She wondered if the stranger threatening to kick her door down was a highwayman, and her pulse quickened as she thought of the danger she would be inviting into her home if she let him in. With the exception of two maids fast asleep on the fourth floor she was completely alone.
Alone… and defenseless.
She jumped when the door rattled on its hinges from the force of a third ruthless kick. It wouldn’t last much longer. Like everything else at Stonewall it was falling apart at the seams.
“Go into town. T-there is a doctor there. He can help you.” Her hand fell away from the knob to twist anxiously in the folds of her nightgown. “P-please go.”
“I won’t make it into town,” the stranger gritted out. A dull thud sounded, as though he’d dropped his head against the door. “Unless you want a dead man on your doorstep, you’d best let me in. Now.”
Beatrice was not a woman without a heart. If anything her heart bled more than most, which was why, against her better judgement and all common sense, she murmured a quick prayer and yanked the door open.
A shock of cold air blew into the foyer, causing her to stumble back several steps, arms wind milling for balance as her hair whipped around her shoulders. Snow and leaves skittered in next, followed by a towering man dressed all in black. White flecks of snow covered his broad shoulders and the hat he wore slung low over his brow. The roaring of the wind intensified, howling round and round the room before the stranger abruptly kicked the door closed behind him.
Silence fell, broken only by the man’s rasping breaths. Clutching the edges of her dressing robe, Beatrice gave him a slow, thorough study, trying to determine if he was a robber or a highwayman or some other sort of horrible criminal who might take advantage of a woman alone in her house late at night.
He certainly looked nefarious in his heavy black greatcoat, black breeches, and black boots that fitted snugly around his calves and came all the way up to his knees. The hat he wore prevented her from seeing anything above his mouth, but the strong slant of his jaw, covered in a stubble of dark whiskers, and the uncompromising line of his lips told her he was not a man to be meddled with.
“Your hat,” she said softly. “Please take it off so I m-might see your face.”
The lips Beatrice had been studying so intently curved in a humorless smile. “If I do that will you stop looking at me as though I am a hungry wolf and you’re a terrified little rabbit? Trust me, love. Even if I was in the habit of taking women against their will - which I am not - you wouldn’t be in any danger. I like my ladies with a bit more meat on their bones.”
Beatrice’s spine stiffened at the insult. She knew she wasn’t beautiful; at least not anymore. And she also knew it was ridiculous to feel hurt by a man whom she did not even know, but if there was one thing she’d learned in the past year it was that emotions could not be controlled, nor anticipated. “Be that as it may,” she said in a voice gone cold as the snow outside, “take off your hat or get out.”
The man whistled under his breath. “Well wouldn’t you know. The little rabbit has some claws on her. As you wish, my lady.” He took off his hat with a flourish and began to dip into a bow, but with a grimace of pain quickly straightened and clapped a hand over his left shoulder. To Beatrice’s horror his palm came away slicked red with blood.
“You really have been shot,” she gasped. Eyes narrowing, she gazed intently at the upper left hand corner of the stranger’s greatcoat, her stomach performing a slow, queasy roll when she saw it was nearly soaked through. The last time she had seen so much blood… no. She would not think about that night. Not now. “You need to see a doctor at once!”
“No time,” the stranger grunted. He started to a take a step towards her, then seemed to think better of it and instead braced his legs apart until his boots stretched three floorboards wide. A puddle of gray slush began to form about his heels as the snow he’d tracked in started to melt. “I believe the bullet passed cleanly through-”
“You believe?”
“-but the bleeding will need to be stopped and the wound cleaned to prevent infection.”
Beatrice was already shaking her head before he’d finished speaking. “I am not a doctor,” she protested, throwing her arms wide. Her dressing gown slipped to one side, revealing the thin nightgown she wore beneath. Catching the stranger’s gaze as it dropped far lower than it should have, she blushed and yanked the dressing gown back into place. Jeffrey had never looked at her with that dark gleam in his eye, but other men had and she recognized it for what it was: desire. Something that no longer had any place in her home, or her life. “You - you would do yourself a far better service if you continued on into town. It is not very far. A mile or two at most.”
“I would bleed out before I reached the road,” he said flatly. “Do you want my death on your conscience?”
“I do not even know you!”
“Ah, but I know you.”
“No you do not.” No one knows me. Not anymore. She was a shadow of the lady she’d been. A poor, pitiful imitation of a woman who had once had everything… and now had nothing. How could he possibly recognize her? She didn’t even recognize herself.
“This is Stonewall Manor, is it not?” the stranger asked. One dark brow lifted, drawing Beatrice’s gaze to his eyes. For the first time she noticed their peculiar color. His pupils were black as pitch and dilated from the pain he must have been feeling, but that in and of itself wasn’t unusual. No. What had Beatrice’s breath catching in her throat and her heart doing an extra thump in her breast were his irises. They were the color of amber flecked with molten gold and burned with an intensity that brought to mind a roaring, crackling fire.
Ensnared by his golden gaze she thought of the fox she’d seen earlier in the evening. Its sleek red coat dusted with snow. Its expression cunning. Its footsteps silent. Here one moment and gone the next, not unlike the man standing before her now.
Feeling herself inexplicably sinking into the depths of his amber gaze, she forced herself to look away as a flicker of bemusement creased her brow. Surely she wasn’t attracted to the stranger. That would be absurd, not to mention impossible. She loved Jeffrey. Would always love Jeffrey. Nothing - and no one - could ever change that.
“This is Stonewall,” she acknowledged stiffly. Her gaze remained pinned to the wall over her unwanted guest’s right shoulder, tracing the straight rectangular lines on the faded wallpaper where a large painting had once hung. Similar lines existed all over the house, silent reminders that although Stonewall was now in a state of disrepair with anything of value long since sold, it had once been a grand estate. One of the grandest in all of Hampshire.
“Then that must make you the Mad Lady Bea.”
Beatrice felt the full weight of his gaze upon her as he waited for her reaction, as though she were some sort of wounded animal he’d poked with stick just to see if she would snap or cower. She turned her head slowly, meeting his stare without flinching. She may not have known how to react to a bleeding stranger kicking her door down, but this… this was familiar.
How many times had she heard that horrible epithet whispered behind her back? Too many to count, and one of several reasons why she’d shut herself off and closed herself in. Of course doing so had only served to intensify the gossip and the whispers and the stories of a crazed widow living in seclusion atop the hill, but at least it had kept everyone away. Everyone except for a man with eyes like a fox and a tongue far too sharp for her liking.
“Yes,” she said coolly. “That is what the villagers call me.”
The stranger scratched his chin, long tapered fingers skimming through the dark shadow of hair that clung to his neck and jaw. “Well, are you?”
His face had turned ashen, Beatrice noted, and his legs showed signs of soon giving way. He was truly in need of a doctor, for she had neither the skills nor the constitution to treat a bullet wound. “Sir, you really should seek help elsewhere. There is an old carriage in the barn. Perh
aps-”
“Are you?” he repeated, cutting her off.
Angered by the stubborn glint in his eye, Beatrice gritted her teeth. “Am I what?”
“Mad,” he said quietly, his oddly colored gaze searching hers. “Are you mad?”
“As a hatter,” she replied without hesitation. “At least that is what everyone says.”
“Luckily for you I do not put much stock in what other people say.”
She felt her cheeks begin to heat beneath the weight of his burning stare. Dangerous, she thought as the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck rose. The man was as dangerous - and cunning - as the fox he reminded her of. Wounded or not, he posed a great threat. One that needed to be removed as quickly and efficiently as possible.
But when Beatrice opened her mouth to insist he leave with all haste, something else came out entirely. “What do people say about you?”
“That I am a rogue and a rake not fit for polite company.”
“Are you?” she asked faintly.
His grin was nothing short of wicked. “All that and more, love. All that and more.”
A trickle of unease slithered down between Beatrice’s narrow shoulder blades. She may have been far removed from high society and the ton, but that did not mean she could not recognize a blackguard when she saw one. They’d been all over the balls she used to attend, flocking to young impressionable innocents like bees to honey. She had nearly fallen prey to one herself; a handsome young earl whose name she could no longer recall. He’d lured her out on a back terrace and proceeded to kiss her senseless, endangering her reputation and everything she held dear. Thankfully no one had discovered them, and when she walked in on the same earl kissing someone else less than an hour later she learned a valuable lesson.
Men of questionable morals could not be trusted… and the man standing before her now was most certainly one of questionable morals.
“Why were you shot?” she asked, wanting, no, needing to know. While her instincts told her to toss the stranger out on his ear - despite their size differences it wouldn’t be too hard to push him out the door given the color of his complexion and the way he was swaying on his feet - something made her hesitate. Her own moral compass, perhaps; one that balked at the idea of sentencing a stranger to almost certain death out in the elements. Or (this was a very big, highly improbably ‘or’) maybe she didn’t want him to go because, for the first time in nearly two years, she was having a conversation with someone not wearing an apron.
Highly unlikely, Beatrice thought with a frown. She may not have known the man’s name, but she did know he was rude, presumptuous, arrogant, and a cad to boot. In short, not the sort of company she usually kept. Or at least, the sort of company she used to keep. The last visitor to Stonewall had been her older sister Josephine, or Jo, as the family was fond of calling her. Jo had begged Beatrice to come live with her and her family in the neighboring county of Berkshire and had left in an angry huff when Beatrice refused.
Since then the only people to enter and exit Stonewall were the skeletal serving staff. Two maids, a part time cook, and a livery boy. They were all Beatrice could afford to employ on the shoestring budget Jeffrey’s family had allotted her since his death. In the absence of family and friends they were also the only people she’d spoken to in nearly twenty-four months.
Two maids… a cook… a livery boy… and now a stranger with golden eyes and a bullet wound.
“Did you hear me?” she said, fingers tightening around her dressing robe in silent alarm as she noted the stranger’s eyes had suddenly glazed over. “I said, why were you-”
“I heard you,” he grunted.
“Well then why didn’t you-”
“Because I am about to lose consciousness.”
And before Beatrice could do anything to stop him, he did precisely that.
CHAPTER THREE
When all was said and done, it took the combined effort of Beatrice, two maids, and Tom, the livery boy, to drag the stranger up the stairs and into the only remaining guest bedroom with any furnishings. Dust billowed up when they dropped his body onto the mattress, causing one of the maids - a sweet natured brunette named Anna - to cough and wave a hand in front of her face.
“Heavens,” she exclaimed as she squinted down at the stranger, now sprawled diagonally across the bed with his head turned towards the wall. “He’s a heavy one, ain’t he?”
“At least twelve stone,” the second maid estimated as she huffed out a breath and rocked back on her heels. Her name was Sadie, and she and Anna were sisters. They’d come to Stonewall together, traveling all the way from London in search of a better life than a city notoriously hard on those without wealth or a title could provide. Though a bit irritating at times - both sisters were prone to talking too much which was most likely why they hadn’t lasted very long at their previous places of employment - they were always cheerful and took great pride in their work.
“Not twelve,” Anna argued. “I would say at least thirteen.”
“Thirteen?” Sadie said incredulously. “Are you mad in the head? Oh!” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I did not mean any offense, Lady Bea.”
“None taken,” Beatrice murmured, her attention fixed on the man sprawled out before her. They’d removed his boots and greatcoat before carrying him upstairs and now the wound on his left shoulder was more obvious than ever before. Blood had soaked the linen shirt he wore clear through, plastering the fabric to his skin. Just beneath the jut of his collarbone she could make out a tiny circular tear where the bullet must have entered his flesh. Since a similar tear existed on the back of his shirt - something she had made certain to make note of before they laid him out on the bed - she could only assume the bullet had passed cleanly through just as he’d predicted.
Troubled by the sheen of perspiration on his brow despite the chill in the room, she pressed the back of her hand to his temple. A lock of inky black hair had tumbled low over his brow when they moved him and her fingers brushed it as she felt his forehead. Even unconscious and on the brink of death there was no denying the stranger his handsomeness… or the fact that his skin was hot to the touch, indicating fever had already set in.
“What should we do?” Sadie asked. Plumper by her sister by at least a stone, her face was significantly rounder but she had the same twinkling blue eyes and dark brown hair. The siblings were so alike in appearance Beatrice often found herself mistaking one for the other, something which both sisters always seemed to find highly amusing.
“We need to get him warm,” Beatrice decided after a long pause as she tried to remember everything she knew about healing which, unfortunately, was quite little. “And - and we must clean the wound to ward off infection. And the bleeding must be stopped,” she added, causing Sadie’s eyes to widen and Anna’s lips to purse.
“How are we supposed to do all that?” Anna asked skeptically. “We are not doctors.”
“Well… no,” Beatrice admitted. “We are not. But surely it cannot be that hard.” Except for the fact that she loathed the sight of blood and had absolutely no idea how to clean a bullet wound. Still, for the first time in two years she felt as though she finally had a true purpose and she was determined to see it through. She may not have been able to do anything to save Jeffrey but this… this was something she could do. Squaring her shoulders and taking a deep, bracing breath, she leaned over the bed and began to undo the long line of buttons running down the front of the stranger’s shirt.
“We will need more candles,” she ordered over her shoulder, striving to sound far more confident than she felt. “As many fresh linens as we have available, a pair of our sharpest scissors, and at least two buckets of hot water. Well?” she demanded when no one moved. “What are you still doing here? Go!”
Unaccustomed to their mistress speaking to them in such a forceful tone, Sadie, Anna, and Tom clambered over each other to get out of the room, leaving Beatrice alone with the stranger.
She used
the time to take a thorough study of his countenance, leaving no small detail unnoticed, from the thickness of his brows to the tiny scar on the right side of chin. He had the aquiline nose and sharp cheekbones of a nobleman but his mouth, smirking slightly even in unconsciousness, was entirely that of a rogue. His hair was thick and slightly tousled, as though he often ran his hands through it. At first glance Beatrice had thought the color to be solid black, but now that she was able to examine him more closely she saw his hair was in fact a deep, rich sable with reddish undertones. It was also a bit too long, reaching all the way down to his shoulders in an unkempt mass that, despite all reason, suited his appearance and brought to mind a warrior of old.
Her gaze swept hesitantly down the rest of his tall, powerful frame. She’d succeeded in unbuttoning his shirt but had been unable to remove it given his dead weight. When one of the maids returned with the scissors she would cut the fabric from his body, but even with the shirt still halfway on she was afforded a clear, unfettered view of his bare chest. It was only the second unclothed man she’d ever seen, the first, of course, being Jeffrey.
However where Jeffrey’s chest had been pale and smooth to the touch with no distinguishing muscle tone, this man’s was covered in a pelt of dark fur that tapered to a point down by his… well… she wasn’t going to look that far.
Rigid lines of muscles bisected his abdomen, making Beatrice wonder if the flat plane of his stomach was as hard as it looked. Her gaze darted guiltily back to his face. He was still sleeping, completely oblivious to the rest of the world and everything in it. Surely one small touch wouldn’t hurt anything…
“I found a whole stack of linens in the downstairs pantry and Tom is boiling the water now. Sadie is on her way with the scissors and all the candles we could find,” Anna reported breathlessly as she rushed back into the room.
Cheeks suffusing with color, Beatrice snatched her hand away from the stranger’s chest and whirled around. “That is, ah, wonderful. Well done. Thank you.”
Regency Christmas (Holiday Collection) Page 16