Harlequin Historical May 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Elizabeth Rolls

  Carshalton looked as if an exploding shell had landed at his feet. ‘Winthrop?’ he repeated. ‘You’re...you’re Staverton’s—’

  ‘Lord Staverton is my great-uncle, yes.’ Psyché’s head turned slightly and Will caught the edge of the fury blazing off her. ‘Officer, why the devil aren’t you arresting this man for attempted murder?’

  ‘Ah, miss, I’ve got to ask why you two were running.’

  ‘What? Why we were—oh, for God’s sake! Poor Mr Barclay wagered I couldn’t run as fast as he!’

  Will kept his mouth shut.

  The Runner looked dubious. ‘Seems odd, miss, but—’

  ‘Odd?’ Carshalton roared. ‘Damn her for a lying poxy whore! This man is a fortune hunter and he’s paid off his doxy to help abduct my daughter!’

  ‘Ah, Mr Carshalton, sir...’ the Runner sounded as though he had a wolf by the tail ‘...we’ve got no evidence for any of that.’

  ‘Does a man with a bullet in his side not constitute evidence?’ Psyché demanded in a blistering voice. ‘Get him out of here, Officer, before my complaint to Sir Richard involves you and your men.’

  ‘Sir... Sir Richard, miss?’

  ‘Sir Richard Ford, Officer. The Chief Magistrate.’

  ‘You...you know him?’

  ‘He is a friend of my great-uncle, so certainly I know him. Get this oaf out of here!’

  ‘Oaf? Why, you—!’

  ‘Out, sir!’ Apparently the mere threat of Ford had made the Runner a great deal more certain of his ground. He actually caught Carshalton’s arm and hustled him out of the room.

  Will started to laugh, but it hurt too damn much.

  He must have made some sort of sound because Psyché turned to him, all the fury draining to fear and worry.

  ‘Will!’ She came to him through the fog of pain, bending over him. ‘Stay still. Please. And don’t try to talk.’

  ‘Not tha’ bad.’

  ‘Bleeding’s slowing, Miss Psyché.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  For an instant the pressure lifted.

  ‘Well done. I’ll take it now.’

  The pressure came right back along with the dizzying blackness.

  Psyché’s voice came from somewhere a long way away, snapping orders as though she stood on a quarterdeck. ‘Caleb! Go for a doctor, a surgeon.’

  Someone groaned and he realised, with a shock, that it was himself.

  ‘Mr Selbourne went already.’

  ‘Scissors, then, and help me lift him. I need to cut this coat off.’

  What? Not his good coat! But his tongue wouldn’t work, or maybe it was his brain, and he heard the snip, snip, felt the slide of cold metal against his side. Damn it. That was his shirt, too.

  Finally, finally, they laid him down. God! He must be covered in blood. What about—?

  ‘Shut up, Will. I can afford new bedding. The doctor will be here soon.’

  He drifted in and out. Voices. Psyché’s voice, soothing and gentle, then sharp with surprise—‘What? He’s here? Oh, thank God! Send him straight up.’

  That would be the bloody surgeon, no doubt...

  But there was another familiar, if unexpected, voice, deep and calm, telling him to drink something. A strong arm supported him and a cup was held to his lips. He sipped. Recognised the bitterness of opium and tried to shove it away. He’d be seeing pixies and pink elephants if not worse.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot, Will. Drink it.’

  He so rarely heard that sharp a command from Huntercombe that he obeyed. Swallowed the entire disgusting draught and floated off again before he could really take in that Huntercombe was there.

  * * *

  The fires of hell in his side dragged him back as something dug around in there with merciless precision.

  Another voice. ‘Hold him very still, my lord. Blasted thing’s lodged near his rib. Damned nuisance.’

  Fair enough. He didn’t much like that himself.

  ‘Another cloth, girl. Thank you.’

  More poking and digging... Oh, hell!

  ‘Ah! Got you, you bugger. There we are. It’s out.’

  Thank you, God!

  ‘He’s been lucky, my lord. The ball didn’t penetrate anything much...’ the hell it didn’t! ‘...and missed all the major blood vessels. Must have been right at the limit of its range. Just lodged near the bone. I’ll have a look, but I don’t think it’s even chipped.’

  Right. That was good. Especially if the damn butcher had finished with—Sod!

  ‘Sorry about that, son. Need to make sure there’s nothing left to cause infection. Little bits of cloth, or bone for that matter. Hold him, my lord.’

  He gritted his teeth and endured until the black wave dragged him under again.

  * * *

  Psyché sat beside her bed, watching Will as Huntercombe saw the surgeon out with profuse thanks for his services. She let out a ragged breath. They were safe. At least she was. But Will... She fought to hold back tears. She could not think past this man who had deliberately taken a bullet for her.

  He lay so still, so pale. The surgeon had strapped his side, lain him flat. Apart from the strapping and bandage, he was naked to the waist.

  ‘Don’t let him sit up unassisted. We’ll hope there’s no infection, but call me back if there is. That’s the main danger now. Call me sooner rather than later.’

  Will’s right hand lay limp on the counterpane. Or it would have if she hadn’t been holding it. She felt as though she had to hold his hand. That only in that way could she keep him there, stop him slipping away. This was her fault. If she hadn’t had that hare-brained plan to act as decoy...or at least hadn’t allowed Will to be her escort—

  Huntercombe came in, looking grey and tired. Apparently he’d left Cornwall on horseback as soon as he received Selbourne’s letter, riding straight through, changing horses constantly and only stopping when the light failed. He sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the bed and released a breath. He gazed at Will’s face for a moment, then those sombre grey eyes lifted to her face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘It was my fault... I—’

  ‘Stop.’

  Even if his lordship hadn’t used that firm voice that brooked no argument, grief and fear choked her.

  ‘Psyché. My dear. It wasn’t your fault.’

  She saw Huntercombe through a blur of tears. ‘It was my plan to act as a decoy.’

  ‘It was a good plan,’ he said quietly. ‘Selbourne explained. You were right—the Runners wouldn’t have fired. It was Carshalton.’

  ‘But, if I hadn’t allowed Will to come with me, then—’

  Huntercombe let out the ghost of a laugh. ‘That would have been quite an argument.’ He laid a gentle hand on Will’s forehead. ‘My dear, he’d be blaming himself if you’d been shot. As it was Carshalton missed you and—’

  ‘He didn’t miss.’ Her voice shook. She had gone over and over it. ‘He dropped back when Carshalton threatened to shoot at Catherine—Kit. He—Will—put himself between me and the pistol.’ She couldn’t stop the tears now. They had been there all along, held back by the sheer necessity of getting Will here, dealing with his wound and throwing Carshalton out when he forced his way in to threaten Will.

  Huntercombe swore softly. ‘My apologies. You’re telling me Carshalton intended to shoot his own daughter?’

  She could only nod.

  ‘Sir?’

  Will’s eyes opened.

  Huntercombe leaned forward. ‘Rest easy, Will.’

  ‘Psyché...where—?’

  Her heart lurched. ‘I’m here, Will.’

  His cloudy gaze drifted to her face and a faint smile touched his lips. ‘You’re safe.’ His voice strengthened and Psyché felt his fingers grip. ‘Kit?’

&n
bsp; Huntercombe’s brows rose. ‘Safely away.’ He leaned forward and brushed a lock of hair back. ‘You did well. But next time, try not to get shot.’

  ‘I’ll remember that. Bloody hurts.’

  Psyché stared at him. Was that amusement in his voice? Men!

  Huntercombe spoke again. ‘The nature of bullet wounds. Go back to sleep, Will.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ But Will’s gaze remained on hers and his fingers tightened. ‘You’ll be here?’

  ‘I promise.’

  She watched as Will slid away into sleep again. They had done everything they could for now. All that was left was prayer.

  ‘You should sleep, too, Psyché.’

  She looked at Huntercombe over Will’s sleeping form, then looked down at his hand, the fingers still curled loosely around hers.

  ‘Not yet.’

  He sighed. ‘Believe me—short of tying him up, you could not have stopped Will going with you. He makes his own decisions. Always. Even when it would be easier and far safer to do what others want or expect.’ A brief laugh shook him. ‘In that he’s very like yourself.’

  * * *

  She dozed off eventually, still in the chair, Will’s hand safe in hers.

  Huntercombe watched her with a troubled gaze. How was it that the child he had known had grown up so fast to become a beautiful and vibrant woman?

  Well. Maybe not so fast. He did a small calculation. Thirteen years had passed since Staverton had shocked society by taking his illegitimate, slave-born great-niece into his home and raising her as a member of his family. Some had thought his actions admirable. Most had been horrified. Disgusted, even. Many had made it clear that they would never consider Psyché as anything but the bastard spawn of a slave woman. Something not quite human, that might be trained to ape—oh, and they’d used that word deliberately with titters behind fans, and sniggers over a brandy—her betters, but would never be accepted by them.

  Knowing that, and desiring to protect the child, Staverton had ensured she was shielded from the worst of it. He himself had been among the few to see much of the child over the years. He’d watched her grow up and had only affection and respect for her character and intelligence. He’d become one of her trustees, determined to help Staverton protect her, when she had chosen to chart her own path rather than follow the conventional one Staverton had envisaged.

  How the hell was he supposed to tell Staverton that the girl he was supposed to protect had acted on his behalf to save the daughter of Josiah Carshalton?

  It shouldn’t surprise him.

  Psyché was not as other women. In choosing her path she had declined to accept a woman’s usual restrictions. She made her own decisions and she had decided to help Kit, no matter the cost. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t want her safe. And she was safe, thanks to Will’s courage. But beyond her safety, he wanted her happiness. He looked at their hands linked in sleep and wondered.

  What the devil had been unleashed here? It wouldn’t have surprised him to learn that Will had fallen for Kit—he had a chivalrous streak and she was the classic damsel in distress. But Will’s first concern just now had been for Psyché’s safety. And Psyché? There was more here than horror that someone had been hurt protecting her.

  He leaned forward, touched the boy’s brow again. Still no fever and he was an idiot. Will was no boy. He was a man. Not even—he did another mental calculation—that young a man at thirty-two. He knew his own mind and held his course, no matter who disapproved.

  Which reminded him—he should send for Will’s mother in the morning. Please God, he was in no danger, but if anything went wrong... He would not think of that possibility. But regardless he still had to send for the boy’s—for Will’s mother.

  He mentally outlined the gist of his intended letter—namely, informing a woman that while her son had been shot the wound was not immediately life-threatening. However, he thought it best to apprise—that was a good word—yes, apprise her of the situation and assure her of a welcome in his house should she decide to come up to town to see Will for herself. In fact, he should probably send the carriage.

  He hoped it would be possible to move Will to Grosvenor Square before the lady arrived in London. If Mrs Helena Barclay could see her rebellious second son now—his head on the pillow turned to the girl he’d been shot for, his fingers loosely entwined with hers while they both slept—the bullet hole in his side would be of secondary concern to her.

  How was he supposed to face Staverton if he exposed the man’s great-niece to exactly the ugliness they had tried to protect her from?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Psyché roused to mild cursing. Will was trying to sit up.

  ‘Protect you...won’t allow it...dangerous!’

  ‘Will.’ She set a gentle hand on his chest, restraining him. ‘There’s no danger. I’m here. We’re both safe.’

  He stared at her from fever-bright eyes. ‘Psyché?’

  Her throat swelled. ‘Yes.’

  He glanced down at their hands, still linked. Flushing, she tried to pull free, but his grip tightened. ‘Stay. Stay.’

  She needed the cloths to bathe his face, cool him, but his fingers gripped, hot and dry.

  On the other side of the bed, Huntercombe blinked sleepily and straightened in his chair. ‘He’s feverish?’

  ‘Yes.’ The wound itself, now the ball was out, was nothing. Infection was always the danger.

  Huntercombe bent over him. He glanced up at Psyché. ‘We should get some more medicine into him.’

  Fear choked her, but she nodded. ‘If you help him sit up, I’ll dose him.’ She drew a deep breath, forcing herself to stay in the present, not to see another bed, her mother’s pain-racked, feverish form. She focused on the willow bark extract the doctor had prescribed, measuring it into the spouted cup.

  ‘Will.’ Huntercombe’s voice was gentle but firm. ‘Sit up now.’ He slipped an arm behind him.

  Will’s eyes opened again.

  ‘There you are.’ Huntercombe supported him and beckoned Psyché forward.

  ‘Drink this, Will.’ She slipped the spout between his lips and tilted. He swallowed, then made a face. ‘It’s not that bad,’ she chided. ‘And the rest. To please me.’

  He obeyed, downing the entire dose.

  ‘Well done.’ Huntercombe made to lay him back down.

  ‘Sir.’ Psyché shook her head. ‘We should check the wound again.’

  He nodded. ‘Very well.’

  They unwound the bandage and Psyché’s stomach lurched. The wound was an angry, red mess, oozing pus.

  Huntercombe swore softly.

  Will grimaced. ‘That good?’

  Psyché bit her lip. ‘We’ll clean it,’ she said.

  Several distressing minutes later the wound was as clean as brandy could make it. With the pus gone, it didn’t look as bad, but the angry red spelled a warning. Will had lapsed back into unconsciousness.

  Huntercombe was breathing hard. He looked up at her and she knew what he was going to say—that they should call the doctor back and they should, but... Psyché reached over to touch his arm lightly.

  ‘Sir? We can try something extra with the dressing.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  She took a deep breath. It hadn’t helped Mam, but Mam’s injuries had been too horrific, the consequent fever too swift and devastating...she saw again—No. She could not, would not, go back there in her thoughts. ‘Honey. My...in Kingston, when I was—’ She broke off. Had to fight for breath, for sanity. No. Not even to Huntercombe could she speak of that. ‘I got a burn and it became putrid. They used honey to draw out the infection. And...and cobwebs—fresh ones in the bandage.’

  ‘Cobwebs?’

  She couldn’t blame him for the disbelief. ‘I know it sounds mad, but—’
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br />   ‘Not entirely,’ he said slowly. ‘My head coachman swears by honey in the poultice if one of the horses cuts itself. Stay with Will. Your lad and I will see what we can find.’

  * * *

  Will drifted in strange byways, his mind fogged. There were voices always in the fog. A husky, musical voice reading quietly from Shakespeare. Occasionally that voice commanded him to sit up and take his medicine when the pain came back. He was glad the voice was there—it helped keep the snakes at bay. At least he supposed they were snakes—strange writhings of colour twisting around the bedposts. If he focused on the voice they kept their distance.

  The doctor came again, did something to his side that hurt beyond all imagining, so that he either had to scream or swear. At last the pain surged too high and he fell back into the darkness where, if the pain was not gone, at least it was further away.

  Psyché. He clung to the name, to the image of the tired, worried face that hovered in the fog, gentle hands pressing something cool and refreshing to his face, his throat, his shoulders. There had been something he wanted to tell her...

  Another worried voice—Huntercombe. He tried to sit up, but something held him down. ‘Stay down, Will.’

  Psyché. Where was she? Had they shot her?

  ‘She’s safe, Will. See? Here she is.’

  ‘I’m fine, Will.’ That tender, worried voice held him securely.

  There were bricks weighing on his eyes, in his eyes, but he forced them open. And she was there.

  Keep her safe.

  ‘I promise I’ll keep her safe for you, Will. Rest now.’

  Relieved, he let the weight of those bricks slide him back down into the fog.

  * * *

  When he surfaced again the weights were gone as well as the damn snakes. His side hurt as though a thousand devils had scorched it and he ached in every part of him, but his head was clear. Well, clearish. It felt as if his brain were stuffed with damp wool.

  What had happened? Had he been ill?

  A fire flickered in the grate and a branch of candles stood on a table by the bed. But these things were peripheral because Psyché was there. And he was in her bed again.