And The Widow Wore Scarlet: Scandalous Sons - Book 1

by Clee, Adele

  He pressed his lips to the silvery line—knew no man had ever kissed her there. Her skin felt warm against his mouth, tasted sweet, surprisingly innocent. Desire burst through his body with the fierceness of a lit firework. He did have a heart, for the damn thing pounded hard against his ribs.

  “And what point is that?”

  “That you’re the only man with the power to unnerve me.”

  He looked up and cast a sinful grin. “And perhaps the only man you want to bring you pleasure.”

  His hand settled on her hip, snaked around her back to draw her into an embrace. When his mouth brushed hers, she did not pull away.

  The brief kiss amounted to nothing more than the soft touch of his lips, yet the sensation tugged at the muscles in his abdomen, sent a rush of blood surging to his cock. He broke contact, stared at the plump bottom lip he wanted to suck and nip, wanted to feel gliding up and down the solid length of his shaft.

  The second kiss might have been just as gentle had the widow not shocked him by tugging his cravat and dragging his mouth to hers.

  Passion exploded—wild and fierce.

  Nerves appeared to have abandoned her, replaced by uncontrollable need. She was the one who coaxed his lips apart. It was her tongue that delved deep into his mouth in a wanton frenzy. Desperate hands clawed at his waistcoat as if keen to strip him bare.

  Their pleasurable moans filled the night air.

  A hunger like nothing he’d felt before raged in his veins.

  Damian clasped her buttocks, met every delicious stroke of her tongue.

  God, he’d lost count of the times he’d imagined this. For once, the reality proved far more satisfying than the dream.

  In the distance, the bell rang to announce the cascade. While everyone raced to witness the artificial waterfall scene, he was about to press the widow against a tree trunk, lift her skirts and bury himself to the hilt.

  Only, the last strike of the bell sounded closer, more like a gunshot than a clang. The acrid smell of sulphur bombarded his nostrils just as the searing pain ripped through his arm.

  “Hellfire!” he cried as he tore his mouth away.

  “Wh-what is it?”

  Shock made him drop to his knees. He pressed his hand to his arm, pulled it away to see naught but scarlet-red blood. “Some devil shot me.”

  Chapter Ten

  It took a few seconds for Wycliff’s words to penetrate Scarlett’s fevered brain. She had heard the shot but was so engrossed in the feel of his hot mouth, had cast it off as part of the night’s entertainment.

  “Shot you?” Panic choked her throat. Anticipating another imminent attack, Scarlett’s head whipped left and right as she glanced the length of the avenue but saw no one. “Where?” The crimson blood covering his hand sent a bolt of fear straight to her heart. She dropped to her knees, too. With trembling fingers, she touched his coat and waistcoat but found no sign of an entry wound.

  “The ball nicked my arm. The blackguard must have crept upon us, fired through the gap in the damn trees.”

  Judging from the amount of blood on his hand, it was more than a nick. “I need to get you out of that coat, need to examine the wound.”

  “Pay it no heed.” He squeezed his eyes shut and winced in pain. “Help me to the coach park without drawing undue attention. Cutler will know what to do.”

  How was it he remained so calm?

  “And how am I supposed to do that when your hand is dripping with blood?” The sight reminded her of the night she found him slumped in the alley, though he appeared far more coherent now. That night, she’d feared he would die.

  “You’ll find a handkerchief in my pocket.” He muttered a frustrated curse. “I swear I shall drive a blade through the heart of the man who did this.” He gestured for her to help him to his feet.

  Scarlett grabbed his clean hand and hauled him up. With no time to rummage around in his coat, she used the lining of her pelisse to wipe away the blood. Then she quickly shrugged into the garment and assisted him back along the Walk and through the arch.

  “When Trent and Cavanagh see us heading towards the Grove, they’re sure to follow.” He took hold of her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. “Try to make it look as if you’re leaning on me not the other way around.”

  “If we swagger people will believe we’re in our cups. Do you feel lightheaded, nauseous?”

  He snorted. “I am not about to vomit on your shoes if that is your fear.”

  “I should hope not. You failed to reimburse me for the last pair.”

  “You had enough money from the sale of the cross to buy ten pairs of boots.”

  He sagged against her and Scarlett stiffened her spine to support his weight. “When one is a month behind on their rent,” she said, “new boots are rather low on the list of priorities.”

  “You could have sold your books.”

  Sell her beloved books?

  “Each one carried an inscription from my mother.” Sweet messages of love. The only kind she had ever known. “Nothing would have prompted me to part with something so precious.”

  The heaviness in her heart returned.

  “Don’t I feel like the heartless rogue,” he said, steering her far enough into the Handel Piazza for his friends to notice their return. “I thrust my mother’s necklace into your hand when a few pounds would have sufficed.”

  He pasted an arrogant grin for the benefit of those still seated in the supper boxes, though the crinkles around his eyes told a different story. Surrounded by a large group of admirers, the marquis still occupied his box, but Lady Rathbone and her grandson had vacated their booth.

  Mr Trent and Mr Cavanagh observed them with keen interest as they approached the Grove. Obscured by a few trees, Wycliff stopped and exhaled a weary sigh before straightening his shoulders and pressing on.

  “A minute ago, when you spoke about your books,” he said, leaning some of his weight on her again, “you used the past tense. It implies you no longer possess these treasures.”

  “No,” she said, fighting back the sudden urge to cry. “Steele made a bonfire and forced me to watch them burn.” He had pushed her face so close to the fire, the flames had singed her hair, scorched her cheeks.

  Silence descended.

  At her side, Wycliff’s body grew rigid. “God, how I wish I’d been the one to snuff out his light. I fear the need to eradicate the man’s bloodline thrums in my veins.”

  “There is little point dwelling on what was.” From her experience that only made living unbearable. “It changes nothing.”

  “No,” he said with a sigh as they navigated the Grand Walk back towards the entrance. “I’m sure you don’t need to read words in a book to know your mother loved you.” His voice lacked the usual air of confidence.

  “You’re right. True love lives forever in the heart.” Scarlett cast him a sidelong glance, shock banishing her sadness when she noted his pallid complexion. “You’re not well.” Heavens, she had been rambling on about books while his strength waned. “We must hurry. We must get you home and send for a doctor.” She quickened the pace, aware that his steps grew cumbersome, that he was in danger of tripping over his feet.

  “Home,” he mumbled. His body shook as if the cold had penetrated his bones. “I’m so tired … so tired I could sleep where I’m standing.”

  A wealth of emotion pushed to the fore.

  “Oh, please don’t die on me now.” Not after she had found a way back to him. Not after that bone-shattering kiss. If her mind wasn’t occupied with more pressing matters, she would replay every delicious second.

  Wycliff stumbled, and Scarlett caught him by the elbow. The few people passing turned their heads, pointed and chuckled at the lady struggling to help the sotted gent.

  They managed to reach the lane leading to the coach park, had walked a few feet when Wycliff closed his eyes, and his head lolled forward.

  “Wycliff.” Scarlett nudged him, but his knees buckled, and he
dropped to the ground. Hot tears sprang to her eyes. “Wake up. We’re nearly there. I see the carriage.” It was a lie. In the dark field the vehicles were packed as tightly as fish in a monger’s cart. “Alcock!” She had no choice but to cry out. “Alcock!”

  Oh, where was the woman when she needed her?

  Footsteps pounded the ground.

  “Alcock!” she shouted again, but it was Mr Cavanagh and Mr Trent who happened upon them.

  “What the devil’s wrong with him?” Mr Trent barked, his voice carrying an accusatory tone.

  Scarlett gulped for breath. “He’s been shot, shot in the arm.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. It had been some time since she had licked her lips and tasted the salty dew of her pain. “The fiend crept up on us, fired through the trees.”

  Mr Cavanagh dropped to his knees. He touched Wycliff’s sleeve, cursed at the sight of blood on his fingers. “I’ll race ahead and find Cutler. Can you carry him, Trent?”

  Mr Trent raised a brow. Without a word, he scooped Wycliff up as if he were as light as a child and hauled him over his broad shoulder.

  Mr Cavanagh cast her a look filled with pity. “Fear not. Wycliff has nine lives and has used but six. Cutler knows what to do.”

  Scarlett forced a smile. “Please hurry.”

  Together, they raced through the field. Cutler—clearly aware that his master was prone to reckless behaviour and knew to be on his guard—bounded towards them with Alcock in tow.

  “What is it this time?” Cutler did not look the least bit panicked, yet Scarlett felt sick to her stomach. “Knife wound? Mass brawl? It would take more than one man to put him on his arse.”

  “Shot to the arm,” Mr Cavanagh said, unperturbed. “Based on the amount of blood, I imagine you’ll need to remove the ball and stitch the wound.”

  Cutler nodded and ushered them all towards the carriage.

  “He’ll not die, milady,” Alcock said as she walked at Scarlett’s side. “Death takes the good ones. The devil protects his own.”

  Had they been alone, Scarlett would have chastised her servant, corrected her misconception. For all his bitterness and bravado, Wycliff was ironically dependable. In his company, she felt safe—something she had not experienced since before her mother’s death.

  “Alcock, you more than anyone should know that outer appearances bear no true reflection on a person’s character.” Try as she might, Scarlett could not hold her tongue.

  Upon hearing her comment, Mr Cavanagh glanced back over his shoulder and grinned. His angelic good looks masked a sinful devil. Of that, she was in no doubt.

  Upon witnessing their approach, the groom scampered from his perch and opened the carriage door.

  “Climb inside, Lady Steele,” Mr Trent demanded in his usual assertive manner.

  Scarlett did as he asked and settled into the seat.

  “Wake up, Wycliff.” Mr Trent slapped his injured friend on the back, and Mr Cavanagh hurried around to the opposite door. With one man at Wycliff’s head and the other at his feet, they managed to lie him down on the seat occupied by Scarlett.

  “Your lap will act as a cushion,” Mr Trent said, though showed no sign of amusement. “I’m sure Wycliff would rather gaze upon your face when Cutler is sewing his wound.”

  Cutler barked orders to Alcock, instructed her to take the reins—much to his chagrin—to keep the vehicle steady and drive them to Bruton Street.

  “Bruton Street?” Scarlett said, almost to herself. Numerous attempts to discover Mr Wycliff’s address had come to naught. “How is it no one knows he has a house in such a prominent place in town?”

  “Wycliff owns several prestigious houses though he prefers not to live in any of them.” Mr Trent climbed inside the carriage and dropped into the seat opposite. “He rents the house in Bruton Street. A short-term tenancy.”

  How odd.

  “Is that because he prefers to spend time abroad?”

  Mr Trent eyed her suspiciously. “You will have to ask him.”

  Cutler climbed into the conveyance. While he was not as broad or as tall as Mr Trent, it was impossible not to feel cramped. Thankfully, Mr Cavanagh took a hackney to the doctor’s house to ferry him to Bruton Street.

  While Alcock took the reins and directed them through town, Cutler removed scissors from a leather bag in the cupboard underneath the seat. He cut the sleeve of Wycliff’s coat and that of the black linen shirt that made him look like Satan’s servant.

  Feeling somewhat useless, Scarlett brushed the errant lock of ebony hair from Wycliff’s brow. His skin was as cold and as damp as the night she had rescued him in the alley. As he slept, he looked just as handsome, just as peaceful. She remembered the hours spent sitting at his bedside, enthralled by the rise and fall of his chest, by the long dark lashes fanning his cheeks.

  Cutler’s mumbled groan drew her out of her reverie.

  The coachman handed her a brown bottle to hold while he opened a wooden box of implements and then set about cleaning the wound with alcohol and a swab.

  Mr Trent placed his hat on the seat and shrugged out of his coat. “From the way Wycliff held his arm, I assume the ball missed the bone, and there is no fracture.”

  “Aye, there’s no permanent damage. Hand me the small knife and tweezers.”

  Scarlett glanced at the surgical set in the box, relieved the coachman hadn’t asked for the saw. To calm her fears, she cupped Wycliff’s cheek and said a silent prayer until Cutler instructed her to pour the liquid out of the bottle onto the implements and then over the wound in Wycliff’s upper arm.

  Wycliff jerked awake as soon as the liquid touched the damaged skin and torn tissue. He writhed and cursed the devil.

  “Hold him still, milady. Talk to him,” Cutler cried as he prodded and poked Wycliff’s arm with his ghastly tools. “Help her out, sir.”

  Mr Trent knelt on the carriage floor and held his friend’s legs still with his large hands.

  Wycliff groaned.

  Pain distorted his features as Cutler dug into his flesh.

  Scarlett cupped his cheek firmly and forced him to look at her. “Do you remember when I helped you into the lodging-house and had to rip open your breeches?”

  He did not answer though his breathing settled a little.

  “I shall never forget the look on your face when I jabbed you with the needle.” She would never forget the wild thump of her heart against her ribs. “When you swooned, I thought you’d died.”

  Beneath heavy lids, his dark eyes focused on her face. “You … you’ll not get rid of me … so easily.”

  “No,” she said, forcing a smile. “I cared for you then, and I shall care for you now. At least until you have made a full recovery.”

  “No broth,” Wycliff said with a weak snort.

  “No, I wouldn’t dream of punishing you with the foul concoction again.”

  Wycliff closed his eyes, and she continued stroking his face, running her fingers through his hair. All the time, she was aware of Cutler dropping the ball into the surgical box, of him pulling the thread through skin, of Mr Trent’s intense gaze as he watched her comfort his friend.

  “Reckon the ball’s from a muff pistol,” Cutler said as he packed away the implements while Mr Trent returned to the opposite seat. “From the size of the wound, I’d say the shot came from a distance of more than twenty feet, and from an inexperienced hand.”

  “A muff pistol?” Scarlett had considered purchasing one herself. “You mean the shooter was a woman?” And to think she presumed Jemima lacked the courage to commit a crime.

  “Now I didn’t say that. In a place like Vauxhall, a man would find it easier to hide a smaller weapon.”

  Guilt flared.

  “This is all my fault.” Scarlett sucked in a breath as tears burned her eyes. “No doubt I was the intended victim.”

  “You don’t know that.” Mr Trent’s tone lacked the powerful punch usually delivered. He paused, arched a brow at Cutler, who had finished ban
daging Wycliff’s arm and had stored the leather bag beneath the seat.

  Understanding the silent message Cutler rapped on the roof, and the carriage rumbled to a stop. “If we plan on making it to Bruton Street tonight, I’d best rescue the reins from that woman.” He exited the carriage and closed the door.

  Mr Trent remained silent until both drivers finished exchanging quips and the carriage wheels were rolling again.

  “Wycliff has his enemies,” the gentleman said, “and the marquis is often keen to make a point.”

  Shocked at the suggestion the marquis might be to blame, she said, “What sort of father shoots his own son?”

  “One determined to get his way.”

  Scarlett shook her head. “I am more inclined to believe it was another bungled attempt on my life.”

  Mr Trent shrugged. “Either way, it will be impossible to prove.”

  “Then I shall b-beat every suspect until I gain a confession,” came Wycliff’s weak reply.

  “There is no need to concern yourself with that now.” Scarlett placed a comforting hand on his chest. “You’ll likely catch a fever and must rest for the next few days, at least.”

  “Then g-give me an incentive to remain abed, else I shall be on my feet come the morning.”

  Hearing a hint of his suggestive banter eased her anxiety, until he breathed a pained sigh and closed his eyes.

  “He will be all right, won’t he?” she whispered. “Tell me you’ve seen him in worse states.”

  Tell me this is not all my fault.

  “Much worse,” Mr Trent confirmed.

  “So why is there a solemn edge to your tone?”

  The man frowned at her directness. “It has nothing to do with my concerns for Wycliff and everything to do with a private matter.”

  “Oh.” Heat crept up her cheeks. “Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.”

  A tense silence descended.

  Mr Trent stared out into the night for a while before saying, “Do you ever visit your husband’s grave?”

  The odd and somewhat startling question gave her pause. “No, but if I did, it would be to dance and sing and give praise. I suffered greatly at his hands, Mr Trent, and can only celebrate his passing.”