the bath
was ready by the hearth. Another maid had carried in enough clean linen for the entire household, some of which now cushioned the tub, and Mrs. Fallingbrook herself had brought in two pitchers of water for rinsing her hair.

At Nell's request, only Dena still remained to help her.

“Thank you, Dena,” she said wearily, more tired than she'd ever been in her life.

She let the robe fall and stepped gingerly into the bath. Her knees were bruised, and she smelled terrible, of alcohol and blood and sweat, so she was glad of the chance to get clean. With a sigh, she laid her head upon her knees.

How close she had come to what she'd prevented before! What might have happened if Justinian hadn't arrived when he did and her strength was failing?

“You may leave, Dena.”

Nell's eyes flew open at the sound of Justinian's voice. He was standing by the door, looking marvellous and healthy, slightly damp hair brushing his shirt collar. Although she was happy to see him, she could unfortunately guess what Dena would make of this.

Yet she didn't ask him to go, or Dena to stay. Instead she watched as he closed the door behind the reluctantly departing maid and started toward the bath.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“Now that my hero is here.”

He stopped a few feet away. “You're going to give me an exaggerated sense of my own worth using such terms.”

“Impossible,” she replied.

He once again began to approach the tub.

“You might wish to reconsider,” she warned, although her heartbeat quickened and that familiar yearning invaded her body. “I smell terrible.”

“I'm quite used to the smell of that particular type of alcohol,” he said. “It's like perfume to me.”

Every ache caused by the attack began to diminish, while another sort grew. Well aware that he was watching her with the same intensity with which he studied his spiders, she reached for the lump of lavender-scented soap on the stool Dena had set nearby for that purpose, moving with slow deliberation. The warm water washed over her breasts and droplets fell from her outstretched arm. “I should wash my hair. Would you like to help?”

Justinian was immediately beside the tub, stripping off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. “I hope your knees aren't too sore,” he said as his gaze swept over her.

“Only a little,” she said, looking up at him and smiling at the thought that if the tub were larger, he could join her.

He paused as he finished rolling up the second sleeve. “What are you thinking about with that devilishly sly look on your face?”

“That is for me to know, my lord, but I will say that it involves a tub. A larger one.”

His eyes widened, making him look delightfully shy. “I see.”

He knelt beside the tub. “Unfortunately, we shall have to make do with this,” he said as he began to unpin her hair.

“Bend over, please,” he said when he was done, reaching for the pitcher that was on the towel-covered floor beside the tub.

She did, gripping the sides of the tub, then gave a little yelp as cool water cascaded over her head.

“I'm sorry,” he said as he began to soap her hair, massaging her scalp with his long slender fingers. “The other pitcher is likely to be just as cold.”

“It's all right, as long as my hair gets clean,” she said, leaning back with a sigh. She would put up with worse than that to have him wash her hair.

After what seemed a very little while, he picked up the other pitcher to rinse her hair. “Brace yourself,” he warned before the cold water descended this time.

Spluttering and shivering, she put out her arm. “Towel, please.”

He gave it to her, kissing her hand as he did. Smiling, she swiftly dried her face and rubbed her hair, then wrapped her head in the towel.

“You look nice in a turban,” he remarked when she was finished. “But then, I'd think you looked nice in anything…and especially in nothing.”

The water in the tub was much cooler; nevertheless, her body warmed. “Perhaps you should leave and let me finish my toilette in peace, before I do something that will really make the servants talk.”

“That sounds promising,” he remarked as he got to his feet and held open a large towel. “What did you have in mind?”