Right behind him came a furiously indignant Mr. McHeath, who appeared like an avenging angel materializing from on high.
The other gentlemen moved away as fast as their state would permit, but Ramsley stood his ground. “I was merely talking to them.”
“And now you can stop talking to them and go away,” Quinn commanded.
“You have no right to order me to do anything!”
“Perhaps not, but if you’re wise, you’ll do as I say.”
“Why? Because you’re rich and your family’s an old one?” Ramsley scoffed. “Old and degenerate, if half of what I’ve heard is true. And you are as bad as any of them.”
“I suggest that you cease and desist, Lord Ramsley,” Mr. McHeath said with quiet but stern resolve. “Move away from the ladies.”
Instead of following that sage advice, Ramsley scowled. “So you would order me, too? I’m even less likely to listen to you, McHeath, despite the money your family’s made.
“Why don’t you go back to Jamaica?” he continued with a smirk as he again addressed Quinn. “You can leave the wife, though. I daresay I can make her forget you soon enough.”
Quinn stiffened as if he’d been struck by a bolt of lightning. Then his brows lowered ominously and his hands balled into fists at his sides. Esme took Catriona by the elbow to get her away, while Mr. McHeath quickly moved to get between the two men.
“You shouldn’t do anything rash, my lord,” Mr. McHeath said to Quinn. “There are, however, grounds for—”
“Get out of the way, McHeath,” Quinn growled, his voice low and stern.
“Yes, get out of the way,” Ramsley taunted. “As if his lordship could hurt me.”
“Oh, I can,” Quinn replied, so coldly and calmly that Esme could well believe he intended to murder the fool.
“Ducky, please, let’s go home,” Esme urged, leaving Catriona and taking hold of Quinn’s arm.
“An excellent idea,” Mr. McHeath seconded, clearly just as concerned about what might happen. Meanwhile Catriona inched closer to the solicitor.
“Yes, run away, my lord,” Ramsley taunted. “Isn’t that what you always do? Isn’t that why you went to Jamaica?”
Instead of replying to Ramsley, Quinn gave Esme a strained smile. “Come, my love. I quite agree that this gnat isn’t worth the effort it would take to swat him.”
Esme stifled a sigh of relief. Then, while Quinn’s attention was still on her, Ramsley threw a punch at Quinn’s head. Esme cried a warning at the cowardly attack, but Quinn had already ducked and turned in one fluid motion. Despite his defensive action, the blow landed on his nose and blood trickled down his chin onto his once-pristine cravat.
With a roar like an enraged lion, Quinn retaliated, landing a series of swift blows that sent Ramsley stumbling backward. More people came to see what was going on, while those nearby moved just as swiftly out of the way.
“Stop!”
At the sound of Esme’s distraught voice, Quinn glanced over his shoulder. Ramsley saw his chance and charged forward to hit him again.
But Quinn was ready and spun around to avoid the blow, lunging forward. Using his shoulder, he shoved Ramsley to the polished floor now splattered with blood from his nose, then he grabbed the man’s arm and in one swift move, broke it.
Ramsley screamed as the bone snapped, then turned pale as bleached table linen and fainted dead away.
Panting and satisfied, Quinn straightened, to see Esme staring at him as if she couldn’t believe the evidence of her own eyes.
He’d reacted instinctively to protect himself, but to her, he must have looked like a savage—or her previous poor opinion of him brought to life.
So he feared, until she ran up to him, exclaiming, “What a cowardly, dastardly attack! Ramsley should be arrested!”
Suddenly, his nose didn’t hurt quite so much, although as Lord Luchbracken shouted for a doctor, he just as suddenly remembered he was supposed to be Augustus.
He hadn’t fought like a gentleman. He’d learned to defend himself in the streets and pubs and gambling hells of London, not in some boxing club for the idle rich.
Augustus had been away from Edinburgh for years, Quinn reasoned as he tried not to notice that Esme had thrown her arms around him. Who could say what he’d learned in that time?
“Is your nose broken?” Esme demanded as she stopped hugging him. She pulled his handkerchief from his jacket and began dabbing at his bleeding nose.
Despite his sincere wish to keep his distance, Quinn had the most intense desire to reassure her with a kiss.
Instead he reached up to feel his nose and cheek, wincing when he encountered swelling. “No, although it hurts like h— It hurts,” he said as he took his handkerchief from her and wiped the blood from his chin. “I trust the insolent dog has learned a lesson.”
“I should think so,” McHeath said as he joined them, followed by a worried Catriona. “Since he struck the first blow, you could charge him with assault.”
“And sue him for the value of your ruined clothes,” Esme added.
She sounded exactly like Jamie discussing a case. Quinn cleared his throat, hoping she would realize she might be revealing too much legal knowledge, although what she had said was much less worse in terms of risking their ruse than his actions.
“At least, I—I think so,” she stammered. “Dear Papa was in a similar situation after a coach splashed mud and dung all over his best greatcoat and ruined it completely.”
“I think justice has been adequately served,” he replied.
Lady Elvira thrust her way through a knot of women nearby. “Is he dead?” she cried, staring in horror at the sight of Lord Ramsley. His friends had rolled him over so he was faceup, but he was still lying on the floor.
“He’s alive and likely to stay that way, as am I,” Quinn calmly answered. “If my blood has stained your floor, I’ll happily pay for the repairs.”
“Stained my…?” Lady Elvira murmured as she scrutinized the floor. “Is that blood?”
“Somebody catch her,” Quinn ordered when Lady Elvira began to sway.
As several of the women hurried to help their swooning hostess, Esme leaned close to Quinn and whispered, “I think we’d better be going.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” he replied.
The open flap covering the window of the carriage taking Esme and Quinn back to the Earl of Dubhagen’s town house allowed light from the side lanterns to illuminate the interior. Quinn, however, was mostly in shadow, save for the occasional glimpse of his face when the carriage turned, as if the lantern and the road were conspiring to tease Esme with brief glimpses of her handsome companion’s injured face.
It was clear Quinn was in pain but, like many men, he was trying not to show it. A man like Quinn would probably make light of a broken rib, so she doubted asking him how he felt, or mentioning the circumstances leading up to his injury, would illicit a welcome response.
She also wanted to tell him how relieved she’d been to see him when she and Catriona had been cornered by those oafs. She wanted to thank him for his intervention, even if she’d also been afraid he was either going to kill Ramsley or be hurt himself. But she was too aware of what had happened the last time they were alone in a carriage to risk either a compliment or what he might take as a criticism, and soon enough, the carriage jolted to a halt.
When the footman opened the door, he stared at Quinn as if he’d grown another nose.
“Just a little spot of bother at the party,” Quinn said lightly as he got down from the carriage and held out his hand to help Esme and escort her inside.
When they reached the front door, they encountered McSweeney, who was just as shocked by Quinn’s appearance. “Do you need anything, my lord?” he asked in a whisper. “Bandages, ointment, or…anything?”
“I’m quite all right. Go to bed, McSweeney.”
There was no point trying to gloss over how Quinn had gotten hurt, Esme reasoned. The servants wou
ld hear all about what had happened soon enough. “He looks a fright, I know, but it’s only a bloody nose,” she said with a giggle. “That will teach him to get into a brawl at a party, I hope!”
“Yes, my lady,” the butler muttered, obviously still taken aback as they started up the stairs.
Whatever Quinn might think about his wound, she wasn’t going to leave him alone tonight. She had heard of cases where injuries to the head appeared to be minor, only to lead to death, so she would stay with Quinn to make sure he didn’t begin to manifest more serious symptoms.
Quinn didn’t speak until he saw his valet and her maid waiting for them outside their bedrooms. “You can go,” he said to his valet. “I’ll take care of myself tonight.”
The man seemed relieved and didn’t hesitate to head for the servants’ stairs before Quinn disappeared into his room without even a glance in Esme’s direction.
“You may go, too,” Esme said to her maid, who dutifully and quickly obeyed.
Then she opened Quinn’s door.
Chapter Seventeen
Quinn’s bedroom was as ornately and elaborately decorated as an oriental potentate’s palace, full of dark oak furniture intricately carved, with gold and scarlet brocade curtains on the bed, heavy gold velvet draperies drawn across the windows, a thick Aubusson carpet on the floor, and bronze candleholders full of tall white candles making pools of light. A fire had been kindled in the hearth, and the flames flickered and made the shadows dance as Quinn whirled around to face her. “Esme? What are you—?”
“I think we should send for a doctor or an apothecary,” she replied as she closed the door, her tone brisk and matter-of-fact. A man like Quinn wouldn’t want her pity, or coddling. “Head injuries can seem minor, but prove disastrous.”
“This is nothing,” he said dismissively, proving to her that she was right to think he wouldn’t take kindly to maternal ministrations. “I’ve been more badly hurt.”
“Perhaps you have, but I was not in the vicinity and you were not in my care.”
“I’m not dying and I’m not in your care!” he protested as he vigorously stirred the fire so that the flames leapt even higher. “If you want to play nurse, find another patient.”
“I don’t want to play nurse, as you call it, but since I’m pretending to be your wife, the responsibility for your health resides with me. Are you injured anywhere else?”
“No! Damn it, Esme—!”
“Foul language won’t encourage me to leave, either. And I refuse to believe that after what I witnessed, you aren’t injured anywhere else.”
He threw himself into one of the upholstered armchairs. “I suppose there may be a few bruises,” he grudgingly conceded.
A trickle of blood appeared at the bottom of his swollen nose. When Esme saw it, she felt the same fear she’d experienced when Ramsley had attacked him—but she didn’t dare show it. “Your nose is bleeding. Put your head back,” she ordered as she hurried over to his washstand.
Mercifully he did as he was told without objection, and she began to wipe the blood away with a cool, damp cloth. “Is your nose very painful?”
“It’s not broken,” he replied. “I’m sure I look a treat,” he added sarcastically.
“I hope your pugilistic skills don’t suggest to anyone that you’re not your brother.”
“I acted on instinct—as you did, I assume, when you suggested I sue.”
She couldn’t disagree. “I only noted your style of fighting because we should have some sort of plausible explanation for your unusual methods, should that become necessary.”
“We can say I learned fisticuffs as a hobby. Many gentlemen do.”
“That may be enough to satisfy,” she agreed, as deliberately dispassionate as a lawyer questioning a witness. “Why did your brother go to Jamaica?”
“He left Edinburgh after I was disowned, so I don’t really know. But it could well be that he fled to avoid a scandal, or any hint of one. I told you he has an aversion to scandal.”
“The bleeding’s stopped for now, so if you’ll stand up, I’ll help you take off your jacket,” she said, moving to do so.
He jumped up, tore off his jacket and threw it on the bed. “I don’t need your help to get undressed. Go to your own room, Esme, and leave me alone.”
His sharp angry words were worse than a blow, but she wasn’t going to obey until she was satisfied he was going to be all right. “No.”
Quinn glared at her like an impassioned emperor. “Esme, stop arguing with me. Your presence is no longer required, either in this room, or in Edinburgh. You’re going back to London as soon as I can have your bags packed and the carriage prepared.”
Her stomach twisted with a combination of dismay and disbelief even though she glared at him. She didn’t want to leave before they’d finished their task and she didn’t feel that she was in danger, not so long as Quinn was with her. But more importantly, deep in her heart, she didn’t want to go back to London for a reason that had nothing to do with her safety or their investigation. London would seem lonely and empty now, lacking excitement except for those few times she might see Quinn. See, but never touch. To speak to, but never kiss.
“I won’t. I won’t leave until I’m satisfied we’ve pursued every avenue of our investigation. I came here to help my brother, and unless I’m convinced I’m in immediate physical danger, that’s what I intend to do. You can’t force me to go.”
“That fire and those louts at the party tell me you are in imminent danger, so you’re going to go, even if I have to tie you up like a bale of wool and put you in the carriage myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“I assure you, I would, and I will.”
She could see that he meant it, so she had to find another reason to stay.
And she did, one that was new as of this evening, but valid nonetheless. “I’ve come to believe Catriona still cares for Jamie. If he still loves her, as you seem to think and our presence here apparently attests, I owe it to him to try to mend the breach between them. An incident at a party, a slight fire—what is that compared to my brother’s future happiness? So I tell you again, I will not leave. And I won’t leave this room until I’m sure you aren’t seriously injured.”
Swallowing hard but determined to show him she meant what she said, she began to undo his bloodstained cravat, willing her fingers not to tremble.
“I said I don’t want your help,” he repeated sternly.
“I’m merely removing your cravat.”
He put his warm, calloused hand over hers. “Stop.”
She ignored that order, too. If he really wanted her to stop, he was going to have to push her away.
He didn’t. His hands fell to his sides.
Perhaps he wanted to see how determined she was, or expected her maidenly modesty would make her cease if his orders wouldn’t.
If so, he was about to discover that he was wrong.
“This is ruined,” she noted as she tossed his cravat into the basin.
Pressing her lips together, she began to undo the buttons of his equally bloodstained shirt. “So is this.”
His breathing grew more erratic, his chest rising and falling as rapidly as hers, but he still made no attempt to stop her.
Once his shirt was open, she pushed it back from his shoulders, exposing his leanly muscular torso. There were a few bruises, and many small scars that proved he had not led a charmed or easy life.
He suddenly stepped back as if she’d slapped him.
“Esme, for the love of God, have mercy on me, and go!” he ordered hoarsely, anguish in his eyes as he dropped to his knees. “I’m a wastrel, a fool who squandered his privileged heritage. I’m everything wicked you’ve ever thought of me and I’ll prove it if you stay.”
“No!” she cried, horrified that he would kneel to her. She swiftly reached down to bring him to his feet. “You’re a good man—a kind and generous man, intelligent and brave, and if you’ve made m
istakes in your past, you’ve more than atoned for them since.”
Shaking his head, he backed away.
She must and would tell the truth. “Whatever you’ve done in the past, you have my affection, as well as my admiration and respect.”
His eyes seemed to bore into her very soul. “If I could hope, Esme, I’d want more than your affection, admiration and respect. I’d want your love.”
“Do you truly mean that?” she whispered, afraid to believe it could be true.
“Pretending to be my brother isn’t the first time I’ve acted a part. I’ve been acting ever since I met you, Esme,” he quietly replied. “I mocked and teased you because I didn’t want you to know how I really felt.”
He spoke with such heartfelt yearning, it was as if a rope had been thrown around her and was pulling her slowly toward him. “How do you really feel, Quinn? Please, tell me.”
“I love you,” he whispered, and with absolute sincerity. “I think I’ve been in love with you from the first time I met you, in spite of that ghastly brown gown you were wearing, but I didn’t want to admit it, not even to myself, because that would mean acknowledging everything I’ve done to make me unworthy of you. If only I’d behaved differently, made better choices, been a better, stronger man, I could have hoped that you could love me in return. As it is…”
He reached out and took her hands in his. When he spoke, she saw raw honesty and vulnerability in the depths of his eyes, a soul stripped bare of all its masks and defences. “No other woman has ever touched my heart the way you do, Esme. They’ve had my body, but never my love. Only you.”
It was no lofty declaration made in a rose-filled garden, no vow on bended knee, no promise in a sunlit church. It was a simple statement of fact, clear and concise.
As her heart leapt with joy, she resolved to be as honest about her feelings as he had been about his. “I’ve always felt something for you, too,” she confessed. “No other man ever attracted me as much as you, although I wouldn’t show it. At first, it was only desire, but it was so strong, I was afraid of what would happen if I let you see how you affected me. And I feared I was being as foolish as any love-struck girl. So I told myself over and over that you were a rogue, a scoundrel, a bad man.”
Highland Rogue, London Miss Page 18