by Shana Galen
He poured himself two fingers and drank it down. Kneeling beside the couch, he helped her position her head more comfortably. “Thank you.” She closed her eyes and laid back. “I’m sorry you must play nursemaid. If you want to go—”
“Do not insult me.”
“I don’t mean to, but you must know you don’t owe me anything. We are not engaged, or, I think, likely to be.”
Silently, he agreed. But he did enjoy playing the devil’s advocate. “Oh, I don’t know. I may still ask for your hand. If you live.”
She gave him an annoyed look. “Is that an incentive to die? It won’t work. I’ll live, but I won’t say yes.”
“Why not? Your uncle seems quite keen to marry you off.”
“As does your mother,” she shot back with more venom than he thought she had strength for. “I overheard her threatening my uncle in the garden.”
“When?” he demanded.
“Tonight. When the ladies retired and the men drank port, the two of them had a tête-à-tête. Apparently, you are to marry me…or else.”
Dominic shook his head. “Or else what?”
“You don’t know?” She’d slipped down off the couch cushion again, and he helped her lift her head. She felt warm. Was it simply his imagination, or did she feel too warm? Where the hell was that doctor? He looked in her eyes, which were still steady, not overly bright, but the color in her cheeks was high. She swallowed and lay back again. “Your mother threatened to reveal her liaison with my uncle to my aunt.”
Dominic cursed and rose.
“So you did know.”
“I knew of no such…liaison. But I do know my mother. I do not doubt the veracity of her claim, or that she will follow through with her threat.”
“So you see.” She closed her eyes. “It is not me who must marry, but you.” Her eyes opened again. “Why?”
He paced the room, stopped before the decanter, and poured himself another brandy. He was not a man given to drink, but tonight he felt the need of it. He didn’t know how much to tell her. He preferred to say nothing, but that would not do. She had been thrust into something that had nothing to do with her, and she deserved an answer. Not that he pitied her; she’d thrust him into something far worse.
“There was a woman,” he began, sipping his brandy.
She gave a bitter laugh. “There always is.”
“She—that is to say, I…” He sighed. How the hell was he supposed to say this? “She made an accusation. I am not guilty, but she—well, I—”
“Oh, dear, Mr. Griffyn,” Miss Bonde said, her lips curving in an expression that appeared suspiciously like a smile. “This is not a promising beginning, I fear.”
At that moment, he was saved from continuing by the sound of footsteps. The door opened, and a man of medium height and advanced years entered, followed closely by the clerk Moneypence. Moneypence went straight to Miss Bonde, all but shoving Dominic out of the way.
“Miss Bonde, are you badly injured?” He knelt beside her, grasping her hand.
Dominic studied the doctor, who seemed to take stock of the situation as he entered. His hair was white, as was his beard, and his eyes were a piercing green. He’d stopped midstride upon seeing her laid out on the couch, and now he moved cautiously forward. “Knife wound, Miss Bonde?”
“I’m afraid so. Just a scratch, but it might require a stitch or two.”
Moneypence drew in a deep breath. “Your uncle is on the way. May I fetch you anything?”
“No.” She squeezed his hand. “Could you meet my uncle at the door? Assure him I am fine. He will be worried.”
Moneypence jumped to do her bidding. When he was gone, and the door closed behind him, Farrar said, “That was nicely done.”
“You know he feels weak at the sight of blood,” she said.
“What about you, sir?” the doctor said to Dominic. “Can you stomach the sight of blood?”
“If I must.”
“I may need assistance. I can call one of the men outside—”
“No!” Miss Bonde all but rose off the couch.
The doctor raised his brows.
“If this is going to hurt, I prefer to have Mr. Griffyn present. He won’t mock me if I scream.”
“Don’t be so certain,” he said.
She gave him a look indicating she was less than amused, and the doctor gestured for him to stand near her head. Farrar knelt beside her abdomen. “I’ll have to lift your dress.”
“The blood is dried to the fabric,” she answered. “You’ll have to cut the material.”
“Very well.” He took a sharp blade from his bag and pressed it just under her breasts in the center of her abdomen. With quick strokes, he slit an opening down the material, baring a swath of white flesh.
And baring a great deal of blood. The material was indeed stuck to the wound, and Farrar studied it, then gestured to a corner behind the door. “Would you be so kind as to fetch me a basin of water, Mr. Griffyn, is it?”
Dominic dragged his gaze from the wound. “Yes.” He made his way to the pitcher and poured the water into the basin with shaking hands. She’d said the wound was a scratch, but that was no scratch. She was cut, perhaps not so deeply as to injure any organs, but deep enough. He couldn’t imagine how she’d had the strength to stand, not to mention remain upright for as long as she had.
Steadier now, he returned with the water and held it for the doctor. The doctor motioned to the edge of the couch. “Set it there,” he said, taking a length of clean linen from his bag. “I’ll need you to hold her.”
“Hold her?” Dominic glanced at Bonde. Her eyes were closed, and she was so still that if not for the faint bloom in her cheeks, he would have thought her sleeping…or dead.
“This will hurt, and she will not be able to stop herself from flinching. Hold her down, if you will.”
He looked at her again, trying to decide the best place to hold her. Arms? Wrists? Shoulders?
“Lay your hand across her chest,” the doctor suggested.
Her dark blue eyes opened, and when Dominic met her gaze, they were filled with amusement. With a sigh, he knelt beside her and laid an arm across her chest. Since the wound was rather low, he had to hold her across her breasts. He tried not to notice how full they were under his arm. How warm and firm. He swallowed and kept his gaze on the wall just above the couch.
“Ready?” Farrar asked.
“Ready,” Dominic said through clenched teeth.
“I think he was asking me,” Miss Bonde said. “I’m ready.”
Dominic heard the sound of the cloth being dipped in water, and the drip as it was wrung out. And then the doctor moved, and Bonde’s entire body convulsed. “Bollocks!” she yelled.
“Hold her, Griffyn,” the doctor ordered, and he realized he’d released her. He was not used to touching anyone, least of all holding a woman down.
He placed his hand over her again. A sweat had broken out on his forehead, and he was unaccountably warm. Desire and revulsion warred within him. He wanted her, and he hated that he must touch her under these circumstances. He heard the sound of the water, and she jerked, but not as violently as before. “Is this making you…uncomfortable, Griffyn?” she asked between clenched teeth.
“No,” he said. “I do this sort of thing every day.”
She almost smiled, and then she screwed up her face, and he assumed Farrar had acted again.
“I suppose we will have to marry now.” She looked down at his arm, which was clearly draped across her breasts. “This is highly improper.”
“Correct me if I am wrong, but I do not think propriety is of much concern to you.”
“Not at the moment.” Her gaze focused on the doctor beside him. “God’s nightgown, man, what are you doing? I’m already wounded. Are you trying to kill me?”
&nbs
p; “I’m cleaning the wound. You will need a stitch or two.” Farrar sounded unmoved by her obvious pain.
Dominic glanced over his shoulder. The knife slash did look cleaner. Much of the blood was gone. “Only two stitches?” he asked.
The doctor reached into his bag. “Do you know anything about wounds, Mr. Griffyn?”
“Only when it comes to horses.”
“Like a horse, she’s going to buck when I insert the needle and sew her closed.”
Dominic imagined she would indeed. He’d never received stitches, but he’d watched an animal or two sewn up. If the animal was conscious, it often acted as though the remedy was worse than the injury.
“I’ll hold her down.”
“I am right here, you know.” Bonde sounded surly. “And I’ve received stitches before. I won’t move.”
“Hold her,” Farrar said. He had the cat gut ready and the needle in his hand. Dominic held her tighter and pressed down. Their faces were inches apart.
“I apologize in advance,” he said.
“Kiss me.”
Dominic blinked. “I don’t think—”
“Good. Just kiss me.” Her body stiffened. “Now!” She gave him a pleading look. “Please.”
He lowered his lips to hers, kissing her tenderly, but she’d have none of that. Her mouth closed desperately over his, taking him with a fierceness he hadn’t expected. For a moment, he rebelled at the violence of the kiss, and then warmth flooded his body and desire flared. He tried to resist it, tried to tamp it down, but it was impossible. His hands moved from holding her down to cupping her face. He angled her face, kissing her deeply and gently, willing all the pain away, replaced by pleasure. He drew back when he felt the wetness on his thumbs. He looked into her eyes and saw the tears running down her cheeks. “Jane.” He swiped them away. “Bloody hell. I’m sorry. I don’t know—”
“It’s not you,” she said, her lips trembling. “This hurts like the devil.”
As much as her strength and courage shocked him, he wasn’t prepared for her vulnerability. He felt almost panicked at the sight of her shaking lips.
“And don’t call me Jane,” she added, clenching her teeth. “I haven’t given you leave.”
He would have laughed if he hadn’t needed all his strength to keep her down. Strange. He hadn’t exerted any pressure at all when he’d been kissing her.
“That should do it,” the doctor said, standing.
“Off me,” Bonde demanded. Dominic released her as though she were on fire, almost tripping over Farrar in the process.
“I don’t suppose you want a pain tonic? I have morphine.”
“I’m fine.”
“I knew you would say that,” the doctor said, collecting his supplies.
Dominic shook his head and stepped over the doctor. “You cannot stitch her up and leave her without anything for the pain.”
The doctor glanced up at him, the older man’s eyes weary and fatigued. “She’s like the rest of the men. She won’t take them. If I leave it, it will only go to waste.”
“I don’t need pain medication,” she added. “It dulls the senses.” She tried to sit, to see the wound, but she couldn’t quite manage it. Her face was as white as a sheet, though, and she could not hide the pain from the wound.
Dominic could see it. The doctor had done good work. The wound looked like little more than an angry red slash on her pale belly. It was then Dominic realized he was looking at her bare abdomen. Her skirts were pulled up so he had a view of her long legs as well. Hastily, he looked away, and not a moment too soon.
He turned as the door opened.
Nine
Pierce Moneypence stood outside the door. He’d spent half his life outside M’s door, and he knew the exact spot to stand so he could hear the goings-on inside. He might be more clerk than spy, but he had learned a thing or two during his tenure with the Barbican group. Moneypence could hear Bonde’s muffled curses and protests, and he clenched his hands in sympathy for her. He hated that she was in pain.
Even more, he hated to see her with the dark man who’d been all but carrying her. She’d called him Griffyn—appropriate, as the man was guarding what Moneypence considered a priceless treasure. Not that the treasure knew he was alive. Jane Bonde thought of Moneypence as her uncle’s clerk, nothing more.
He’d often thought if he could do something brave and daring, she’d see him differently, but Moneypence was not the brave and daring sort. Oh, he’d done his share of espionage, but it was not the sort that earned any glory. He ciphered letters, researched, filed, collected information spies like Wolf and Bonde used to track England’s most dangerous foes.
He liked his job, and he loved the Barbican. But after ten years here—ten years of being half in love with Jane Bonde—Moneypence was beginning to think she was never going to love him back.
And he’d seen in her face, in the way she looked at Griffyn, that Pierce Moneypence would never be anything more than a friend to her. With a sigh, he moved away from M’s office door. She’d asked him to look for her uncle, and he could do that much. He moved through the adjacent offices without really seeing them. He’d seen all of the men and the rooms a thousand times. He moved so blindly, he almost didn’t see Q.
“Moneypence!” she cried when he’d all but bowled her over.
“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Qwillen,” he said, catching her elbow to steady her. They were in the great stone corridor now, and the stone would hurt her if she were to fall.
“That’s quite all right,” she said, shaking her skirts and stepping back. He released her elbow, blushing a little at the contact. If he’d touched Bonde’s elbow, he would have fainted. “Are you thinking of an important mission?” she asked. “Is that why you didn’t see me?”
“Mission?” he blinked. “Oh, no—why, actually, yes. I am to meet M when he arrives. Bonde asked me to wait for him.”
She gave him a sad shake of her head. “Bonde? That explains it then.” She began to walk away, and on any other day, Pierce would have shrugged at the cryptic comment and let her go. But today was not a normal day. Today he felt peevish. He turned and grasped her elbow again. She wore a long-sleeved gown, and her elbow felt rather pointy beneath the fabric. But his hand slid to her upper arm, and he noted the flesh there was pleasantly full and round.
“What do you mean, that explains it?” he asked.
“I mean, that explains why you are woolgathering,” she said, frowning down at his hand on her sleeve. “You have a dreamy look in your eye whenever Bonde is mentioned.”
He did? “I do?” He cleared his throat. “I can’t think why. Certainly, you must be mistaken.”
She arched a brow. She was a small woman with a mass of curly brown hair and large spectacles. Moneypence actually thought she was rather pretty, in a bookish sort of way. Of course, when one considered his model of beauty was Jane Bonde, it was difficult to think of any other woman as anything more than pretty.
“Right. I am certain you have no idea what I am referring to,” Q said, freeing her arm.
“You would be correct in that assumption.” He moved aside slightly, so another clerk might pass.
“And I am certain you are not madly in love with Jane Bonde.”
“I—” He glanced around, suddenly terrified the clerk might have heard. The man didn’t look back.
“You needn’t worry he might overhear,” Q said. “Everyone knows.”
Pierce felt rather dizzy at that revelation. “Everyone knows what?”
“Deny it if you will,” she said, “but it’s obvious to everyone that you’re in love with her.” And after throwing that blade at his chest, she began to walk away again. Pierce stood still for a long, long moment, and then he chased after her, skidding around her, and coming to halt in front of her.
“What are you doing?
Are you mad?” she asked.
“Yes—no! I have to ask.”
She was staring at him as though he’d lost his mind, and perhaps he had. She put her hands on her hips. “Well, ask then.”
“Does she know?” He did not need to say who she was.
Q looked at him for a long time. “Of course she does, Moneypence.”
He had no idea what his face looked like, but it must have fallen, because she put her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. But everyone knows.”
And she walked away. Pierce’s legs felt weak, and he wobbled on them for a long moment before sinking into a crouch, his face burning with shame and embarrassment.
***
The door to M’s office flew open, and a voice boomed, “What the hell happened?” Melbourne stormed into the room. Moneypence followed closely on Melbourne’s heels. Jane tried to arrange her skirts into some semblance of order that would afford her privacy, but Moneypence did not look at her.
“I want an explanation,” M demanded. “Moneypence told me you were fine, but if you are fine, why is Farrar here, and whose blood is that?”
Jane saw Moneypence’s gaze dart toward the couch. He must have seen the blood on Farrar’s linen, because his face went white, and his eyes rolled up.
“Catch him!” she ordered Griffyn.
The man moved quickly for a civilian. He reached Moneypence before the man hit the floor and set him gently on the rug.
“You!” her uncle hissed. “What are you doing here?”
“That’s my fault,” she said immediately. She had her own quarrel with Griffyn, but she was not going to allow him to take the fall for her.
“That goes without saying,” Melbourne said, shaking a finger at her. She’d rarely seen him so angry. His face was turning an alarming shade of purple. “And I am not speaking to you. You’re in no condition to talk.”
“If you no longer need my services,” Farrar said, gathering his bag and instruments, “I shall take my leave.”
“Doctor,” she warned.
“She is perfectly capable of speaking.” Farrar moved toward the door, stepping over Moneypence in the process. “It’s a minor wound. I would tell you to have her rest for a few days, but I know she won’t.” The doctor exchanged a look with Griffyn, who looked as though he’d like to escape with Farrar. “That was one of the more interesting procedures I’ve performed, Mr. Griffyn. I hope that is not how you perform treatment on your horses.”