by Anne Gracie
It wasn’t what Max wanted to hear. He didn’t want her tending him. She was still damp and muddy from where she’d been knocked flat to the ground. And still shaken from the attack. She needed someone fussing over her, dammit. Where were those blasted sisters of hers? Where were the female servants?
But when he said as much, she simply said, “Oh, hush! I’m perfectly all right. You’re the one who’s bleeding.”
He watched her closely. She wasn’t perfectly all right at all. Unless he missed his guess, she was experiencing a delayed reaction to the attack. She was trying to cover it with feminine bluster, but her hands were trembling, and so were her lips.
To distract her, Max said brusquely, “Look, I have a great deal to do today; I don’t have time for this.” He looked around, seeking some masculine support, but the butler was nowhere to be seen and the footman had borne away Max’s bloody shirt and coat.
“There’s no need to look at me like that,” she said. “I’m sure I don’t care if you prefer to bleed to death on the floor. I’m only doing this because for some reason your aunt is fond of you.”
“You’re upset, I know—”
“Oh, whatever gave you that idea? I enjoy knife-wielding thugs coming after me! And having a man nearly killed in my defense is positively delightful—”
She broke off, pressing trembling fingers against her lips, and more than anything Max wanted to take her into his arms, to hold her slender body against him.
For comfort. Because he hated to see women in distress.
Only he couldn’t. He’d already done enough damage. He wasn’t free to put his arms around her. It wasn’t only the attack that had upset her, he knew; it was the kiss.
It still hung in the room between them.
“I’m sorr—”
She threw up her hands. “Will you stop saying that? You’ve made it very clear—more than clear—that it was a mistake.”
“It’s not that I didn’t want—”
She glared at him and went back to stirring salt. Furiously.
He tried again. “It’s just . . . I’m betrothed.”
“I know! The kiss meant nothing—less than nothing.”
For some reason that annoyed Max. “Do you often kiss men?”
“Only after I’m attacked in the street by men with knives!” she flashed. “Does your fiancée know you kiss other women?”
There was no answer to that. Max glowered. She swished around the room, fetching scissors, ripping a piece of clean linen into lengths for a bandage, setting a pot of salve and a length of gauze on the table beside him.
She poured the hot salt water into a bowl, then paused, sighed, eyed him ruefully and said, “I’m sorry. That was unforgivable. I’m very much aware that I owe you my life, and I’m very grateful.”
Max gave a gruff nod. “And I owe you mine, so we’re quits.”
“I didn’t do much—”
He cut her off. “You were very brave. I don’t know any woman who would have tried to stop a knife-wielding villain, so don’t argue.” His words came out more harshly than he’d intended, so he added in a milder tone, “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“A couple of bruises, nothing more,” she assured him. Her gaze dropped fleetingly to his naked chest. He felt it like a soft, warm caress.
“And you’re right,” she added softly. “It would have been better if the kiss hadn’t happened, but it wasn’t your fault.”
“It wasn’t anybody’s fault.” Though he’d apologized for it half a dozen times, in his heart of hearts Max couldn’t find it in him to regret the kiss. Not for a moment.
His eyes dropped to her lips, her soft, pink mouth, and the hunger rose again in him to taste her just one more time. It had to stop. He dragged his gaze off her.
“I’ll make you some willow bark tea. It will help with the headache.” She fetched a jar of willow chips and poured boiling water over them.
He was just being gallant, Abby thought. She knew how greedily she’d responded to his kiss, how eagerly she’d pressed herself against him, run her fingers through his hair, let her tongue tangle and dance with his. And gloried in it.
All the time knowing he was betrothed to another woman, a woman who’d waited for him for nine years. Nine years!
She knew whose fault it was. She’d given him an opening and he’d taken it, as men were wont to do. How long would it take her to learn that it was for the woman to keep her head, for the woman to set the boundaries, for the woman to remember who was the plain spinster and who was the handsome lord?
It was Laurence all over again.
Only worse. She’d never felt with Laurence what she’d felt with Lord Davenham in that alleyway.
The bitter lesson her . . . whatever-it-was with Laurence all those years ago had taught her—the lesson she’d thought she’d never forget, never be able to forget—had just dissolved at the first touch of Lord Davenham’s mouth.
Because of the attack? They said danger heightened desire. If so, the danger was past now, and so hopefully would be the desire, though it didn’t feel like it, with him sitting there, his shirt off and those somber gray eyes watching her as she moved about the kitchen.
Every dark glance sent shivers of awareness skittering across her skin.
It was all she could do not to stare, not to feast her eyes on that big, broad, beautiful, naked chest, not to run her hands over it, feeling the strength and power beneath her fingertips. He didn’t even seem to notice how naked he was. Or did he?
Living temptation.
The salt water had cooled enough, so she dipped a clean cloth into it and knelt down beside him. “This won’t hurt,” she assured him. “Perhaps a little stinging—the salt, you know.”
He gave her a dark look. “I’m not a child.”
“I know.” Her gaze flickered—again—to his bare chest, and she felt her cheeks warm. No, he wasn’t a child; he was all man. She didn’t look up.
The wound was shallow, a slice rather than a deep cut, but even a tiny cut could fester. Abby bathed it thoroughly, first with one lot of salt water and then with a second, just to be sure. She owed this man her life. No one had ever risked himself to protect her.
“Who was that fellow?”
She glanced up, her thoughts far away. “What fellow?”
“The one with the knife.”
She shook her head. “Some thief, I expect. Taking advantage of my momentary isolation. They cut people’s reticule strings to rob them, don’t they?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t random. He’d been following you since the post office.”
Surprised, she sat back on her heels and looked at him. “Since the post office? Are you sure? How do you know?”
“I saw it. A man came out of the post office after you, gave that fellow the nod and he followed you. So who is it who wishes you harm?”
His assumption that she would know who attacked her, that somehow she might deserve to be attacked, flicked her on the raw. “I have no idea.”
“What did you collect at the post office?”
She shook her head. “Nothing valuable. Only a letter.” She hadn’t recognized the writing. She thought it might be from the vicar in Hereford.
“What sort of letter?”
She made an impatient gesture. “It’s nothing. Just an ordinary letter.” She hadn’t actually had time to read it yet.
“Show me.”
She gave him an indignant look. “It’s my letter.” She didn’t want him to see it was addressed to her real name.
He said in a hard voice, “That fellow wasn’t carrying a knife to slit the strings of your reticule. He had violence on his mind from the start, and a partner to back him up. So show me the letter, now.” He held out his good hand, a masterful command.
Abby gave a huff of annoyance, but fetched the letter from her reticule and handed it to him. He glanced at the address. “Your real name, I presume.”
What could she say? The
postal clerk had given her the wrong letter by mistake? No, better to admit the truth. She nodded.
“Any relation to the Hertfordshire Chantrys?” It was what his aunt had asked too.
“I have no relations except my sisters.” It wasn’t quite true, but there was truth in what she said. The Hertfordshire Chantrys had never acknowledged Abby’s and Jane’s existence, not when they were born and Papa wrote to his parents, not when Papa died and Mama wrote to them, nor when Mama died and twelve-year-old Abby wrote to tell them she and her little sister were now orphaned and alone. The Hertfordshire Chantrys had shown no interest.
And since the Hertfordshire Chantrys didn’t acknowledge them, Abby would not acknowledge the Hertfordshire Chantrys.
To her relief he didn’t pursue the matter of her name or her possible relations. He broke open the seal, glanced at the letter and gave her an odd look. “There’s nothing in it.” He passed it back to her.
“I told you so—” She broke off and stared at it, puzzled. The letter was blank inside. No writing at all, apart from the address.
“You must have some idea of who sent it.”
“Well, I don’t. It’s most peculiar.” Abby turned it over and over in her hands, trying to think who would have sent her such a thing. Somebody absentminded, perhaps, who’d written the address and forgotten to write the letter? But who? She shrugged and put it down. “But if there’s nothing in the letter, I can’t see how it could possibly have anything to do with the attack.”
“It was bait.” He sounded completely certain.
“Bait?” She gave him a puzzled look.
“A way of identifying you to the attacker. Or his confederate. Whoever collected that letter from the post office was the target.”
She bit her lip as she considered that, then shook her head. “I don’t see how it can be. It’s addressed to me, and I cannot think of anyone whom I’ve hurt or offended or who would want to hurt me. And I certainly have nothing anyone could want to steal.”
“You’ve upset nobody?”
She thought for a moment, then said, with a hint of laughter, “Only you.”
His eyes gleamed and Abby instantly regretted her small joke. He was so much harder to resist when he was amused and trying not to show it. And more than ever, she had to resist him. Avoiding his gaze, she bent over his injury.
Carefully she spread salve on the wound, laid a pad of gauze over it and began to bandage it with a clean, freshly ironed cloth.
A thought suddenly occurred to her. Could he possibly be right? Might it really be something to do with her? Something about the brothel, the man Mort? Even as the idea occurred to her, she dismissed it. How could Mort know anything about her?
“Tell me,” he said quietly.
She gave him a startled look. “Tell you what?”
“What’s worrying you. You know—or at least suspect, don’t you?—who’s behind the attack. I can help, if you tell me.”
“But I don’t know. Truly, I have no idea.” It was the truth, but she felt her cheeks heating anyway. She finished bandaging him, and packed the medical detritus into a basket.
“You’re not—” he began, but before he could finish, the kitchen was inundated—Abby’s sisters bursting it at one door, and the cook and scullery maid, carrying shopping baskets, coming in at the other. They surrounded Abby and Lord Davenham, exclaiming over the blood, the bandage, and the bruise on Abby’s face, asking questions, and all talking at once.
Through the noise and bluster, Abby’s gaze met Lord Davenham’s. He wasn’t finished, she saw. He was certain she knew more than she did.
A moment later Featherby and William arrived, bearing clean clothes for Lord Davenham. Featherby took one horrified look at Max’s indecently naked chest—“Not in front of the young ladies, m’lord”—and urged him from the kitchen.
Max went gladly. With all the females loudly exclaiming and carrying on, it was like being in the middle of a flock of distressed parrots.
He caught her eye as he left. The olive branch had been offered. It was now up to her.
Truth to tell, he was glad to leave, to have some time alone. He needed to—what was it army men called it?—regroup.
Barriers had dissolved. A bond had sprung up between them, an intimacy. . . .
He knew her scent now, her taste, how her body felt curled against him and how her hands felt on his bare skin. How she kissed, with an eager generosity that he would not easily put from his mind . . .
But it would not do. He was betrothed. And he’d never broken a commitment in his life.
As Max was heading upstairs to change, he said to Featherby, “I want you to hire two more footmen—strong ones.”
The butler and footman exchanged concerned glances. “Do I understand you’re not satisfied with William’s work, m’lord?”
“Not at all,” Max said. “I want two extra footmen.”
Featherby frowned. “For any particular purpose, m’lord?”
“To accompany the young ladies whenever any of them venture outdoors. And at other times make themselves generally useful.”
“You fear another attack?”
“I don’t know. Miss Chance seems to think it was a random occurrence.”
“You disagree, m’lord?”
Max flexed his bandaged arm thoughtfully. “She was targeted.”
The butler looked concerned. “Targeted?”
“She was followed from the post office. Do you know anything? A reason why a man with a knife might come after Miss Chance?”
The butler gave him a troubled look. “I can’t think of any reason at all, m’lord.”
Max didn’t quite believe him. There was something the butler wasn’t saying. “Loyalty is all very well, Featherby, but those girls could be in danger.”
Featherby sighed. “If I knew anything that would help, m’lord, I would share it with you. I am immensely fond—” He caught himself up. It was not for butlers to express fondness. “I owe everything to Miss Chance, and be assured, m’lord, William and I would die to protect her and the other young ladies.”
It was not a satisfactory answer, but Max knew enough about men to know he wouldn’t get any more out of Featherby. The man knew something, but whatever it was—something to the young ladies’ discredit, perhaps—he wasn’t prepared to share. Presumably it was not useful in the matter of their protection. He didn’t doubt the sincerity of the man’s devotion to Abby.
Miss Chance, he corrected himself. Barriers.
“Can I leave the hiring of the footmen to you, or shall I get Bartlett to see to it?”
Featherby bowed slightly. “I will see to it, m’lord. William has acquaintances who, er, can handle themselves if there is trouble.”
“No roughnecks,” Max warned.
Featherby looked shocked. “Of course not, m’lord. They shall be all that is proper; I guarantee it.”
“Dress ’em in livery. I want to send a clear message that Miss Chance and the young ladies are under my protection.”
“Very good, m’lord.”
* * *
“It must have been a cutpurse,” Abby concluded. It was the only answer she could think of for the attack. “I don’t see how it could have been one of Mort’s men.”
The four girls were drinking tea in the back parlor. Lady Beatrice was upstairs, taking a nap. She didn’t yet know about the incident with the knife. If her nephew wanted her to know, he could tell her, Abby decided. She didn’t want to distress the old lady unnecessarily.
“If he followed you from the post office, “Damaris suggested, “it does argue a deliberate targeting of you, rather than a random attempt at theft. What do you think, Daisy? Could it be Mort?”
Daisy wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. “Mort don’t like anyone to get the better of him—especially females—so I wouldn’t be surprised if he sent a blade after us; he’s a nasty piece of work. But why would he send anyone after Abby? How could Mort even know about Abby? The
rest of us, maybe, but not Abby.”
They exchanged glances. There was a long silence. Nobody had an answer.
Damaris glanced at Abby. “The letter was addressed to you as Abigail Chantry?”
“Yes.”
Jane leaned forward. “What did Lord Davenham have to say about that?”
Abby shook her head. “Not a thing.”
“So he didn’t notice?” Jane suggested hopefully.
Abby grimaced. “He noticed, all right. And I had to admit it was my real name.”
“What did he say to that?”
“Nothing.” And that disturbed her. He’d accepted it a little too easily. Why hadn’t he asked why she was living with his aunt under a false name? Did he know it already? How? From Lady Beatrice? Unlikely. So did he not care, or did he have some other plan in mind?
Damaris continued. “And the letter was blank inside?”
Abby nodded. “Lord Davenham called it bait, a way of identifying me, though why anyone should want to identify—let alone harm—me is more than I can fathom.”
“So who knows you use that particular post office for your mail?” Damaris asked. “Someone knew you’d collect that blank letter.”
“Nobody,” Abby said. She’d been wondering about that herself. “Only Mrs. Bodkin, and the vicar in Hereford, and Sir Walter Greevey.” All eminently respectable people.
Jane said, “Who else did you write to, Abby? You have that look on your face.”
Abby grimaced, knowing the others wouldn’t like what she was about to admit. “I might have written some letters to Bow Street and one or two local magistrates, reporting that brothel for—”
She didn’t get to finish her sentence; there was a chorus of objection from the others.
“You what? But we agreed that you wouldn’t—”
“It’ll bring Mort down on us for sure!”
“We told you reporting it would cause trouble!”
“I wrote anonymously,” Abby defended herself. “You said I couldn’t report it in person, so I didn’t. And you need not look at me like that—I had to report it. It is iniquitous what that dreadful Mort person did—and no doubt still does—and will keep doing unless someone tries to stop him.”