Lady Scandal

by Shannon Donnelly

  Still, he wanted now to see if he could tear open her heart as she had once done to him. And this time, might she be the one seduced only to be cast aside? A sweet thought that one. He let it linger.

  Hands fumbling, she finished knotting the ends of the makeshift bandage. "That will do."

  "Yes, yes it will," he agreed. Her chin lifted and he felt her stare on him, searching in the darkness to see him.

  The carriage hit a rut in the road, jostling him, throwing him back against the leather squabs. It threw Alexandria against him, and he caught her, partly so she would not land against the gash in his side and partly because he ached to have his hands on her.

  His fingers tightened around her arms, and he held her. Long enough to feel her softness give under his grip. Long enough to hear the ragged breath that trembled in her. Long enough for the heat from her face to warm his.

  He smiled as the pulse fluttered in her wrists. So she still could not be honest with him. While her voice might lie with its scorn, her body could not. She gave to him—gave as he had dreamed of for far too many nights. But it was not enough.

  This time he was no idealistic youth caught with his heart in his first love. This time he knew how to seduce a woman—even a woman such as her. This time he could use his skills against her.

  Pulling away from him, she fled to the other side of the coach. He let her go. He had time yet. And more than a hundred miles to the coast of France.

  Shutting his eyes, he relaxed. "The world always changes, and not always for the better, my Lady Scandal."

  He had spoken in French. Hands folded tight in her lap, Alexandria listened to Paxten's soft mutter. She understood only a little of it—he had used that much-hated name for her.

  However, it was his tone that chilled her. So empty. So hard. So very unlike the man she had once known. She turned away to stare out the coach window at nothing but darkness. The gentleman she had known had never had such harsh words. She shivered and began to smooth on her gloves again. She traveled, it seemed, with a stranger. Her heart tightened.

  This was not wise to even consider traveling with him. Yet, she had to think of Diana. Paxten could pass himself off as a native—his father had been one, after all. That might well speed their journey home. But she also remembered him as a man who put himself and his pleasures first. He never had given any thought to consequences or duty. Did that argue well for Diana's safety?

  Putting a hand up, she rubbed her forehead. She did not have to decide anything at this instant. She could think better in the morning when they stopped again for food and fresh horses. Yes, that would do. After all, she could not very well put him down on the road in the middle of the night, though that might be wise.

  She had never been very wise with him.

  After taking off her bonnet, she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the corner of the coach, hoping for sleep. But her fingertips tingled—how good it had been even to skim her fingers across his skin. She kept seeing his shirt fall open to show that broad muscular chest. Her mouth dried. And her chest tightened. Shifting in her seat, she thought of what he'd said and what she had seen.

  He had made light of the injury, but she had seen the blood on his side. What if infection set in? Or...oh, stop cosseting the man! If he said he needed only a soft bed and drink, she ought to see him to some locale where he could get them. They could part ways again. That would no doubt be best for everyone.

  Only she could not bear the thought of it.

  Opening her eyes, she stared into the darkness again.

  Why must their paths cross now? And why must they part again so soon? But she knew the answer. Knew it because she had felt it shimmering around him—he hated her. And, God forgive her, perhaps she deserved it.

  #

  Sunlight brushed her eyelids, and the slowing of the coach pulled Alexandria awake. Straightening, she touched a hand to an aching neck. Her hair must look frightful. She glanced at her niece to see if she still slept.

  Diana had not taken off her bonnet and now she lay with it pushed to one side. In the pale dawn, she looked lovely, her skin soft, dark lashes resting against her cheeks, her golden curls tumbled and loose. Alexandria ran a hand over her face, certain she had added new lines to it last night. Well, that could not be helped.

  Quietly, she stretched and avoided looking at Paxten. The dawn lay pale on the green countryside. Heads down, black and white cows grazed in a pasture. A flock of dark birds winged across the sky. The peaceful scenery made last night—with its ruined house and soldiers and hasty flight—seem unreal.

  But a booted foot brushed against hers, drawing her stare to the boot and upwards to the man seated across from her.

  He lay on his side, his long, muscular legs spilling off the seat. His shirt had twisted and pulled open to show enough of him above the bandage that her pulse quickened. She ought to look away and not stare at the corded muscles of his neck or at the glimpse of broad chest visible over those crooked bandages.

  Face warm, she looked away only to glance back, telling herself that she had to ensure he was not still bleeding.

  Her bandages seemed to have held, for only his shirt showed the dark brown of dried blood. The ragged blue strips of fabric wound around his middle looked untidy.

  How could a man be so disheveled and so attractive?

  His foot brushed hers again as the coach slowed. And his eyes opened and his dark stare locked on hers.

  Heat washed up her chest and into her cheeks. Still, she stared back. Rude of her. Rude of him to watch her in return, those liquid brown eyes so devastating with their unnerving intensity.

  She parted her lips to say something—something trivial and polite. Only the words lodged in her chest in a sharp ache. If she uttered anything it would be something foolish, such as, Why did you not come back?

  She did not voice the question. He might answer with a truth that she did not want to hear.

  Mastering herself, she gave him a slight nod. He continued to stare, and she remembered the first time they had met. He had stared at her then; stared at her from across a table at which a hundred dined, making her feel foolish, and ridiculously feminine for being so fascinating. Thankfully, she was beyond wanting such attention from him now.

  She turned away, making the movement deliberate. She had to straighten her shoulders to keep from looking back at him.

  The driver had turned off the main road and the carriage now rolled down a narrow lane towards a small village. Smoke rose from the chimneys of a dozen buildings. She would think of hot bread. Yes, and of tea. What would she not give for a hot cup of Bohea? She would not think of him. And of those dark, knowing eyes. Nor of the rush of pleasure it gave her to look into them again.

  Twisting in her seat, she decided that when she did reach home again, she would have a proper traveling chaise built. That was a better thing to think about. She would plan such a carriage. One with seats that folded out to a bed.

  The image followed at once—her and Paxten lying in such a bed, the carriage rocking them in each other's arms. Heat rushed through her again in a frantic flush. She did not look at Paxten for fear he would see that image in her eyes, that he would know where her thoughts of him had gone.

  As they passed into the village, the carriage began to slow. Dogs chased out into the dirt road, barking shrill, with more energy than real threat.

  Suddenly, Alexandria wanted out of the coach. She wanted to stretch her legs and use whatever facilities might be available. It would be heaven to wash her face. And she wanted to be away from Paxten. How could he start to dismantle all her poise, all her defenses with a glance? She could not allow that. She needed time to gather her wits. A few moments to remind herself that she was Lady Sandal—a respectable woman with a grown son and far beyond the age of foolishness now.

  Turning, she roused Diana with a shake. "My dear, do wake. We shall stop for breakfast."

  Eyes closed, Diana mumbled, "What? What is it?"r />
  "It is dawn, and we are...I have no idea where we are. My dear, do wake."

  Paxten's voice, low and lazy, vibrated on Alexandria's skin. "Leave la fille to slumber yet. The sun will still come up as it must."

  Alexandria risked a glance at him and saw that he no longer lay across the seat but sat straight, and he no longer stared at her with that simmering intensity in his eyes. His expression seemed shuttered now, masked with a cynical weariness. Or perhaps just fatigue. She frowned. He did look pale—too pale.

  As she watched him, his smile twisted and he asked, "Shall I order food? And rooms where you may wash and change? We must be miles from Paris, so a short rest can do no harm. But we shall have to make up some story to explain my battered state."

  "Perhaps a duel over another man's wife?" Alexandria suggested, her tone dry. His eyes narrowed a fraction, and she caught her lower lip with her teeth. So she had guessed right—a woman had been involved.

  Jealousy cut sharp through her, and she fought it down, telling herself over and over that she had given away any say in his life years ago. But her sensible thoughts seemed not to have any connection to her unreasonable feelings.

  Paxten seemed not to notice her inner turmoil. He only crooked his mouth and said, "Ah, but how can I be fighting duels when you are now Madam Marsett—oh, don't frown. If you do, you won't look like the dutiful and silent wife."

  "Then I shall be the sister—the one who disapproves of you." She turned from him. "Diana, do wake please. We must send one of the footmen back to see about Marie-Jeanne, to ensure she is at least returned to Paris and her family."

  Yawning, Diana sat up and pushed her bonnet straight. The carriage stopped, and Paxten muttered something. He hauled himself up and swung out the door. He stood there, swaying for a moment, before he let down the steps and offered one hand to Diana, saying something in French. Diana pinked as if flattered, but she took his hand and stepped from the coach.

  Alexandria frowned as Paxten held his hand to her, his French so deliberate that even she could understand, "Do you stay in the coach all day, my sweet sister."

  He drawled the word for sister so that it came out a caress—suhr, it came out. A soft endearment. She struggled for some answer in French, gave it up and simply glared. But she gave him her hand.

  His grip held more strength than she would credit, and when she stood next to him, she glanced at him, prepared to give him a curt thank you. She forgot the words as she glanced at him.

  He looked more than exhausted. Pale skin pulled tight across high cheekbones. A day's growth of beard darkened his jaw, making him look disreputable and unfairly handsome. His gaze had become unfocused. Worried, she touched a gloved hand to his shoulder.

  He glanced at her. The breeze ruffled his hair. He muttered something in French and with black eyelashes fluttering closed, fainted to the ground.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  She grabbed for him, but only caught his shirt, doing little to break his fall. Going to her knees beside him, she tore off her gloves to put a hand to his face. "Paxten! Paxten?"

  His skin burned. She wanted to kick him for being so careless with himself. She wanted to scold him for terrifying her. Instead, she put a shaking hand to her head and struggled for something sensible to do. A doctor. She had told him he needed a doctor.

  Straightening, one hand still on his chest, she called out, her words halting as she struggled with the language, "Ici, s'il vous plaît! J'ai besoin d'un médecin."

  Would a village this small even have a doctor?

  Her words drew stares from the coach driver and a dark-haired, portly man with an apron tied around his wide middle and a tan vest open over a crisp, white shirt. The portly man—the innkeeper, she decided—said out something to a slack jaw stable boy, cuffed the lad to get him moving and hurried forward.

  Between the coach driver and the innkeeper, they managed to get Paxten into the inn, up the stairs and onto a bed. Alexandria followed them, biting on her lower lip to keep back the flow of English words that she wanted to babble at them.

  I shall learn French after this—or, better still, I shall remain in England where I belong.

  She understood enough of the innkeeper's rough country dialect to grasp that he had sent the stable boy to the next town over to fetch the nearest surgeon With Paxten stretched out on a narrow bed in a small bedchamber tucked under the roof eves, the landlord turned and urged her to leave. She grasped that he did not think it proper for her to be present as they undressed Paxten. She agreed. Still, she hated to go, and from the doorway, she paused to glance back.

  Thankfully, Paxten wore his boots loose enough that they slid off with no more than a gentle pull from the coachman. The bloodstained shirt came off even more easily, sliding off his limp body as the landlord held him up in the bed and the coachman dragged off the ruined garment. Paxten's head angled to the side as the landlord held him.

  Alexandria's heart tightened.

  Hard enough to live in a world in which she could not see his face every day. Impossible to imagine one in which he did not exist.

  She gripped the doorjamb. I must stop making this into so much—it is only that he has lost so much blood. But her fingers tingled with a reminder of how hot his skin had been. Bertram had died of such a fever after his shooting accident.

  She shut the memory away.

  The landlord laid Paxten's unconscious form down again and the coachman started to undo the buttons to Paxten's breeches. Alexandria fled.

  At the bottom of the stairs she stopped again, to think, to try to plan. She could not imagine that Paxten might continue on with them today. Perhaps not even for a few more days. And that put them all in danger. Still, what choice did she have now?

  But this was not her decision alone, she knew.

  Diana came in a moment later, smiling brightly. "I sent Armand back to Paris—oh, I ought to speak French only, but...what is it? What is wrong?"

  Catching her niece's hand, Alexandria led the girl into a small parlor. Like the rest of the inn she had seen so far, the woodwork gleamed with polish as did the few pieces of simple furnishings. White curtains framed a window that overlooked the front of the inn, and wildflowers, tucked into a blue pottery jug on a table, splashed color into the room. Absurd to notice such details now. But it calmed her to list them in her mind.

  Sitting down on a wooden settee that stood next to the unlit hearth, she tugged on Diana's hand so that her niece sat beside her.

  I must be rational about this. Only how did one turn jumbled fears into any kind of sensible order?

  Wetting her lips, she started to explain. "Paxten—Mr. Marsett, he fainted. Bother! That makes it sound as if he is a London miss at a first ball—he is upstairs, unconscious. And burning with fever. I...my dear, I cannot leave him like this. Not until I know if he will...."

  She choked off the words. She could not say them. Could not give any possible reality to something she did not want to happen.

  Diana frowned, her smooth forehead now bunched tight, the dark arches of her eyebrows tugged flat. "Of course we cannot leave."

  "No, you must go on. Your safety—"

  "Is your responsibility. Yes, yes, I know. I certainly heard you promise Father too many times how you would look after me on this trip. But if you send me on alone that is hardly looking after me, now is it? And if you try to, I shall simply not go. I could not leave you—or Mr. Marsett, for that matter."

  Folding her hands on her lap, Diana stared at her aunt.

  Absurd, really, how everyone thought that blond curls, a pretty face, and only seventeen years in this world meant a lack of sense. She wrinkled her nose. Her own fault, probably, for being lazy enough to always take the easiest course. Which meant being a dutiful daughter, and niece, and...and, oh, she was not about to be sheltered from what might be the only real adventure of her life.

  Her aunt had on her steely gaze—gray eyes flat, lips pressed tight, slight frown wrinkling her forehea
d. Diana lifted her chin. She could withstand her aunt's glare, for she knew how deep an affection lay behind it.

  Rising, her aunt paced across the room. "No, I suppose I cannot send you off on your own. But I cannot risk you. Only if we leave Mr. Marsett—"

  "Leave him?" Diana leapt up. "As you just said, we cannot leave the poor man here with...with strangers. I mean—" She bit her lower lip. She must have a care. She had felt the tension between Mr. Marsett and her aunt. She had also heard a good deal in what they had not said to each other. And she was not about to see her aunt abandon such an intriguing man.

  Of course, it would be sensible to do so, but being sensible never got one into any exploits.

  "If you left him, you would never forgive yourself. Nor could I—forgive myself, that is, for I could not blame you if you were thinking first of me. But if you are thinking of me, then think of how it would scar my young soul to abandon someone who is obviously quite well known to you—"

  "Years ago, I knew him. No longer."

  "Still, that must count, must it not? Even if he were a stranger, we still could not abandon him. That would be heartless. There is the story of the Good Samaritan, after all, to serve as our example."

  "As I recall, Samaritan was not attempting to flee a hostile country."

  Diana caught her aunt's hand. "But you know I am right. Besides, we are well out of Paris. And we could use a rest, could we not? Why not stop just for a day?"

  Shaking her head, Alexandria knew she was being persuaded. They ought to leave. She could give the landlord enough money to ensure Paxten's care. But what if the landlord did not use the funds for a doctor's attendance? Or what if Paxten did not recover rapidly enough to avoid capture by the soldiers who sought him?