The Wild One (3 page)

Her sharp word jolted everyone into action.
Two men ran to the nervous coach horses, but another was already
leading a well-bred chestnut steed from out of the surrounding
darkness. "Here, take his instead, it's saddled and ready."

"I'll go!"

"No, let me, I insist!"

After a brief debate about who would do the
honors, someone swung up onto the tall hunter and the animal was
away, thundering off down the road.

And then the little group was alone. Both
Charlotte and the highwayman had finally quieted, and now there was
nothing but the soft rustle of the wind through the copper beeches,
the sound of rain pitter-pattering into the puddled ruts. It was
falling harder now, and two of the women stretched a coat over the
injured man, trying to protect his face from the wet as Juliet tore
another strip from her petticoats and bound it tightly around his
torso.

There was nothing to do but wait. In the
deep silence of the night none of the passengers spoke, each
remembering the shots, the highwaymen, the deaths — and this
unknown gentleman's selfless sacrifice. They gathered close to him,
protectively surrounding him, the rain falling softly in the grass
verge, the hedgerows, and the field of young wheat beyond.

"Oughtn't take more than ten, fifteen
minutes to bring back help," someone nervously murmured.

"Aye, fifteen at the most."

"Provided Hawkins finds a doctor, that
is..."

A small sound came from the injured man. He
was stirring again, groping for the wound in his side and trying to
gauge the extent of his injury. Juliet caught his hand, lacing her
bloodstained fingers through his. It was a smooth, elegant hand,
white as the lace that framed it, a gentleman's hand. Yet the skill
with which he had handled his pistol had been deadly.

He groaned, and his head moved on the wet
blanket. "Done for …oh, hell … the child…."

"Easy, there," Juliet murmured, smoothing
the hair back from his forehead. "Help is on the way." With her
other hand, she urgently beckoned the other mother forward. If
their noble rescuer was dying, before he left this earth Juliet
wanted him to see proof that he had indeed saved the boy.

"The child," he whispered, persistently. He
opened his eyes — long-lashed, beautifully shaped, romantic eyes
that looked oddly familiar — and looked dazedly about him. "Tell me
the little one is all right ..."

"He's fine and with his mother," Juliet said
softly, just as the man's searching gaze found the small boy,
huddled against his mother's skirt and staring at him with huge,
frightened eyes. Their savior smiled, at peace now, and Juliet did
not protest when he carried her hand to his face and laid it
against the angry red flesh of his cheek. "You saved his life," she
murmured. "You're a hero."

"Hardly. I was just … in the right place at
the right time, I think." His eyes closed, but nevertheless his
mouth remained curved in the faintest of satisfied smiles. He
turned his head so that his lips were in Juliet's palm. They moved
softly, sending wanton little thrills rushing unexpectedly down her
spine. "Heroes do not make bumbling … fools of themselves, as I
have done."

"I think we'd all beg to differ on
that
, sir," Juliet said firmly, and was joined by a hearty
chorus of agreement from those around them. "Can you tell us your
name? Where you live? Your family will be worried and must be
notified."

"My family won't —"

But his weak reply was lost beneath distant
shouts, laughter, and the sound of hoofbeats rushing down on them
from out of the night. Riders were coming from the south, and they
were coming fast.

"Hail them!" Juliet cried, raising her head
to stare down the still-empty road.

Suddenly, galloping horses burst into view,
their riders spurring them to reckless speeds in what was obviously
a race.

"
Stop!
" The grandfatherly passenger
ran forward, waving his arms. "We've an injured man here!"

"Whoa!" The nearest rider hauled on his
reins, sending his lathered horse skidding in the mud and rearing
in protest.
Whoa
!"

"What the devil's going on here —"

"Good God above!"

They were a group of carefree young
rakehells, all splendidly dressed, all riding neck or nothing, all
obviously in their cups to one degree or another. One by one they
leapt from their mounts and ran forward, eager to lend what
assistance they could.

"Bloody hell, it's Gareth!" cried the
nearest, the tail of his fine Ramillies wig bobbing as he fell to
his knees before the elegant gentleman. "What the devil happened to
you, man? 'Sdeath, I've never seen so much blood in my life!"

"Shot. And watch your language, Chilcot ...
there are women and children about."

"Bugger my language, Gareth, tell us what
happened!"

Juliet raised her head and looked this
Chilcot in the eye. He, like their injured savior, didn't look much
older than herself, but it was obvious that she had more sense than
the lot of these spirited young bucks combined. "Can't you see your
friend is in a bad way?" she admonished. "Pray, don't make him talk
any more than he has to. Now, if you must know what happened...."
She quickly told them about the highwaymen, the other passengers
adding pieces to the story.

One of the young scapegraces pulled a flask
of spirits from his coat, lifted his stricken friend's head, and
held the flask to his mouth. "You mean Gareth took a bullet meant
for one of the little ones?"

"He did indeed. He saved all of our
lives."

"Gareth?!"

"Don't look so surprised, Cokeham," the
tallest of the lot drawled, surveying the scene with a lordly gaze
and pulling out a snuff box. He took two pinches, then snapped the
lid shut with a casual flick of his fingers. "Hasn't he always been
the one to walk out of cockfights, rescue puppies, shun the use of
spurs? Don't just stand there gawking at him. Go get help.
Now!
"

"Oh, for God's sake, Perry," their fallen
friend murmured, obviously embarrassed. He tried to move, and
through his teeth, sucked in his breath on a gasp of pain. "Now,
help me up, would you? Somebody?"

He tried to sit up, but Juliet put a hand on
his chest. "You're staying right there, Mr. Gareth whoever-you-are,
until help arrives."

"Ooooh! Listen to the lady, Gareth! Plagued
with petticoats you are, and she isn't even your wife!"

Juliet, impatient and growing angry,
directed a glare toward the one who had spoken. "I assume you
boys
are his friends?"

He snickered. "We're the Den of
Debauchery."

Juliet looked at Perry, tall, lounging and
elegant — and the only one of the lot who seemed sober. "And you, I
assume, are its … leader?"

"No, ma'am." He sketched her a bow, then
indicated his friend beneath her restraining hand. "Gareth is."

"Well, then. Instead of standing around
making him miserable while he bleeds to death in the rain, why
don't you help us get him into the coach? Now that you're here and
must know where a doctor can be found,
you
can bring us
straight to help yourselves."

Perry's eyes widened, and his lazy insolence
vanished. He straightened up, looking with new respect at the
slight young woman with the twangy, unfamiliar accent who knelt
beside his friend. And then he gave a slow smile of acknowledgment
and touched his hat to her. "The lady is correct," he said, turning
to his companions. "Hugh, you ride for the doctor and have him meet
us at the castle. Cokeham, you stay here with these people and keep
them safe until we can send someone back for them. I will drive the
coach." His voice was grim. "We're taking Gareth to the duke."

"Now see here," the elderly man said
huffily, his face angry as he seized Perry's silk sleeve, "he
doesn't need a duke, he needs a damned doctor!"

But Perry merely smiled and arched a brow.
"What, don't you know who your noble rescuer is, then?"

Once again, the injured man tried to sit up.
"Perry — "

But Perry's eyes sparkled with private
amusement. He stretched out his arm, sweeping it down and forward
with a dramatic eloquence that caused his friend's eyes to flash
with impatience and anger. "May I present Lord Gareth de Montforte
… leader of the notorious Den of Debauchery, third son of the
fourth Duke of Blackheath, and black-sheep brother of Lucien, the
preseent and fifth duke." He straightened up. "Now, do have a care.
I
, for one, have no wish to be held accountable to His Grace
should anything happen to him."

Someone let out an exclamation of
disbelief.

Lord Gareth de Montforte cursed beneath his
breath.

And Juliet Paige went as white as the chalk
mud in which she stood.

Their gallant savior wasn't just the
duke's
brother.

He was Charles's brother, as well — and the
uncle of her baby daughter.

Chapter 3

As the passengers argued with Lord Gareth's
friends about where to bring him, Juliet got to her feet and walked
a short distance away, trying to regain her composure and hide the
shock that must've been written all over her face.

She ran her palms down her cheeks.
Dear
God. This man is Charles's brother. He looks so much like him … how
could I not have known?

Her back to the commotion behind her, she
drew several deep breaths, stared blankly into the darkness for a
moment, then shut her eyes in a silent prayer for strength. Finally
she rejoined the others, where she reclaimed Charlotte and
retrieved her miniature from the highwayman's leather bag. Perry
took her arm; at his insistence, she climbed into the coach to ride
along with Lord Gareth.

Wrapping Charlotte in a blanket, she wedged
herself into one corner of the small back seat, set the baby
beneath her elbow, and reached for the injured man as his friends
brought him in after her. Nobody noticed how her hands shook.
Nobody noticed how her entire
body
shook. They settled him
on her seat, positioning him so that his head and shoulders lay
cradled in her lap, his eyes, glazed with pain, gazing up at her.
And then the door was shut, Perry climbed up on the box, and the
coach shot past the worried faces beyond the window as Perry sent
the team off with a shout and a crack of the whip.

Charles's brother.

His weight was warm and heavy and solid. She
averted her gaze from his and found she could not speak.

Not yet.

And as the vehicle raced through the lonely
English night, Juliet leaned her cheek against the cold window and
let her thoughts drift back in time ... back to that cold winter
day in Boston when she'd first seen Captain Lord Charles de
Montforte.

He had been the stuff of a young woman's
dreams.

The memory was as near as if it had all
happened yesterday….

~~~~

She was minding the counter in her
stepfather's store, stuffing logs in the little stove; outside, the
cold morning air was as brittle as glass. The day was like any
other of late, with rinds of frost on the windowpanes and one or
two customers who still had any money left to spend walking up and
down the wide-planked aisles as they browsed the shelves. And then
she heard it: the steady rattle of musketry, brisk commands, the
ringing clatter of a horse's hooves over frozen, crusty
cobbles.

A flash of scarlet passed just outside.
Tossing the last log into the stove, Juliet rushed to the window
and, with the heel of her hand, cleared a spot in the frosty pane.
And there he was, sitting high atop his horse, his coattails
splayed over the animal's powerful brown haunches, his fair hair
queued with a black bow beneath his tricorn — a King's officer,
capable and dashing, reviewing his troops on Boston Common.

Her hand went to her suddenly fluttering
heart. She'd thought a handsome man in uniform was just that — a
handsome man in a uniform — but this one was different. His red
tunic stood out against the fresh snow like the plumage of a
cardinal, and even from a distance of some fifty feet she could see
that he was well-bred, untarnished, something special. Back as
straight as a steeple. White-gloved hands firm but gentle on the
reins. A man above squalor, above indecency, above common, everyday
things. From the elegance of his leather smallclothes to the sword
at his thigh, from the whiteness of his breeches to the glossy
mirror of his boots, he'd been a gentleman. A god. She couldn't
have cared less whether he was a soldier or a colonial. She
couldn't have cared less about anything. She had fallen in love.
Right then, and right there....

"Fancy that, the troops parading in our
common as though they own the place. Pompous asses! Despicable
louts!"

Old Widow Murdock, one of the customers in
the store that morning, saw immediately what had caught Juliet's
interest.

"Yes...."

"Juliet? I'd like a half-dozen eggs. Mind
you give me the brown ones, not the white this time. And no cracked
shells, ye hear? Juliet! Are you listening to me?
Juliet!
...."

~~~~

The coach hit a bump, jarring her rudely
back to the present. Juliet closed her eyes, desperately trying to
hold on to the memory, that sweet, sweet memory, but it faded back
into the murky arms of time and she was once again in England —
three thousand miles from home, from the memories, from a Boston
that was torn apart by war.

Three thousand miles from the grave in
Concord, where the single red rose she had left would long since
have been blown away by the wind.

Her throat suddenly ached and she stared off
into the night, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

And here he was, Charles's brother, faintly
familiar and thus already beloved, his very likeness to his dead
sibling resurrecting all those memories Juliet had locked up inside
herself, relegated to their proper place, since that horrible day
last April. He lay heavily across her lap, his head cradled in the
crook of her arm and his pale face just visible in the gloomy
shadows of the coach. She should have known, of course. They both
had the same romantic eyes, the same lazy smile, the same curve of
the cheek and cut of the mouth, the same height, same build, same
bearing. Only the hair color was different. Where Charles had been
a gilded blond, his younger brother's hair was a few shades darker.
It was probably tawny-brown, Juliet thought. Somewhat fair in
daylight. But not now.