Most of Julia’s mementoes were stored in the bottom drawer of a small dresser. A few pieces of jewelry from her mother, not valuable but cherished. A book of poetry from her grandmother, other bits and pieces from her earlier life. A pebble from the shore given to her by Molly when the child had crawled happily on the beach. Nothing from her first marriage. Julia carried the mementoes of that on her body.
As she packed her past into the carpetbag, she thought about the two days that had passed since her spectacularly melodramatic wedding night. Traveling in the close confines of a carriage was not a bad way to become more relaxed with one’s husband. With Mackenzie present, Julia and Randall didn’t talk about anything important, but by the time they stopped at an inn for their first night on the road, she was able to face sharing a room with her husband. She had been embarrassingly grateful when he wordlessly made up a bed for himself on the floor.
One step at a time.
After packing the items from her dresser, Julia went through her desk and the rest of the cottage, but added little to her carpetbag. Even the medical notes she’d maintained on her patients needed to stay for Jenny to use.
Since neither Jenny nor Randall had returned, Julia sought out Mackenzie, who was sprawled comfortably in the front room. “Packing took even less time than I thought,” she said. “I’m going to walk down to the shore to say good-bye to the sea.”
He drained his flagon and set it aside. “I’ll go with you.”
“To be honest, I’d rather go alone. Really, I don’t think protection is necessary.”
“Randall would have my hide for a rug if I don’t accompany you.” Mackenzie got to his feet. His head almost touched the low ceiling. “Best write Randall a note so that when he returns, he’ll know where we are.”
She could imagine how Randall would react if he found the cottage empty, so she scribbled a note and pinned it to the front door. Then she set off, Mackenzie at her side.
“How far is it to the shore?” he asked.
“Only a ten-minute walk. There isn’t a place in Hartley that isn’t close to the sea.” She’d loved that about her adopted home.
Julia led the way along a lane that ran between hills dotted with grazing sheep. They emerged onto a narrow sand and shingle beach bordered by the stone wall that kept the sheep from wandering into the sea. Mackenzie asked, “Is this where Ashton’s drowned body washed up?”
“Not quite drowned, and no, he was on the other side of this little peninsula, just below Hartley Manor.” She pointed to the south. “Thank God Mariah found him. By morning, he probably would have died of exposure.”
She strolled along the firm, dark sand, avoiding the water-smoothed stones and tangles of seaweed. This little beach had been her private retreat, a place to visit when she needed peace. She loved the timelessness of the sea. Perhaps sensing that, Mackenzie stayed several steps behind her.
Ka-bang!! A sharp crack of sound echoed over the water, followed a moment later by a second crack. Sand spurted into the air inches ahead of her. Surely not bullets…?
Swearing, Mackenzie grabbed Julia and yanked her down behind the stone wall that bounded the pasture. She gasped for breath as he sprawled half on top of her, protecting her with his own body.
Her watchdog magically produced a pistol from somewhere. With crisp efficiency, he primed the pistol and raised his head above the wall to snap off a shot. The report was deafening, so close to Julia’s ears.
Mackenzie ducked below the wall as his fire was returned. Reloading, he said mildly, “I’d say your pursuers have found us.”
Julia’s heart hammered with shock, but she managed to keep her voice steady. “Apparently Randall was right.”
Two more bullets cracked through the air. Mackenzie glanced at the sand to see where the balls were striking. “There are two men and they have us pinned down. We’re safe for now because they aren’t great marksmen. Since the pasture provides no cover, they can’t come after us without getting shot, but we can’t retreat, either. Stalemate.”
“For how long?” She reached under her hip to remove a sharp-edged stone. She’d have bruises in the morning.
Mackenzie shrugged as he peered above the wall again. He ducked as another bullet cracked by. “Not long. Randall will hear the shots and take care of the villains when he returns from the manor.”
Thinking he sounded too casual, she said tartly, “You have great faith in Randall’s abilities.”
“It’s not misplaced.” He fired over the wall. The shot was returned twofold.
There was something familiar in the way he moved, and after a moment she placed it. “You were in the army also?”
“I served under Randall in Portugal.” Mackenzie gave her a pirate’s grin. “But I was cashiered and returned to England.”
Cashiered. Dismissed from his rank. But not, she was sure, for cowardice. “A woman?” she guessed.
He laughed. “You’re entirely too perceptive.”
When she moved to find a more comfortable position, Mackenzie placed a large hand on her shoulder and pressed her to the ground again. “Don’t wiggle. This wall isn’t very high.”
“You’re in more danger than I because more of you shows,” she pointed out.
He shrugged again. “As I said, they’re damned poor shots.”
The next minutes passed with agonizing slowness. Every now and then, their attackers would fire again, and Mackenzie would shoot back to keep them from approaching. Julia lay on the cold sand, rough stones behind her back, wishing she’d been more appreciative of the quiet life when she’d had one.
Another shot rang out. Mackenzie cocked his head. “Randall is moving in.”
She stared at him. “How can you tell?”
“The sound of his carbine. Different from what the other two are shooting.”
“You have some interesting skills, Mr. Mackenzie,” she said dryly.
“None of them useful for earning a respectable living.” He checked his pistol, then rose to a crouch. “I’ll go lend a hand. Even the odds.”
She grabbed his arm to pull him down. “You’ll be shot!”
“Randall will keep their heads down,” Mackenzie explained as he detached her hand. “Since I have a good idea where the devils are, he and I should be able to finish this up quickly. You stay low until it’s safe. Randall or I will come for you then.”
Then he was gone, moving rapidly for someone who was bent over and using whatever cover he could find. Julia lay still as the stone wall, counting her heartbeats. Hard to believe that only minutes were passing when the time seemed endless.
There was a flurry of shots. She shuddered, unable to tell one gun from another. Worse, she heard a man scream. Another cry—the same man or another? Was it Randall’s voice? She couldn’t be sure.
Her instinct was to get up and see if anyone was wounded, but she’d be a fool to make herself a target. Her fingers bit into the sand as she fought to control her tension.
Julia closed her eyes and prayed that her husband and Mackenzie would be safe. She knew her anxiety was out of place—Randall was doubtless as confident of success as Mackenzie. But she was a civilian and entitled to be terrified.
“Julia!” Carbine in hand, Randall raced down to the small beach. Surely she was safe, but he needed to see for himself.
Her small form erupted from behind the stone wall as she hurled herself into his arms. “I was so worried you’d be hurt! What happened? Is Mr. Mackenzie all right?”
He caught her close, feeling her pounding heart. He was sorry that she had been so upset, but it felt amazingly good to know she had been concerned for him. “Two attackers,” he said succinctly. “One dead, the other fled. Neither was Crockett. Mac was grazed by a bullet, but nothing serious.”
She exhaled with relief and held onto him for a moment longer before stepping back. “I’d better take a look at his injury. You’re sure the other man is dead?”
“Quite.” Guessing that Julia woul
d just as soon not know any details, he kept a protective arm around her as they headed up the lane.
The dead man lay in the lane at the top of the hill, his coat draped over his face. Mackenzie sat on the stone wall a few feet away, his face white. Julia examined the crude binding Randall had done on Mac’s left forearm before coming for her. There were scarlet stains on the cravat he’d used for the bandage, but the bleeding had stopped.
“This should be cleaned and dressed again, but you’ll do for now.” She studied Mac’s face with a frown. “Is that your only wound? You look on the verge of shock.”
“He doesn’t like the sight of blood,” Randall explained.
Julia blinked. “Surely that made life in the army difficult, Mr. Mackenzie.”
“I don’t mind other people’s blood,” Mac said indignantly. “It’s my blood that makes me go all queasy.”
Randall gave Julia credit for not smiling. Gravely she said, “Can you manage the walk back to my cottage? I can fix you up properly there.”
“The sooner the better.” Mac stood, swaying.
Randall grabbed the other man’s arm to steady him. Mackenzie’s queasiness when wounded might seem out of place on a large man of military bearing, but it was real enough. “The Townsends have returned home,” Randall said. “We’ve been invited to spend the night, so after Julia fixes you up, we can go up to the manor.”
“Good,” Julia said. “I hoped to see them before leaving Hartley.” She looked at the corpse, biting her lip. “I should see if he was one of the men who abducted me.”
“If you wish.” Reluctantly Randall knelt and flipped the coat from the man’s face. A bullet had gone through the villain’s skull, but his features were recognizable.
“He drove the coach,” Julia said without expression. “I never heard his name.”
Thinking it was a pity that Crockett wasn’t the one shot, Randall said, “Townsend is a magistrate, which will be useful in sorting this out.”
They turned away from the dead man and started walking toward Julia’s old cottage, but she gave one last glance at the sea. Randall guessed that in the future she wouldn’t feel quite the same way about her private beach.
Chapter 17
Julia lowered herself into the steaming hip bath with a grateful sigh. The day had been long and tiring, but the Townsends had installed an impressive array of creature comforts at Hartley Manor since Charles won the estate at cards. This large bath screened in a corner of their bedroom was one such comfort.
As Julia cleaned and bound Mackenzie’s arm at the cottage, Jenny and Molly had returned. The three females had had a royal reunion with hugs and tears. Though Jenny was delighted that her mentor was safe, Julia could see that her apprentice was finding her feet as the area midwife. Jenny Watson would do very well for Hartley.
After tearful good-byes, Julia and her escorts traveled up to the manor. The Townsends had returned home just that morning. Charles Townsend had been on the verge of sending word of Julia’s kidnapping to the Duke and Duchess of Ashton when Randall appeared and was able to assure them of her safety.
Much of the rest of the day was spent explaining Julia’s rank and recent marriage. Sarah Townsend, twin to Mariah, thought it was a vastly romantic tale. Julia hoped the girl never had such “romance” in her own life.
While Julia was bathing, Randall and Mackenzie had withdrawn with Charles Townsend to address the untidy details of killing villains in Hartley. Julia wondered which of the men had done the actual shooting, then decided she would rather not know. Both had been soldiers. Both did what needed to be done.
What would normal life be in the future? She hoped that Randall was right in his belief that the Earl of Daventry would call off his hounds after he learned Julia was now Randall’s wife. She could not bear to live the rest of her life under the shadow of violence. Even worse was knowing that others might suffer because of Daventry’s fury.
She closed her eyes, reveling in the fragrant lavender oil that had been added to the hot water. She must have dozed off because she came awake with a start when the door to the bedroom opened. “Julia?” Randall called.
Though the hip bath was behind a screen, she felt awkward being naked in the same room with her husband. She scrambled out, trying not to splash the carpet. “I was enjoying the hot water too much,” she said as she reached for a towel.
There was a clink of glass on wood. “No need to rush,” he said. “Townsend offered me the hip bath in his dressing room, so I bathed as well.”
Her nightgown and robe were draped over the top of the screen, so she dressed hastily and emerged as she unpinned her hair. Randall had settled into one of the wing chairs. After his bath, he had just pulled on his trousers and left his shirt loose. His blond hair was darkened from moisture and he looked relaxed, happy, and criminally handsome. “You deal with assassination attempts much better than I,” she said wryly.
“Like most actions, it’s a matter of practice.” He gestured at the table between the paired wing chairs, which held a brandy glass and a steaming mug. “I brought up brandy for me plus some concoction that the cook said that you liked. I think it’s hot milk and spices and some form of spirits.”
“Mariah’s hot posset,” Julia said with pleasure. She collected her hairbrush from the dressing table and sat in the chair opposite Randall. “How thoughtful of Mrs. Beckett. Mariah learned all kinds of home remedies from her grandmother, including this one. It’s delicious and very soothing after a hard day. You might want to taste it.”
He eyed the mug dubiously as she took a sip. “Another time, perhaps.”
She set the posset down and picked up the brush to straighten the tangles from her damp hair. “Will there be any trouble over Crockett’s man being killed?”
“Townsend thinks that three respectable witnesses like you, me, and Mackenzie are sufficient to declare the death justifiable homicide.” Randall grinned. “Though it may be stretching a point to call Mac respectable.”
“Though you tease him, you trust him,” she said thoughtfully. “He certainly looked out for me well today.”
“I knew he would. He’s sound on important matters.” Randall frowned as he watched her brush out her hair. “You avoid looking in mirrors more than any other beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
She froze, her stomach clenching. It took several moments to reply. “That’s because I’m not beautiful. I find it…more comfortable to avoid mirrors.”
“But you are beautiful, Julia,” he said quietly. “I know you’ve had to hide for too many years, but that’s not necessary now.”
Her hands clenched on the brush in her lap. “Since that night in Edinburgh, I’ve been trying to come to terms with my disfigurement. It…will take time.”
“You’re not disfigured,” he said firmly. “Yes, you bear scars on your lovely body, but beauty doesn’t require perfection, and your scars aren’t even visible.”
“I can’t forget the scars are there, and they make me feel ugly,” she said tightly, wishing he would drop the subject and never mention it again.
She heard him sip at his brandy. “I’m sorry you consider me ugly,” he said. “I had hoped to be at least presentable in your eyes.”
Her gaze snapped up to him. “Why did you say such a foolish thing? You are classically handsome. Unnervingly so. You can’t possibly not know that.”
“If scars cause ugliness, I must be repulsive,” he said coolly. “You’ve seen the mangled mess of my right side and leg, but they are hardly the only scars I bear.” He stood and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his bare torso. “I doubt that you’ve ever come near a man who bears as many scars as I do.”
She stared at him, riveted, as he turned around to reveal his back before he faced her again. His broad shoulders, hard muscled body, and lean waist were beautiful—and marked by scars of all sorts. Some were faint, others blatant. There were thin lines and ragged knots of scar tissue. His right side was marked with m
ore of the shrapnel that had done such damage to his leg. His body was a road map of pain and injury.
Lips dry, she touched a long, thin white scar that curved around his right shoulder. “How did that happen?”
“A French sword on the retreat to Corunna. I bled, he died.” He frowned down at his body. “Every scar must have a story, but to be truthful, I can’t remember where I got them all. Minor wounds in most cases. I heal quickly, but scar easily.”
“You have an amazing array of scars,” she admitted. “Most of them are never visible in public.”
His brows arched ironically. “But if even hidden scars make one ugly…”
“It’s different for you! Your scars are honorable marks of bravery.”
“They’re proof that I wasn’t always good at dodging.” He knelt in front of her. Before she realized his intention, he drew her loose robe and gown down her shoulders and cupped her breasts with his large, warm hands.
She gasped, feeling as if she’d been struck by lightning. “Don’t!”
“When we first agreed to marry, you gave me leave to touch you,” he said quietly. “Is this so upsetting? I swear I’m not going to ravish you.” He took a deep breath. “Though it’s a test of my willpower. Is it the touching that bothers you? Or the fact that your scars are exposed?”
Julia wanted to bolt. Or kick the damned man. Instead, she stared down at the scar-tissue initials that marred the upper curves of her breasts, and forced herself to examine her reaction. “Your touch is…not unpleasant.” Actually, she rather liked the warmth and the feel of his hard palms against soft hidden flesh. “But the scars make me feel flawed. Disfigured.”
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