Still Wicked

by Ayers, Kathleen

Spence didn’t blame the poor woman. Hughes was a bastard. And he had meant to kill the man.

  “My business meeting didn’t go as planned,” he said.

  “An understatement, I think.” Elizabeth’s headdress slid sideways over one of her ears. As he watched, she adjusted it, tucking the stray lock of hair he’d been lusting after for the entire trip back beneath the white cotton scarf.

  “You should also have your other injury tended.” She nodded in the direction of his ribs. “Do you have another shirt? Something I can use to bind your ribs?”

  Spence shook his head. “I don’t.” He’d already used his one clean shirt when he had changed after leaving McDonnell’s in Edinburgh. What remained in his valise was a shaving kit and tooth powder. But his ribs did hurt. Terribly. He hadn’t had a chance to really examine the damage the pipe wielded by McDonnell’s secretary had caused. The unscheduled jump he had taken from Hughes’s bedroom window at the Wilted Rose had also taken a toll. He’d be in agony by the time they arrived in London. “You mean to bind my ribs?”

  “You are injured,” she said again. “I’m…skilled in such matters.”

  “I’d forgotten. Healing the sick and all that.” He wondered how she proposed to navigate binding his ribs. While Elizabeth didn’t appear to be afraid of him, and she jolly well should be, she had been careful not to come too close. He supposed such behavior wasn’t unusual for an innocent girl who’d pledged her life to God. Except Spence was fairly certain Elizabeth wasn’t a novice. Or a nun. “If you insist.”

  “You’ve nothing I can use?” She looked at the blankets which were far too thick to serve as an adequate bandage.

  “No.”

  She held out her hand with a sigh. “Your knife, please.” When he hesitated a moment too long, she said, “I can see it sticking out of your boot, Lord Kelso.”

  Curious as to what she meant to do, Spence was pleasantly surprised to watch her snatch the headdress off her head. The challenge was in not staring at the thick, ebony braid wound around her skull. His fingers stretched at the thought of unwinding the braid and allowing the dark strands to flow over his hands.

  With an efficient flip of her wrist, Elizabeth cut the band off the headdress and began cutting the cloth into strips. She then tied the ends of the strips together until she had a length of muslin before her.

  Spence watched the play of her slender, delicate hands as she worked to create a length of cloth to use as a bandage. Arousal tingled down the length of his thighs and up across his chest. Adrenaline from escaping death once again coursed through his body, along with the steady hum of lust between his thighs. He wanted to feel the touch of those delicate fingers against his skin.

  Elizabeth hesitated, looking at the space on the seat next to him. Spence watched the play of emotions across her face as she tried to work out how to bind his ribs without getting too close. Finally, she made her way across the coach, only a slight tremble of her hand giving away her unease.

  “This should help with the bleeding.” She handed him a square of spare cloth and motioned for him to press it against his forehead.

  Well, that was disappointing. Spence had hoped she’d tend to the cut in his forehead herself. He snatched the cloth from her fingers.

  Elizabeth was so close he could see the light sheen of moisture across her cheeks. “Hold it against the cut,” she instructed, not looking him in the eye. “I’m certain you’ve done such a thing before.”

  She was too sassy by far. “I didn’t realize they taught firearms to nuns.” Despite traveling in a coach over dusty roads and being shot at, Elizabeth still managed to smell vaguely of lavender.

  “They don’t. I didn’t realize gentlemen went about armed to the teeth with pistols and knives.” She finally looked up at him, cocking her pretty chin.

  “As you can see by the last thirty minutes or so, going about armed was very useful,” Spence grumbled. How odd that his little nun was showing more distress at rendering him medical aid than she had during an entire altercation with pistols and dead men. He was terribly aware of Elizabeth, slender and so delicate beside him, smelling of lavender and nun perspiration.

  Shrugging out of his coat, Spence tossed the garment to the opposite seat and proceeded to unbutton his shirt, wincing at the pain in his side. Finally, he slid the fine lawn off his shoulders.

  A soft intake of breath came from the woman beside him.

  She’d tilted her head toward his torso, the muted light shadowing the perfect oval of her face, eyes dark with determination to minister to the sick. Elizabeth seemed quite taken with the stretch of his exposed chest, blatantly staring with the bit of muslin clutched firmly in one hand.

  “Is something wrong?” His desire for Elizabeth came out as annoyance.

  She raised an ebony brow at his tone. Spence had the notion she would toss the length of muslin at him and tell him to bind his bloody ribs himself.

  “Well, then.” She attempted to sound unaffected. “Will you lift your arms, please?”

  Spence raised his arms. The throbbing of his ribs was nothing compared to the heavy ache of his cock between his legs. As far as foreplay was concerned, a nun about to bind his ribs was proving to be incredibly arousing.

  The sweet, warm smell of her reached his nostrils again. Dark lashes brushed the tops of her cheeks as she studied his bruised torso. One slender finger delicately traced the bruised area of his ribs which was rapidly turning the deep purple of a blackberry.

  “What a terrible injury. I would ask how you received such a wound but I’m not sure I want to know the answer,” she said.

  Smart little thing. “You are better off not knowing,” he agreed.

  Elizabeth traced the line of each rib, the touch sending bolts of lust through him. He reached with one hand to take hold of the window ledge, sure if he didn’t do so he might ravage her on the coach seat.

  At his movement she shrank back, like a startled doe.

  “I’m trying to steady myself.” His fingers dug into the ledge. “To make your job easier.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “Right.” Leaning forward again, she looped the strip of muslin around his torso, the tops of her breasts brushing against his stomach.

  A groan escaped him. She was torturing him. Deliciously.

  Elizabeth drew back. “Did I hurt you? Are you in pain?” The muslin hung from her fingers.

  Spence was in excruciating pain; however, the source of his agony was between his legs at the moment, and not his ribs. “Hurry along,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I am. Get on with it,” he snapped.

  She shot him a look of reproach. “I realize you are in pain but there is no reason to be so…cantankerous.” She resumed her efforts at bandaging his ribs, winding the muslin in an odd crisscross pattern. Every brush of her fingers was echoed by a throb of his cock.

  He glanced down at her handiwork. Spence had had his ribs bandaged many times as a result of his activities and he was positive it wasn’t done in such a way. “Are you certain—”

  “Please, my lord. The healing and care of the sick is one of the first things we are taught as a novice. I bandaged the village blacksmith after he was kicked by a horse.” She bit her lip in concentration. “I’m almost finished.”

  Spence certainly hoped so. There were blind beggars in London who could do a better job. “So, you’ve done this before?” He found her incredibly desirable, worrying her plump lower lip as she attempted to bandage him. His cock twitched again in agreement.

  “Many times.”

  Spence doubted that. He thought it would have been more correct for her to claim she’d watched someone apply bandages in such a way before. “You’ve no idea what you’re doing.” The muslin sagged on one side and she’d wound part of it around his navel. “None at all.” His tone was intentionally curt. It was all he could do to maintain control of his sanity given the situation.

  The plump lowe
r lip disappeared as her lips tightened into a taut line of offense. “I do.”

  The coach hit a rut, rocking her generous curves against his chest and bringing her lips mere inches from his.

  “You don’t,” he said again, wanting desperately to kiss her. The fathomless blue of her eyes beckoned him to become lost within their depths.

  “You find my skills lacking?”

  On the contrary, Spence found her brave, resourceful and oddly skilled with weaponry. Innocently erotic.

  In short, he thought her magnificent.

  * * *

  Elizabeth was completely out of her depth.

  Lord Kelso had nothing in common with the older and much less attractive Mr. Fitz, the village smithy. And she hadn’t bandaged Mr. Fitz, Sister Mary Grace had, but truthfully, bandaging the ribs hadn’t appeared to be so difficult. Looking at her handiwork, Elizabeth had to acknowledge her medical skills were nonexistent.

  His skin was so warm, like silk sliding beneath her fingertips. A light dusting of hair covered his chest and trailed down across the flat muscles of his stomach. Surprisingly, Kelso smelled good with only a hint of dust and horse. A spiciness, mixed with a purely masculine scent, enfolded Elizabeth, enticing her to come closer. Each wrap of the muslin around his beautiful torso only increased her awareness of him. She waited for the threads of anxiety to render her useless, but her affliction remained silent when she touched Kelso. Elizabeth had the most overwhelming urge to curl up next to the heated, smooth skin and press her lips to the length of his ribs.

  Now he was looking at her, or more correctly, at her mouth. A current passed between them, a sharp jolt to her system that left her heart skipping, trying to find its previous rhythm.

  The coach hit another rut, lurching violently to the side.

  Elizabeth, who wasn’t holding on to anything, tumbled away from Kelso, landing in a heap on the floor.

  “Shit. Damn it, Porter.” He reached to take her hand.

  Elizabeth scrambled back from Kelso, leaping onto the empty seat across the coach, his spell over her broken. She clasped her hands firmly in her lap trying to make sense of things. Kelso unsettled her. Confused her. Annoyed her. But he didn’t actually make her nervous. Nor cause her anxiety to spike.

  And Elizabeth had wanted him to kiss her.

  Kelso buttoned up his shirt, his fingers flying over the buttons. “Terrible job at bandaging my ribs, by the way.” The charming, aloof mask fell neatly back into place.

  “You are welcome, by the way.” She glared at him, instantly annoyed that he’d used such a dismissive tone. Especially given…well, given what had almost happened.

  “If you are a nun, I’m the King of England.” Kelso sat back, thrusting out the length of his legs across the coach floor, pinning her skirts against the bottom of the seat with one boot. “I should like you to tell me once again how you came to be in my coach. Let’s start with the widow and Gustave. Oh, and don’t leave out your knowledge of firearms.”

  11

  Kelso’s question wasn’t exactly unexpected; she’d only hoped the distraction of the last few hours would put him off a bit longer.

  “All the nuns are taught to handle firearms. We were very secluded, you see, and—”

  “Bollocks,” he said in that awful clipped tone. He gave her a hard look. “Try again.”

  “It is a rather long tale.” She hated being bullied and interrogated. “I object—”

  “Overruled.”

  “Surely this can wait.” She shot him a look hoping to convey her dislike of the current discussion. “I’ve already told you the basics.”

  “I’ll stop you should I become bored.” He sank back slowly against the leather squabs, regarding her with narrowed eyes. There was no sign of his previous concern for her. “You’re exceedingly sassy for a nun.”

  “Novice.”

  “Neither,” he shot back. “Let’s start there.”

  Elizabeth hesitated. Kelso would not be satisfied with anything less than the truth. How should she start? She’d told most of it once, many years ago to Mother Hildegard, but never to anyone else. And not all of it. “When I was a child, my mother—”

  “The widow? She actually is your mother?”

  “Yes, unfortunately for all concerned, she is.” Elizabeth looked away, unable to meet his eyes. Having to claim Jeanette Reynolds as her mother was an embarrassing business. Mother had rarely been kind to Elizabeth or Miranda no matter how hard they had tried to win her affection. “She’s a terrible person. A worse mother.”

  “Names, please.”

  Elizabeth truly resented his attitude. As if she’d done something awful to him. “There is no reason to behave as if I am an enemy captured for interrogation.”

  “I would torture an enemy,” he said blandly.

  “Fine.” She lifted her chin more stubbornly than any young lady raised in a convent should and watched his lips tilt upward. “I’m Lady Elizabeth Reynolds.” Her body stiffened. She hadn’t introduced herself in such a way in a very long time. “Not even the nuns wanted me. I was deemed unfit to become one.”

  If Kelso was surprised by her identity, he didn’t show it. “Not difficult to believe in the least. The nun part, I mean.”

  She shot him a look of pure dislike. “When I was a child, an…incident occurred involving my mother.”

  “An incident.” He tapped a finger against his lower lip.

  Elizabeth struggled to pull her eyes away from his mouth.

  “Yes. An assumption was made that I had been injured.” Oh, it was shameful having to tell this story, especially to him. She was mortified at having to do so. “But I was not. Injured.”

  “By whom? Your mother?” He sat up straighter, his eyes never leaving her face.

  “No.” She’d often wished, as a child, she would develop amnesia, so that terrible day would be erased from her memory. Elizabeth cleared her throat and her voice became stronger. “My mother had a cousin with whom she was…very close. Oddly attached to.” Elizabeth still found it difficult to explain what her mother’s relationship had been with Archie. “Unnatural is perhaps a better term.” There were things Elizabeth had seen as a child and hadn’t understood. She wasn’t even sure she did now. “Archie—”

  “You mother’s cousin,” Kelso said softly. He was no longer glaring at her as if she’d stolen a loaf of bread from a starving beggar.

  “Yes, Archie. He liked to bring me sweets. Have tea parties with me. Sometimes he would bring me dolls or ribbons.” She waved her hand, pushing the memories of those gifts far away. She saw them for what they were now. “He also liked to take…naps with my mother.” Elizabeth shot a sideways glance at Kelso. “One day we were in the drawing room and we were playing. Archie had brought me a new doll. He asked my mother if he could take a nap…with me. Mother laughed.” Elizabeth cast her eyes down, not willing to look at the pity she would surely see in Kelso’s face at her pronouncement.

  “Continue.”

  “Then he touched my knee. Mother giggled. I’ll never forget the sound. I…I screamed, and my mother laughed. Papa had just arrived home. He came running into the drawing room and pulled Archie away from me by his hair.” She looked up at Kelso, waiting for his disgust. “Papa collapsed that night and never left his bed again. He died shortly after. My brother returned home, and I was sent away. I hadn’t seen my mother in years, not until the other day. When she came for me.” She looked up at Kelso, hoping not to see disgust. Or condemnation.

  “I see.” Kelso’s jaw hardened, pulling his lips tight. His eyes were empty and cold.

  Elizabeth shivered and grabbed at the blankets for protection. She suspected this was the man who’d walked into the Wilted Rose.

  “And where might I find this cousin?” he asked. “He’s not with Langford, is he? Or your mother?”

  “No.” Elizabeth shook her head and a choked sound left her throat, even as she brushed a tear from her cheek. All she felt was relief that the
disgust and anger emanating from Kelso wasn’t directed at her. “No, Archie’s dead. My sister shot him.”

  * * *

  Spence knew who she was.

  The ton had fairly bubbled with the gossip at the circumstances of the Marquess of Cambourne’s death and the return of his heir to London. Lady Jeanette Cambourne was a prominent fixture within the ton. Her beauty and cruelty within society were legendary. As were her legions of lovers, one of whom was rumored to be her cousin, Archie Runyon. Spence had seen the former Lady Cambourne once many years ago at one of the few society events his mother had forced him to attend. No wonder the widow had looked vaguely familiar when he’d spied her at the coaching inn.

  Spence took in Elizabeth’s delicate features twisted into a mask of guilt and grief.

  She blames herself for her father’s death.

  “When Archie died, my mother went…insane. Mad. She’d remarried by then. Her husband took Mother to his estate in Yorkshire.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Mother hadn’t spoken in years. She had to have a nurse because she couldn’t even feed herself. But somehow, Mother became…herself again.”

  Spence’s fingers stretched along his thigh, wishing Runyon wasn’t dead so he could kill the man himself. He may have to settle for strangling Jeanette Reynolds instead. “And the man she would force you to marry?”

  “The Duke of Langford.”

  His fingers stopped moving. Even living in India, Spence had heard of Langford, a man known for his sexual appetites. And his brutality. Langford was not averse to causing pain, particularly to the two young wives he’d married and buried. Langford was more than thrice Elizabeth’s age, and a deviant to boot.

  “My brother is my guardian—a fact Mother is conveniently overlooking.” A panicked look crossed Elizabeth’s face. The dark brows above her eyes arched with agitation and fear. “I cannot marry him.”

  “You will not.” There was no way Spence would allow Langford within an inch of Elizabeth, let alone wed her.