In the morning, the outrider Smythe had sent ahead to Hastings arrived back at the inn and advised Smythe that the roads were still impassible. The sun shined brightly, hopefully soaking up the extensive puddles so they could leave in the afternoon. Which they did.
At three, Smythe went to the barn and assisted the driver and outriders in readying the coach for the five hours they had left to travel. The innkeeper’s wife supplied food enough for their travels, and he stored the large basket inside the boot. He’d skipped the midday meal, and his stomach growled at the divine smells coming from the basket.
Just then he heard voices and his eyes were riveted on Mary. Her dark green traveling clothes hugged her lush figure and made her eyes look more green than her normal blue. Her light hair was tucked up inside a small hat, and he’d dreamed of it often enough that he could envision the silky strands running through his fingers and tickling his naked chest.
Before he realized what he intended to do, he swept past the driver, opened the coach door, dropped down the steps, and helped first Lady Violet, then Miss Elizabeth inside. When it came to Mary, their eyes locked as their gloved hands connected. A shy smile crossed her lips then she lowered her lashes and disappeared inside the coach. All safe and sound from his wicked thoughts. Once again he realized how doomed his life was.
He expected them to arrive at Cliff House by nightfall if they didn’t make many stops or encounter washed out roads. The weather turned as they progressed toward Hastings. Gray skies threatened and wind howled, forcing Robert to pull the brim of his hat down low and the collar of his riding jacket up. He prayed they didn’t ride into a storm again, and the weather improved soon. However, light fog rolled in and they were forced to slow the horses. They couldn’t risk an accident, not with the roads muddy and large puddles still here and there.
Regrettably, they did ride into a storm, not the one Robert thought, but the one he was hired to avoid. Highwaymen. Horses’ hooves off in the distance, getting closer by the second, pounded inside Robert’s ears. Four horses to be exact. Before they saw him he kicked his horse and entered the surrounding woods. He should’ve been more alert and not been daydreaming about Mary. If his lack of attention caused anyone to be hurt, or worse, he would never forgive himself.
Four men with bandanas covering the lower half of their faces approached with guns drawn. Two on each side of the coach. Their speed and horses, not to mention the muddy road, were no match for the coach so the driver didn’t even try to outrun them.
The riders didn’t see Robert yet. He knew he had seconds to act. As the reins were taken from the driver and the carriage wheels came to a sudden stop he heard what sounded like Violet scream. He had to detach himself from the scene and the people, especially Mary, and go into protector mode.
Before the men had a chance to get the women out of the coach, he picked off the closet to the door with his riffle. No time to reload, he withdrew both pistols from his gun belt and started shooting just as bullets flew toward him. One grazed his shoulder, he ignored it. Better him than anyone else in their riding party. The outriders were both armed and shot back as well.
After what seemed like hours, but in reality only seconds went by, two men rode off into the forest leaving two men dead on the ground, their horses having followed the men into the woods.
As the door to the coach started to open Robert yelled, “Stay inside and whatever you do, don’t look outside.”
The two outriders and Robert dragged the dead men into the woods and left them. He made a mental note of what the other men looked like and what type of mounts they rode. Once in Hastings he would send word to his office, and with any luck the offenders would be captured before they attacked anyone else. His body shuttered. He’d been lucky. If he hadn’t had time to hide in the edge of the forest, God only knew what would’ve happened. Most likely they were looking for coin and jewels. But highwaymen had been known to kidnap and rape. His insides coiled up tight, and he felt sick knowing it would have been his fault.
He dismounted, ignoring the fiery pain radiating from his shoulder and down his entire right side. It was a damn good thing he could shoot equally well with both hands. He opened the door and stepped inside the coach to assure himself all were unharmed and safe and to appease his run-a-way heart, which had lodged itself inside his throat. He made his apologizes as he sat next to Violet. He was too bloody tall to stand inside the coach. His eyes found Mary first, wide-eyed with fright, which tortured his insides even more.
“They are gone. I don’t expect any more trouble. Please stay inside, and we will get you safely to Cliff House by nightfall.”
“Mr. Smythe,” Miss Elizabeth interrupted. “You are bleeding.”
“Yes, I know. A bullet grazed my shoulder.”
“No. I mean your side.”
His hand went to his side and sure enough it made contact with warm blood. He’d felt when the bullet hit his shoulder, but not that one.
“Please stay seated and let me bandage your wound,” Mary said, looking pale and unsteady.
Elizabeth banged on the trapdoor to get the attention of the driver. He lifted it up. “Please tie Mr. Smythe’s horse to the carriage, he has been wounded, and then get us to Cliff House as fast as you can.
“Only need a bandage and I can go back to my horse. I need to keep watch in case...”
Violet cried out, “I thought you said we shouldn’t have any more trouble.”
Damn, he should’ve kept his mouth shut. “It’s just a precaution.” He could tell neither of the three believed him. But hell, he didn’t expect them to come back. Robbers liked easy conquests. Not ones where they were shot at and killed.
Robert found himself at the mercy of the three ladies instead of the other way around. Mary assisted him in removing his riding jacket and waistcoat. In his dreams this was not how it happened.
Now what? Were they honestly going to remove his shirt? Which he had to admit had two large stains of blood, one spreading more rapidly than the other.
“Mr. Smythe,” Mary began, “I realize this is most improper, but your shirt must be removed so I may see the extent of your injuries and to bind them up.” As she finished speaking she rummaged through a bag and pulled out a lady’s undergarment.
Bloody bugger, she planned to bind his wounds with her unmentionables. If he wasn’t already in pain from two gunshot wounds, he’d be in pain somewhere else. Mr. Spencer was going to have his hide for this. He tried to keep his shirt on, but he was no match against three stubborn ladies. Several hands tried to help him with his shirt and he pushed them away. “I can do it myself.” He grumbled.
He loosened the top of his shirt and used his good arm to pull it over his head. He tried not to hiss, however, his shirt clung to his injuries and removing it hurt like hell. Once he managed to remove it, he inhaled and exhaled several times as he sat back—only to spring forward in agony, shutting his eyes against the pain and sudden spots invading his vision. It would be a cold day in hell before he passed out in front of Mary. Speaking of Mary, her soothing, concerned voice reached out to him.
“May I inspect your wounds?”
It brought back memories of the night she watched over him. A night which changed the trajectory of his life forever.
“Yes,” he answered. He kept his eyes closed and concentrated on her gentle hands using a cloth to wipe away the blood and not the pain burning inside his body.
“Your shoulder looks good. The bullet did only nick it. I’m still going to bandage it though.” Tender, loving hands and a calming voice apologized if she hurt him in anyway, lulled him away from his pain.
“Your side is bleeding quite profusely. I can’t tell if the bullet is still inside you or not...oh...the scar from your knife wound healed nicely though.” The two other occupants of the carriage gasped. Mary ignored them.
“Let me,” he said as he sucked in air, leaned forward and felt around his back. Lucky for him he found the exit wound. With an
y luck it didn’t hit any vital organs. If it did things wouldn’t turn out well for him. Or the ladies, as he’d be dead within the hour.
“The bullet’s out. Wrap me up please. I’ll be fine.” His eyes opened and his jaw dropped. Mary, lovely Mary had tears in her soft blue eyes. Never did he think she looked more beautiful.
WHEN THE HORRIBLE MEN had stopped their coach and yelled orders for the driver to stop, Mary watched Violet closely, expecting her to faint. One really could not blame her after her husband, Mr. Baker, absconded with her then did unspeakable things to her. Somehow she’d managed to remain calm, except for one loud scream.
When Smythe entered the carriage and Mary’s eyes fell on the blood seeping across his waistcoat and shirt, she’d almost fainted. She’d dug her nails into the palms of her hands to keep her mind clear. The poor man got shot twice protecting them. The thought of him dying had her heart in tatters. It would not come to fruition. She would not let him die. Even if nothing ever came of the feelings she possessed for him, she still wouldn’t let him die.
As she helped him strip off his clothes, her face burned with embarrassment at seeing his muscular chest sprinkled with brown hair. Her virgin eyes had never seen such a sight. Not even when she’d nursed him after he received a stab wound. He’d been clothed in a nightshirt. All she’d done was help him fight the infection and fever.
She’d never even seen her brother without a shirt on. If it wasn’t for the blood marring his chest and shoulder and the bullet wounds, she may have looked her fill. Instead, she did all she could to stop the blood, save his life, and make him comfortable. All three proved difficult in a fast moving carriage on rutted, muddy country roads.
London would be a far worse place without the famed Bow Street Runner keeping the streets safe. Or at the very least, trying to keep them safe. One man could only do so much when an army was needed.
Chapter Two
Knowing Elizabeth would be arriving at any time, Edward Worthington, Marquess of Amesbury, paced back and force in the green drawing room. Horrible scenarios raced through his over-imaginative mind. He couldn’t conceive what was keeping them. Except he could and none of the imagines were good. Two outriders, one driver, and Smythe should keep them safe. Smythe would keep them safe. The man never let any of them in their circle of friends down. Not that Edward had ever personally hired the runner, but he’d seen him in action aplenty. If his family still lived he’d trust Smythe with their lives. Damn, thinking of his parents and sister still caused his heart to break each and every time, which was less often these days, and that made him sad and cross at the same time.
Wallowing in a past he could never change would not help ease his concern. For some unfortunate reason, danger had followed his friends like a dark stormy cloud the past two years. With his heart pounding against his chest he prayed not this time. The woman he hoped to marry occupied the carriage, and he wouldn’t know what would become of him if something terrible should befall her. Edward’s hands itched to yank at his hair, snapping him out of his morbid thoughts, as he spotted a faint light in the distance moving slowly along. He ran to the front door past the startled doorman, flung open the heavy wooden door and leaped the four stairs at once, landing just as the carriage came to a quick halt.
“Greetings milord,” the driver said as he climbed down from his perch. “We’ve had a wee bit of trouble. The ladies are safe and unharmed but Mr. Smythe was shot twice.”
Edward yanked the door open and flipped down the stairs before the coachman landed on solid ground. Hearing the driver’s words and seeing Smythe struggle out of the coach refusing help had him barking orders, “Peabody, send one of the under footman for Doctor Connolly and tell him not to return without the good doctor.”
Once Smythe exited safety, Edward assisted the ladies down, barely acknowledging them since he knew they were unarmed and there would be time to speak to them once Smythe was settled. Worried for Smythe’s safety as he was, he looked at the sudden flutter of activity and barked, “Where is Mrs. Glendale?”
A middle aged, plump woman answered, “Right here, milord.”
“Please have clean towels, hot water, bandages, and anything else you can think of brought to Mr. Smythe’s chamber.”
“Oh...and also...please escort the ladies to their rooms.” As Edward turned to assist Smythe up the stairs his eyes settled on Elizabeth long enough for him to be assured she appeared unharmed. Bloody hell, if anything happened to her he would never forgive himself, not to mention he’d be crushed. One could only handle so much loss in life before one became permanently damaged. Heart and soul.
Once inside the chambers prepared for Smythe, Edward was so very thankful his housekeeper’s gentle, competent hands took care of the injured runner.
When Dr. Connolly arrived harried and carrying an ancient carpet bag, Edward sighed with relief. He dropped into a chair across the room facing the recently stoked fireplace. It was his opinion, no finer doctor existed anywhere in England. Smythe was in capable hands.
Staring into the flames for what seemed forever, Edward tried not to let his imagination run wild. What was taking the doctor so long? Unease and worry prickled his skin and he shivered.
“Lord Amesbury, may I have a word with you?”
As he approached the physician at Smythe’s bedside, he found the runner sleeping and was grateful he still lived. Since when had the roads between London and Hastings become so dangerous? Since all of London’s elite decided Hastings was the place to be this summer. Highwaymen knew riches were for the pickings.
“How is he?” Edward asked cautiously.
“He lost a lot of blood, but the man is lucky. The bullets pierced nothing vital. If infection does not set in, he’ll make a full recovery. With the blood loss he will be weak for some time. However, he’s a young and healthy man. It won’t take long for his strength to be restored.” The doctor put several small glass bottles on the table next to the bed. Then packed up his bag. “I left laudanum to take for pain and to help him sleep. Give it to him every four hours. I will stop by tomorrow. Goodnight your lordship.”
Sweat broke out on Edward’s brow. Tremors began in his hands and spread like the London fire of 1666 throughout his body. Laudanum—opium—he couldn’t be near the stuff. Suddenly realizing Mrs. Glendale still occupied the room he somehow managed to mumble, “Please watch over our patient and administer his medicine.”
Without waiting for a reply, he flew out of the room, careful not to slam the door when he exited. Leaning forward, his hands resting on his thighs, he breathed in and out deeply many times, fighting the sickness inside his stomach. When he heard her soft voice he realized he wasn’t alone in the hallway.
“Amesbury, is he...is he dead?” Elizabeth cried out.
It took him a moment to comprehend the question as his ears rang from the pounding of his blood running wild. “What? No. Smythe is expected to recover.”
“Oh. Thank God. Mary would be heartbroken if he died.”
He didn’t need to look to know she approached him and tentatively placed a warm hand on his upper arm. “Are you unwell?”
The concern in her voice almost broke him. He didn’t deserve Elizabeth’s compassion. Not after the things he’d done. The monster he’d become after his family’s death. The monster, he’d realized only moments ago, still lived inside him. He was vile and dirty. She was pure and everything virtuous.
“Amesbury?” More worry in her voice as her fingers curled tightly around his arm.
What to say? He didn’t know how to answer her. “Yes. Everything is well. Please except my apologies if I caused you any undue concern.” He inhaled and exhaled. “Should you not go to Mary and give her the good news?”
Startled, she withdrew her hand and answered softly, “Yes.”
The touch of her hand on his forearm had soothed him and he missed the contact immediately. He truly didn’t wish for her to leave him, but she had to before he had another breakdown
in front of her. Edward hurried down the stairs and made his way to his study where he had a full bottle of Scotch whiskey waiting for him.
WITH ALL THE CHAOS that ensued upon their arrival to Cliff House, Miss Elizabeth Spencer barely got a glimpse of Amesbury before he disappeared inside Smythe’s chamber for what seemed to be hours.
The whole entire carriage ride—through the fog, deep jarring ruts in the country roads, the highwaymen and Smythe’s wounds—she’d thought of Amesbury. Knowing the man she loved resided at the end of her travels kept her calm.
She hadn’t known what to expect when she arrived, but it wasn’t what transpired. Of course, when she daydreamed about arriving Smythe wasn’t injured. In her dreams Amesbury welcomed their coach, helped her down and immediately pulled her into his strong arms and kissed her senseless, not caring who witnessed his declaration of love. And clearly he would never kiss her in public without declaring himself afterwards. It would be scandalous. But she didn’t care. Too bad daydreams never came true.
Indeed, in her dreams Mr. Smythe’s life wasn’t in peril. She said a silent prayer the doctor was right in believing Mr. Smythe would recover. If he didn’t get well many of her friends and family members, most especially Mary, would mourn the runner’s death if it came to that horrible ending. He was...is...a good man. She hoped Spencer agreed, she knew he did, but would he think him worthy of Mary?
Since spending two days traveling in Mary and Smythe’s company, there was no doubt in her mind he was as drawn to Mary as she to him. When Smythe thought no one watched he looked at her with eyes gone soft and wanting. Would Amesbury ever look at her the same way? Perhaps he had but she’d not witnessed it. If he had, it would be a look she’d never forget.
The Spencer Sisters Forbidden Loves and Broken Hearts Page 2