All Men Are Rogues

by Sari Robins

  The chamber smelled of the odd poultice the doctor had left behind. She could discern mint and linseed in the mix; the mint was probably to cover up the other unpleasant odors.

  Two candles rested on each of the side tables to the bed, illuminating the body lying prone and lifeless under a brown woolen blanket.

  At Evelyn’s entry, Shah got up from her chair in the corner.

  “He has not woken?” Evelyn asked.

  The stout maid simply shook her head. A dark scowl lined her features. Shah had been hard-pressed to believe that the marquis had betrayed them. Instead she had clung to the supposed fact that he had saved Evelyn’s life, a fact Evelyn found equally galling and unbelievable.

  She stepped closer and leaned over his still form. A layered white bandage wrapped his head, contrasting with his bruised and ashen face. With his eyes closed and his features softened with sleep, he looked almost harmless. But she knew better.

  Shah hung back in the corner. Evelyn knew she was not comfortable looking after a man but was prepared to assist in any way she could. Evelyn did not know how she had been so fortunate in her friends.

  She peeled back the blanket and stared at his naked body, trying to see him as an object to be tended, not as a man she abhorred. His pale skin shone in the candlelight as she perused his lean, muscular body, her eyes resting on the bandages encircling his broad chest. Blood had seeped through the layers near his right side, staining the white in an egg-sized circle of red. “I suppose I will have to clean the wound.”

  “The doctor said to change the bandage in the morning,” Shah supplied. “That it might bleed some was expected.”

  Evelyn yawned, accepting any excuse not to touch him. “Right, then. The morning it is.” She checked the thin leather strips binding his wrists and lowered the blanket further to examine the bindings at his ankles. She kept her eyes far from the private area covered only with white men’s drawers.

  The doctor had scoffed at restricting the wounded man, insisting that he would be as weak as a newborn, but Evelyn was not about to take any chances. She and Shah were alone in this house, and he was as clear an enemy as ever she’d known.

  Evelyn dropped the blanket, rubbing her hands over her eyes. “Go lie down. I’ll tend him if he wakes.”

  “You need rest too.”

  “My head is racing too much for sleep. You go on.”

  Knowing it was useless to argue, Shah drifted out of the chamber to the bedroom next door. The accommodations were anything but lavish, but Evelyn was thankful they at least had a few rooms, some semblance of privacy for when the man awakened.

  The doctor had suggested that it might take weeks for the marquis to recover. Evelyn prayed it was not even close to that time. She just needed him conscious enough to answer questions and yet not be a threat. Anything beyond that was a problem. No matter what she had told Angel, she was not prepared to nurse the man back to health. The authorities might deem the man worthy of a trade, but a knife in the back would be all she could expect once the marquis was back in his domain.

  She went back to the kitchen and sat at the rough wooden table. She placed paper, ink, quill, and blotter before her, thanking Angel’s foresight for her purgatory in this place. He was generous to her in all ways. She did not know how she would ever repay him.

  Blotting the quill, she began the task of sorting the crazed web of her thoughts to set herself a strategy for the days to come.

  What we need to know:

  Where is Sully?

  What do you want from him and from me?

  She scratched her nose. That question presupposed that the marquis was behind the whole scheme, which did not fit the facts. She had to begrudgingly admit that if he was behind the matter, he would not have interfered with the attack the other night. Which meant someone else was orchestrating events.

  3. Who do you work for/with?

  4. What is their goal?

  5. What is their weakness?

  6. Do you make a habit of seducing your victims, or was I a special case?

  She blinked. Where did that question come from? She rubbed her eyes. She must be more exhausted than she thought; she was allowing her anger to overshadow her purpose. Father had always said you need decent sleep to keep a clear perspective.

  Sighing, she pushed aside the papers and went to the bedroom where the marquis lay. She propped a pillow in the wooden chair in the corner and sat down, glaring at the man who lay at the heart of this tangled fabric, slumbering as if he had all his days to rest. She hoped he had a nightmare.

  “He sleeps too long,” Shah commented worriedly.

  “I agree.” Evelyn paced the room. It had been three endless days of sitting on pins and needles watching the man, who did not rise to consciousness. He had barely responded when she had changed his bandages. She could only imagine the pain from his wounds; that he did not complain or even moan vested her with unknown fear. Evelyn had removed Justin’s bonds, realizing that her own safety was the least of her worries now.

  “We must eat,” Shah commented while drifting out of the bedroom.

  The small sick-chamber reminded Evelyn of a cabin on a ship, but a vessel that had lost its moorings. The wind had died, the sails were flat, and the crew waited desperately for the promise of land. She felt as if she and Shah hung on simply to endure the next squall, their spirits were so low.

  Justin’s ashen face, bloodied body, and shallow breath terrified Evelyn. Foolishly, part of her wondered if all of the hatred she’d directed at him had somehow manifested in his poor recovery. Could the powers that be have somehow interpreted her loathing as a death wish for him? She hoped not. She cleaned him, cared for him, and watched over him. What else was in her power?

  Evelyn found herself doing something she had not done in a very long time: praying. She crouched on her knees before the small window in Justin’s chamber, somehow sensing that God would be outside on this glorious day, rather than in the stale, malodorous chamber. Evelyn could hear Shah in the kitchen, probably saying a few prayers of her own.

  Evelyn pressed her forehead to her clutched hands, not knowing what to say to the heavenly father. It seemed odd to beseech the Lord to save Justin, the man she hated with an abiding passion. Would God sense her incongruent feelings on the matter? Could He read her heart when it was so befuddled with hatred, anger, fear, and the quiet cries of desperate longing?

  As her thighs cramped and her knees burned raw, she finally concluded her course would be to ask the Lord to sort things out as best as He saw fit. But to save Sully, take care of Shah and Ismet, and, finally, to help Justin. She hated him, yes. But she sincerely did not wish for him to die. She could not imagine this world without him. She could not ignore the good deeds he had done in his life, including saving her life and winding up in this terrible state. The memory of his throwing himself in front of the discharging bullet played through her mind, over and over, making her feel as if her ties to Justin were not nearly severed. There was still much between them, no matter how hard she wished to deny it.

  She rose on shaky feet, more certain of herself than she’d been in days. Evelyn swept into the kitchen. “Get me some water from the stream,” she ordered Shah. “Do not heat it. We will bathe him and then try to wake him.”

  Wringing her hands in her apron, Shah nodded. Her usual scowl had deepened even further, if that were possible.

  Together they washed his body with icy water. He did not wake. They tried shouting, shaking him, propping him up, to no avail. They even tried sticking pins in his feet. Nothing evoked a response. Evelyn was growing frantic. If he died, how was she going to return his body to his family without setting the authorities upon them? If he died, how could she help Sully? If he died, how was she going to ever know why he betrayed, and then saved, her?

  The dark cloud that hung over the isolated cabin did not abate, even when Angel sent a message reporting that Ismet was all right. There was still no word on Sully.

  E
velyn began reading to Justin from her father’s journal. Somehow saying the words out loud gave her comfort and added some semblance of beauty to her strained world. If only the ghost of her father would appear with some brilliant insight, showing her a way out of this sordid mess. If only the words she read off the page would give her the answers she so urgently needed.

  She read long into the dark nights, her voice growing hoarse. At least it helped keep her sane, and perhaps Justin would find his way out of his dark warren of oblivion.

  “I warrant Evelyn’s heart is larger than the great ship that brought us to this godforsaken place. Today she adopted four pitiful, motherless kittens despite the fact that the staff has not yet recovered from the mongrel she brought home last week. They mew all over the residence and smell worse than the Thames.” She grinned to herself, recalling her father’s feigned disgust; she had spied his lips bowing into a smile. Even though he’d hated to admit it, he’d found the little darlings just as adorable as she had. He had just liked to pretend to be gruff. Sighing, she read on, “All hell broke loose when she attempted to bathe the filthy pests. Yet, I cannot rebuke her. She is diverted and concurrently entertains the staff. No small blessing there.”

  She turned the page. “The tension here is thicker than butter but my efforts are slowly but surely proving fruitful, and I know with half a chance—”

  “Arife?” Shah entered. The lines of her face had deepened, and shadows fanned her dark eyes. “You must take a break.”

  “I want to bathe him again.” Evelyn set aside the journal and rose. Stretching to get the blood back into her aching limbs, she added, “You sleep, I’ll do it.”

  “I do not see the benefit, but I will get the water and cloth.”

  “Then will you rest?”

  Shah nodded. “As you say. But I have prayed much to Allah, and I fear our efforts are lost on this marquis. The man has gone to brighter places.”

  “He’s a strong man and will fight back. He just needs a little prodding.”

  “The kind of push we are powerless to give, I’m afraid.” Shaking her head, Shah left the room.

  Sitting next to him on the small bed, Evelyn traced the cool cloth along Justin’s broad, bare shoulders and down his muscled arms. Even in ill health the man managed to appear virile. His limbs were long and strapping, his shoulders and chest brawny, his waist tapered and firm. Her gaze traveled to the blankets draped at his waist, and then moved back to his upper torso. No use thinking about what’s down there.

  Despite the fine dusting of golden-brown hair, his skin was pale in the flickering candlelight. One could almost believe him a ghost, if not for the heat radiating from his skin like a hearth with dying embers. If he had a fever, it was low and intense, not blazing.

  Brushing the damp cloth along his brow, she smoothed back his short honeyed-wheat hair, exposing his broad forehead. His face had been handsomely defined before, but now it was reminiscent of a stonechiseled masterpiece. His skin was like alabaster, highlighting the refined cheekbones, aristocratic nose bordered by hollowed cheeks, and dark beard with a cleft peeking through. The whiskers encircled his pink lips, which were open and chapped around the edges.

  Molding the damp cloth about her finger, she leaned forward and traced his open lips, trying to chase the dryness from his mouth. A hand gently wrapped around her wrist. She gasped and her heart skipped a beat.

  “Justin! Thank heavens!”

  His thumb gently caressed the underside of her wrist, sending shivers racing up her arm.

  She yanked her hand away as if burned and jumped far from the bed.

  He mumbled something unintelligible. With her heart caught in her throat, she realized he must be in that hazy dream state floating haphazardly between the real and imagined. Still, this was an exciting development after days and nights of no progress.

  Stepping back to the bed, she leaned over and gently shook his arm. “Justin?”

  When he gave no response, she pressed her hand to his forehead. Was she imagining it, or was he warmer than he’d been just a moment before?

  She sat down beside him, lifted the discarded cloth, and swept it across his brow.

  His arm slowly coiled about her waist, heavy and locked.

  “If this is your idea of a joke, Justin Barclay!” She shook his shoulder more forcefully, but he did not wake. His muscled arm lay heavily around her middle, not in an uncomfortable kind of way. Still, it was a bit too intimate to bear.

  She pried her fingers below his forearm, only to have it tighten.

  “Wake up, Justin.”

  He mumbled something unfathomable, and the arm around her waist slowly pulled her on top of him, squashing her breasts against the bandages of his brawny chest. She lay frozen, not wanting to hurt him, yet not wanting to be in his power either. Should she call for Shah? She certainly wasn’t afraid he would harm her; for all his misdeeds, he would never laid a hand on her. She didn’t believe he would start now. Still, part of her was fearful of him.

  Taking a shaky breath, she realized she wasn’t exactly afraid of him, but of the hodgepodge of emotions he stirred in her breast; hatred, pain, bitterness, longing, desperate hope mixed with fear. He had ripped out her heart in the worst kind of betrayal but then saved her from being assaulted. The blasted man had taken a bullet for her. She could almost hate him for it.

  “Justin,” she whispered. Then clearing her throat, she asked, “Are you awake? Please wake up.”

  With no response from him, she lay frozen, waiting for something, wondering what to do. His warmth radiated up her body, making her recall the pleasure of lying beside his hard-muscled form on a worn green couch not so very long ago. Everything had been so different then, yet her body still recognized her former lover. She closed her eyes, trying to force away the recollections, but Justin’s spicy-woodsy scent pervaded her senses, making the memories rush to the fore. Passionate, ardent kisses. Flesh rubbing against hot, wanting flesh. The heat, the ache to have him between her legs, filling her, sating her desire. Her body flamed, hungering for him still. It was appalling. She was mortified by her weakness, by the fever coursing through her flesh for him. She needed to get away from the bastard before he truly came to.

  She wiggled slightly, praying he would think this was only a dream. A fiery, erotic fantasy of latent desires transforming into unbridled passion.

  Dear Lord, she had to get away from him.

  She decided to try sliding down his torso to the bottom of the bed, as his hold was firm, yet not painful. She squirmed, trying hard not to put pressure on his injury.

  A small groan, barely more than a whisper, escaped his lips. She froze. Had she hurt him? His arm still held her locked against him, heavy and unmoving. With his eyes still closed, he slowly moved his free hand to her hair. Clutching a fistful of her tresses, he pressed them to his nose.

  Heavens, was he smelling her hair? This was growing farcical!

  “Uh, Justin, my lord—”

  Suddenly he pulled her face to his, meeting her mouth with awkward precision. He pressed his smooth lips to hers, causing her squirming to escalate. She had to escape!

  With a firm grasp on her hair, he tilted her head and opened his mouth, daring her to deny his kisses.

  She checked all movement, terrified she might actually respond. With her heart hammering faster than any smithy, she decided to reason with him and pretend this was all a funny, horrid mistake.

  “Justin?” she tried speaking into those silkily delicious lips. “Now that you’re awake, my—”

  His hot, thick tongue slid inside her mouth, making speech impossible. Her body flamed and unconsciously pressed closer, hungry for more. Of its own accord, her tongue entwined with his, eager and wanting. He was on fire, and she wanted to jump into the flames. Blood rushed to her head, sending all thoughts of freedom from her mind. His scent, his touch, his fevered passion trapped her and she wanted him to throw away the key. Her hips reflexively pressed against his hard
member; her body yearned for him.

  She pressed fiery, wet kisses to his ear, along his handsome jaw, aiming downward.

  “Oh, Rachel,” he breathed into her hair.

  It was as if someone had dropped her into an icy pond. Her passion turned to frosty humiliation. Evelyn pushed out of his arms, uncaring of his injury. Pressing her hand to her mouth, she stood over him, stiff with mortification, horrified by her behavior, by the wanton reaction he had unknowingly ignited in her. She was pitiful beyond redemption.

  A frown puckered his brow, but his eyes remained closed. “Mother? I thought you’d gone to see the queen.”

  His head rolled from side to side. “George! You’re back. Good, we’ve missed you.”

  She stepped closer and pressed her hand to his brow. The simmering heat had intensified into a raging conflagration. Fear clutched at her heart; she had more to worry about now than her lascivious behavior. The man was burning up with fever.

  The words tumbled from his lips, weak and barely sensible, “Don’t go…hunting…. Please stay…with me.” His voice pitched in panic. “George!”

  She grabbed the cloth, dunked it in the now tepid water, and squeezed it over his forehead.

  “George!”

  Her mouth had dried to dust; she was fearful for him and yet mindful of her own role in this mummery. “Shh,” she soothed. “George is dining at his club. He’ll be back shortly.”

  His brow relaxed. “George,” he sighed. A small tear trickled out the corner of his eye and rolled down his chiseled cheek. She brushed it away with the cloth. Her heart twisted over his pain for his brother. For all the lies and betrayal, the grief of his brother’s loss was very real.

  She brushed the damp rag over his neck. “George is at his club having the lamb with mint jelly. And crème brûlée for dessert.”