Night Storm (Bones & Gemstones Book 1)

by Tracey Devlyn

  The amusement was back in Jules’s voice. “Your concern is appreciated. But I’ve been traversing the streets of London for nearly two decades. I’ll be able to manage the short distance back to the hotel.”

  Wasting no more time, Adair ascended up the stairs.

  Jules closed the door and stepped back. Before the carriage jolted forward, he said, “Talk to Charlotte about Scotland.”

  “I already did…during our meal earlier.”

  “That may be true, but I suspect there’s more to discover.”

  As always, Jules’s features gave little away, yet his keen eyes spoke volumes—if one knew how to decipher the message. Adair had been around Jules long enough to be able to read some of the signs. What he saw in his friend’s clear eyes, combined with the slight tilt of his head, gave Adair pause.

  The driver flicked the reins, sending the horses into motion.

  “Speak to her, Adair.”

  Jules’s piercing gaze stayed with him for a long while. By the time the hansom rolled to a stop outside Charley’s shop, he had come to an unsettling conclusion.

  His world was about to shatter into a million unrecognizable pieces, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it. Other than walk away.

  Today’s incident had revealed an undeniable truth. Neither he nor Charley would ever walk away again.

  Instead of walking away, he opened the figurative door and plowed into the abyss that was now his life.

  # # #

  Charlotte’s eyes popped open, then immediately closed again, her eyelids weighted down by her fatigue. She lay on the cot in the back room, listening for the sound that had awoken her from a deep sleep.

  The outer door rattled on its hinges as if a battalion of soldiers were trying to force their way in. She scrambled upright, blinking quickly to moisten her dry, bleary eyes. Finally, she made it to her feet just as the banging on the door started again.

  “Charley, are you in there?” Cameron yelled through the door.

  For heaven’s sake, the man would have every shopkeeper on Long Acre poking their heads outside to see what lunatic had invaded their peaceful street.

  The back room was quite dark, so she had to feel her way around until her hand landed on the door latch. She stumbled her way through her office and braced herself for the shot of eye-stabbing light.

  She heard one telltale click followed by another a mere second later before the front door swung open. On bended knee, Cameron struggled to gain his feet. The action looked awkward and painful, for he could not put the necessary weight on his injured leg to help him rise.

  “What on Earth!” She rushed to his side and draped his free arm around her shoulder. “Let me help you up.”

  He hissed a pained breath, and she realized she had stretched the bounds of movement of his wounded shoulder.

  “Serves you right for breaking into my shop,” she said. “In another ten seconds, I would have had the door open.”

  “In another ten seconds, you could have been dead.”

  “Oh, Cameron,” she said in exasperation, even while her heart ached with gratitude. “I was perfectly safe, as you can see.”

  Once she got him to his feet, he released her, as if she had scolded him somehow. “Why didn’t you answer the door?”

  “Can we take this discussion inside?” Given the lateness of the hour, most of the shops were dark, although she could see that a few candles had been lit and those curious neighbors were craning their heads, this way and that, trying to discover what was going on in the street.

  He followed her in, his limp more pronounced than she had seen it in a while. When she made to shut the door, he motioned her away. Not only did he close the door, he locked it. Then he flipped the Open sign to Closed, something she had failed to do when she had come home.

  “Now, we’re inside, away from prying eyes. Answer my question.”

  His tone, his evident anger, his taking over her shop as though he had a right, made her blood hum with indignation. She came close to saying nothing until she realized his actions were born out of fear. Fear for her safety.

  She forced the tension from her neck, shoulders, arms, back, stomach, all the way down until even her toes felt free to wriggle. “I fell asleep in the back room. With the doors closed, I didn’t hear your first attempts to get my attention.”

  With a thoroughness that left her breathless, his gaze roamed over her body until it settled on her feet. Her stockinged feet.

  Embarrassed to be caught in such dishabille, she curled her toes as if that would help matters. By the time she lifted her gaze, Cameron’s countenance had softened, and a small smile played along his full mouth.

  “You’re adorable when all mussed from sleep.” His silver-blue eyes locked on her mouth. “In fact, I’ve often wondered if you drooled in your sleep.”

  She slapped a hand over her mouth, surreptitiously feeling for moisture or, even worse, a crusty trail. Her exploration found neither.

  Cameron burst out laughing.

  The sound was at once annoying beyond measure and beautiful for its rarity. “Cameron Adair, if I weighed another ten stone, I would drape you over my knee and swat your behind.”

  His amusement slowly died, and he stared at her for what felt like an eternity. Her cheeks warmed for reasons she couldn’t name, and her body pulsed in places it had never pulsed before.

  “You don’t need brawn to get me on your lap. A simple invitation would do.”

  Now she understood the soft lines around his eyes and mouth were formed by sensual interest. Something her body instinctively recognized, but failed to translate for her sluggish mind.

  An image of her hand caressing the smooth flesh of his buttocks surfaced in her mind, washing away the last dregs of sleep. Only Cameron wasn’t draped over her lap, he lay on his stomach amid white satin sheets, naked and moaning.

  “Charley,” he said in a low husky voice. “What are you thinking about?”

  She moistened her dry lips and inhaled a deep, calming breath. “Nothing in particular. What brings you here?”

  “Liar,” he said softly. Cameron lifted his arm and winced.

  Her eyes narrowed. It was then she recalled her intent to check his wounds once he had escorted her home. Mr. Hermann’s interference and her mind’s surrender to sleep had momentarily distracted her from her original purpose. Not any longer. “Follow me, if you please.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Rather than answer, she lit a lamp and lifted it high enough to illuminate their path. Once they reached the back room, she lit two more before giving him her full attention. “Take your coat and shirt off, please.”

  “Pardon?”

  Gesturing with her index finger, she waggled a hand up and down his torso. “Your coat, waistcoat, and shirt. Remove them.”

  He cleared his throat. “Not that I mind disrobing in front of you, but would you care to tell me why?”

  “I’m concerned about your shoulder wound.”

  “It’s healing fine.”

  “Earlier today, I saw you rub the area several times. Just now, you winced when you lifted your arm.” She pulled down several jars from the medicine cupboard.

  “How nice of you to keep such a close eye on me.”

  “There’s nothing ‘close’ about it. It was rather obvious.”

  “You know as well as I do that a healing wound can be itchy and uncomfortable.”

  She pinned him with a look, one that dared him to lie. “So the area around your shoulder is itchy?”

  His lips compressed.

  “Just as I thought. Is the pain throbbing?”

  He gave her an infinitesimal nod.

  “Did I not tell you to seek out your physician at the first sign of infection?”

  “I don’t know that the wound is infected.”

  “But you do know it’s not healing right, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he gritted out.

  “Have you visi
ted your regular physician yet?”

  He began unbuttoning his multicaped greatcoat. “My physician wouldn’t have looked kindly at me seeking someone else’s help.”

  “Someone else—or a female apothecary-surgeon?” Anger burned down her throat.

  “Doesn’t matter. Had I been brave enough to confess my transgression, I would have proudly told him you had patched me up.” Cameron’s deft fingers continued their downward progress on his row of buttons. “I would never hide such a fact. What you accomplished should be celebrated, not hidden.”

  Emotion clogged her throat, making it difficult to breathe.

  “You’ll need to tell him at some point. If you’re attacked again in the future, keeping such details from your physician could place your life in jeopardy.”

  The coat opened. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

  “He cannot be that scary.”

  “Easy for you to say. You have not met him. Dr. Graham is as unique and contrary as you are.” He shrugged out of his coat, grimacing when it came time to maneuver his injured arm.

  Charlotte bit the inside of her lip. Stay put. Ignore the urge to help him. She said the words over and over, finally turning back to her jars of herbs. Focusing on the important task brought clarity back to her senses, and her pulse slowed enough for her to hear her own thoughts.

  “Would you prefer that I stand, sit, or lie down?”

  “Sit, please. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  She wound up taking much more than a moment. What had she done wrong during the treatment process that he now fought an infection? The knowledge that she’d somehow failed to protect him from a longer, more painful recovery disturbed her in a profound way.

  If it had been anyone else, she would feel regret and even some guilt. But not this gut-caving, heart-slicing sense of failure. That reaction was reserved for Cameron, evidently.

  The reminder that her feelings still ran deep for him didn’t sit well. She took another thirty seconds to get her emotions under control. By the time she faced him again, she had regained most of her unflappable composure.

  Until her gaze landed on his bare chest. Chiseled, lean muscles rippled along the length of his torso. The flickering lamplight cast a golden blanket over every inch of his flesh, making him appear godlike. Not in a heavenly, ethereal way, but in a dangerous, powerful way.

  “What are you staring at, Charley?” he asked in a low, hypnotizing voice. “My poor wound?”

  His mocking question snapped her attention to his shoulder. Her stomach dropped with blinding speed to flail between her immobile feet.

  “Cameron, what have you done?” No longer frozen in place, her feet flew across the short distance. She pulled a blue wooden stool up to the bed, so that she was eye level with what looked like an infection well beyond the initial stage. “Why is this not bandaged?”

  “It’s a little hard to wrap my shoulder with one hand.”

  “Have you no one to help?”

  He seemed to consider her question for an unusually long time. “No one who could do a worthwhile job of it. Trig could never stand still long enough.”

  “Trig?”

  “A young man not much older than Felix. He assists me with things.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Set your mind at ease, Charley. The boy will never come to harm under my care.”

  She leaned closer, pressing her fingers gently to the outside of his stitches. The area was bright red and hard and warm to the touch. She examined the exit wound and was thankful to see the infection had not made it that far yet. “That’s not something you can promise. No one can.”

  A muscle in his jaw flicked. “Would you believe me if I said he’s safer with me than on the streets where I found him?”

  She met his gaze briefly. “You saved him from the streets?”

  He nodded.

  “Another offer? What did Trig do to earn your trust?”

  “Charley, I warned you not to make much of my—”

  “How, Cameron?” she interrupted.

  Turning his face toward the far wall, he said, “I saw him instructing a small band of boys much younger than him on the art of pickpocketing.”

  “You admire him for teaching a group of impressionable young boys how to be thieves?”

  “The subject matter wasn’t what caught my attention.” His eyes narrowed, as if he gazed at a distant memory. “Trig cared about them. Cared about their survival. Unlike many living off the streets, Trig didn’t seek to profit off the children. He simply wanted to give them their best chance at success.”

  Charlotte hoped she would one day meet this Trig. He sounded very much like the young Cameron she used to know. How many people had Cameron saved? How many more would he watch over? Pride fluttered in her chest like a runaway butterfly. Pride in Cameron, God help her.

  She lifted a hand and rested it against his forehead, cheek, neck. Warm. Too warm.

  “Well?” he asked when she said nothing.

  “An infection has set in, and your body is fighting the invasion, causing a fever.” Pushing off the stool, she crossed over to her worktable, where she’d left the herb jars. Her hands shook, and she couldn’t even out her breathing.

  “What potion are you concocting?”

  She squeezed her eyes closed. How could he be so nonchalant about his current condition? Did he even understand the danger he’d placed himself in? Could still be in if she didn’t find the right combination. Even if he did realize his folly, he would never admit to such. Admission danced far too closely to weakness—at least in his mind, in most men’s minds.

  “You played a very dangerous game, Cameron. How long would you have let this go on? How long would you have continued to place your life in jeopardy?”

  “Are you bothered by the notion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Try harder, Charley.”

  “For what?”

  “Sincerity. You didn’t quite grasp the right tone if you want me to believe you.”

  Facing him, she pressed the palm of her hand against the surface of her worktable. Stability. “I have no wish to see you suffer physically, because of my inadequacy as an apothecary-surgeon.”

  One corner of his mouth kicked up. “I suppose there are other ways of making a man suffer.”

  God forgive her, but she wanted him to know the agonizing turmoil, the crushing desolation, the soul-searing anger when one realizes with full clarity that one has lost the love of one’s life. Then to have that love stroll back in years later without an apology or explanation—only expectation.

  “If someone was inclined to make the effort.”

  His amusement shattered, bits and pieces of it fell away as full comprehension of her message registered.

  “What am I doing here, Charley?”

  A very good question. She was not an impulsive person. On important matters, she acted only after careful consideration of the benefits and consequences. So, why had she invited him inside when all she’d wanted to do was escape?

  She glanced at his angry wound, the sculpted perfection of his chest, and the full contours of his mouth, and discovered, to her dismay, that the answer was not a simple one. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he swiped it away.

  “To finish what I started, of course.”

  # # #

  To finish what I started.

  Although Adair knew Charley referred to his stab wound and not his heart, he couldn’t stop the ache slicing through him.

  She stood her ground with him in a way few had. His pinpoint focus on putting his needs first had led others to call him ruthless, ambitious, and profit-driven. Adair didn’t mind the labels. He had a simple philosophy—those who could pay, did so handsomely. Those who couldn’t, paid him with a favor of his choosing.

  Unlike the rest, Charley’s opinion mattered. Now, instead of guilt, he experienced an overwhelming urge to break down every one of the defenses she’d erected in h
is absence. He wanted to tangle with her until they were inextricably interwoven. One. Inseparable. Forever united.

  The guilt would no doubt come later. Maybe.

  Placing her infection-killing concoction on a tray, Charley returned to his side, setting the tray near his hip. The contents trembled the slightest bit. She handed him a glass and a bottle of whisky, indicating he should help himself.

  She perched on the stool and studied his shoulder. For the first time, he saw indecision war with her impenetrable confidence.

  “Is there a problem?”

  She sent him a disgusted look.

  “Aside from the obvious, I mean.”

  “Not necessarily a problem,” she said. “The severity of your infection balances on the cusp of two treatment options.”

  “And those are?”

  “The first option is for me to apply this paste over the stitches. You’ll be required to reapply it two to three times a day.” Her eyes narrowed, and she began to gnaw on her inner cheek.

  “I’m not going to like the second option, am I?”

  “I suspect neither of us will.” She drew in a deep breath and cleared her expression. With clinical detachment, she explained, “The second approach is to remove the stitches so I can make sure no pus has formed in the wound. If it has, I’ll drain the pus and apply the paste.”

  “Will you stitch me up again?”

  “No, that might leave a larger scar.”

  “I’m not concerned about a scar.”

  “Regardless, it will be imperative for you to keep the area clean, dry, and covered at all times.”

  Adair eyed the red, swelling flesh around the stitches. “What does your experience recommend we do?”

  She met his gaze.

  “Number two, right?” he said when she seemed oddly reluctant to say the words.

  “Although removing the stitches will be the more difficult course, I believe it is the most prudent in this situation.”

  “Prudent,” he mused. “Tell me, Charley, have you ever been imprudent?”

  “Once.”

  “Only once?” His lips twitched. “Did you enjoy the novelty?”

  “Not in the least.”

  Her tone remained calm, neutral. But Adair sensed her anger, all the same. It iced the edges of each of her words, obliterating the small—very small—truce they had been enjoying. At least, he had been enjoying their banter.