Realm 06 - A Touch of Love

by Regina Jeffers

  The Baloch froze and lifted his hands in the air in casual surrender. Too casual for Carter’s liking. “Monroe?” he called without turning his head.

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “Search Jamot, but be wary. Our friend is known for his caginess.” Monroe cautiously knelt behind the Baloch and bent to run his hands over Jamot’s person. To the room, Carter announced, “I am an agent of the King, and I mean no one harm. I have searched for this man for more than two years. He is charged with murder and kidnapping.” Carter would not mention Jamot’s dealing in illegal goods. Those who crouched in anticipation of what would occur next could construe his words to mean the unlawful brandy easily found in eastern English homes.

  Jamot flinched when Monroe fished a pistol from his jacket pocket, but, otherwise, the Baloch did not move, and neither did anyone else in the room. The tension clung to Carter’s shoulders, and he was glad when Jamot spoke. It brought life to a terrible tableau.

  “Your disguise was most effective, Sir Carter,” the Baloch said with an ironic sneer. “I must remember your ability to assimilate for when next we meet.”

  Carter said defiantly, “There will be no next time, Jamot. Your mission for Shaheed Mir has reached its end.”

  Jamot snorted his contempt. “It is only over when I discover Mir’s prize.”

  “Each of your previous attempts have proved futile,” Carter countered, choking back his anger.

  The Baloch smiled wryly. “But there are two remaining who could prove guilty.”

  Carter would not argue with his enemy. “Step away, Monroe.” He gestured with the gun he still held upon the Baloch. “Everyone remain where you are, and we will trouble you no further.” He stepped around the men hunkered down before the bar to approach Jamot. “No impulsive moves,” he warned. “I would prefer to escort you to London alive, but I would hold no qualms in seeing your body slung over a saddle.”

  Jamot smirked, “And here I had come to think you held a fondness for the likes of me.”

  “Monroe, you are to provide cover,” Carter ordered as he gestured Jamot toward the door.

  Lucinda had finally convinced the boy to sleep. “He be a good lad, Mrs. Warren,” Mr. Watkins assured. “All at the estate say so. Ye shud be proud of him, Ma’am.”

  She would not abuse the coachman for his error. “If Sir Carter does not arrive this evening, I suppose we should return to Kent tomorrow. I cannot imagine the reason for the baronet’s delay, but we cannot remain in these quarters. If it were not so late, I would press you to return tonight.”

  “It is not like Sir Carter to mislead a person, but I agree, Ma’am. This not be fit quarters for a lady.” He reached for the door’s handle. “I’ll check the room below for the baronet, and then I be retrieving my roll from the coach. I make me bed outside yer door.”

  Lucinda caught the man’s rough hand. “I do not know how to thank you for your kindness. Simon and I are in your debt.”

  “It be likely the baronet come lookin’ fer ye when he arrives,” Watkins declared in all earnestness. “Sir Carter would have me hide if’n I not see to yer safety.”

  Lucinda thought the baronet sorely lacking in his concern for her, but she kept her thoughts to herself. “I hope you correct, Mr. Watkins. If not, Simon and I shall be prepared to depart early.” She swung the door wide.

  He had prodded Jamot with a nudge of the Baloch’s shoulder, but just as Carter fell into step behind the man, a shot rang out, and from his eye’s corner, he saw Monroe spin away from the room before clawing at the wall behind him. Carter’s natural reflexes reached for the young recruit, permitting Jamot his opportunity. The Baloch bolted for the stairs.

  Carter caught Monroe and braced the young man’s slide to a seated position before following Jamot. He fished a handkerchief from an inside pocket and shoved it into Monroe’s hand. “Hold tight,” he ordered before he cautiously climbed the steps, his gun hand leading the way and at the ready. As he passed each closed door, he caught the handle to swing it wide. Yet, the Baloch had disappeared. Carter was near to abandoning his search when he turned a corner to discover his worst nightmare.

  She certainly had not expected a stranger upon her portal when she had opened the door for Mr. Watkins, and she had not reacted quickly enough to prevent the intruder from capturing her about the neck and dragging her toward an open draft window.

  Lucinda fought for her life. She dug her nails into the man’s meaty hands, but her efforts were of little note. The man was too tall and too strong for her to prevent him from executing whatever mischief he chose. He tugged her along, half carrying her, and Lucinda fully expected to be tossed out the open window. She heard Mr. Watkins scramble to recover from the blow her captor had placed across the coachman’s chest, but Lucinda knew the elderly driver no match for the man who held her pressed tight to his chest.

  “Release her!” a familiar voice growled lethally. His cold tone sucked the air from the passageway. If she could have uttered a sound, Lucinda would have cheered Sir Carter’s arrival. She squirmed to throw her attacker off balance, but a steady gaze from the baronet stilled her efforts. He said with hesitation, “I repeat, Jamot: Release the lady.”

  “And why would I do as you ask?” the Baloch taunted.

  Lucinda’s heart clenched with dread as she looked upon Sir Carter’s countenance. It physically pained the baronet to speak his offer. “Permit the lady her freedom, and I will not give chase. You will live to fight the next battle. What say you, Jamot?”

  Silently, he counted to five. It was one of the best means for him to control the anger coursing through him. With the arrest of Murhad Jamot, he could have easily claimed the title of the Realm’s leader, but those hopes would go out the window with the Baloch’s escape. And Carter held no doubt Jamot would accept his offer. The Baloch was all things vile, but he was not a foolish man. Jamot possessed a strong sense of survival.

  When Carter had discovered Mrs. Warren in Jamot’s grasp, his heart had stumbled to a halt. His first thoughts had been those of elation in knowing she was here; after all, over the past fortnight, her essence had clung to him like a wet jacket. Yet, reality had quickly intruded. She was in residence at a disreputable inn–without his knowledge of her traveling alone. Was she alone? Or had the lady chosen an assignation? Perhaps, even with Jamot.

  The errant possibility rocked Carter’s composure. However, he held no choice but to negotiate for her release. Biting his tongue in frustration, he said sternly, “Permit the lady her freedom, and I will not give chase.” He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “You will live to fight the next battle. What say you, Jamot?” Something dangerous coiled and twisted within his gut.

  The Baloch glanced to the open door leading to what Carter assumed was Mrs. Warren’s room, and again the idea the Baloch had rushed toward the sleeping quarters rather than the main entrance because of her gnawed at the edges of Carter’s mind. “You are known to be an honorable man,” Jamot said with confidence. “That particular trait will be your downfall, Sir Carter.”

  Carter was well aware of how his actions would appear in his report to Pennington. He had underestimated Jamot’s influence on those below. He had permitted Monroe to suffer an attack and had negotiated the release of a woman known to him. A woman who should be enjoying herself at his estate. Pennington would express his continued disappointment with Carter’s handling of the situation, as would the committee overseeing the search for a new director. “Time will tell the tale.” He edged further to the left, seeking a clear shot in case the Baloch thought to do something ill advised.

  Jamot’s finger caressed the underside of Mrs. Warren’s chin, and Carter noted how she had stiffened with the Baloch’s touch. “Do you fancy the lady, Sir Carter?” Jamot said on a taunt.

  “I fancy the lady’s safety,” Carter said noncommittally.

  With a nod of acceptance, Jamot wasted no time in shoving Mrs. Warren’s into Carter’s waiting arms. As he had promised, Car
ter made no move to follow. Instead, he wrapped his arms about the lady’s trembling body and buried his face in her rumpled hair. “I have you, Lucinda,” he whispered. It felt natural to use her Christian name, and Carter instinctively tightened his embrace. He lifted her chin where he might look upon her countenance. “Did he injure you?” Carter ran his finger lightly along the red line left by Jamot’s grasp.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her shoulders quaked with silent sobs, but she shook her head in the negative. “Nothing…nothing of import,” she said on a harsh rasp.

  Carter loosened his grip. Although obviously upset, she would recover quickly. Perhaps more quickly than he. Her nearness had warmed his blood dramatically. She was petite in comparison to his height, and her bust line sported full globes to enflame his desire. Strands of chocolate and of strawberry peppered her blonde hair, which tumbled over his fist. He would love to splay his fingers through it, to send the pins, which once tugged it into place, flying.

  “You were terribly late,” she accused, and any images of naked bodies, which Carter had conjured up, quickly dissipated.

  He set her from him. “I assure you, Mrs. Warren, had I known you required my rescue, I would have arrived more speedily. As you have been so gracious in your expression of gratitude,” he said testily, “how could I not respond happily?”

  The lady’s forehead crunched in lines of disapproval. “As you placed me in danger, Sir,” she countered, “it seemed only appropriate for you to save me.”

  Carter leaned over her, using his height as an advantage. “You are delusional, Madam. Until I tracked Jamot to your open door, I held no knowledge of your presence under The Rising Son’s roof. Instead of making accusations, perhaps you might explain why one of my most constant enemies chose you as his shield of protection. Are you among the Baloch’s admirers?” He was acting unreasonably, but he could not control his ire when he thought she had betrayed him.

  The lady looked to the still open window. Her gaze was furious. “You think I would align myself with the likes of that…of that…” Mrs. Warren gestured wildly to the gaping darkness. “Of that man!” she said vehemently. “Thank you for your lack of confidence in my character.” She caught her skirt tail to step around him. “The boy and I will return to London on the morrow, and we shall bother you no further. Good evening, Sir Carter.”

  “Wait!” His voice was both harsh and urgent. In annoyance, he caught her arm, but before he could sort out her complaint, he heard Monroe groan with pain. Looking over his shoulder, Carter saw four men carrying Monroe to an empty room. To Mrs. Warren, Carter said, “You are to go nowhere until we settle this, but first I must tend to my companion. Mr. Monroe was shot in the madness of apprehending Jamot.” He gave her arm a good shake to stress the urgency of what he required.

  Her chin bumped higher: her gaze glacial. “Do you expect a salute of obedience, Lieutenant Lowery?” No one ever dared to speak to him in that tone of contempt, and in many ways, Carter admired the lady’s bravado.

  “I would simply prefer the obedience without either the salute or the posturing,” he hissed. Uncertain if she would demand an immediate withdrawal and how he might convince her to stay until he could decipher the events leading to the current chaos, he cautiously stepped away from her. Carter expected her to bolt toward her room, but nothing of the woman was predictable. Instead, she pushed past him to follow the men carrying Monroe’s limp body into the adjoining room. She presented Carter a deathly glare, and he did not know whether to look offended or to laugh. He heard Law’s voice warning: Definitely do not laugh, Carter. Never laugh at a lady in discord.

  “Damnable woman!” he murmured as he fell into step behind her.

  On shaky legs, just to be away from the infuriating baronet, Lucinda rushed to the side of a man she had never met. His accusations stung in the manner of her late husband’s insinuations regarding her actions toward the other officers. At the time, Lucinda had seen Captain Warren’s biting words as a sign he truly cared for her, and they would have a normal marriage after the war ended. Only in the last six months had she realized Mr. Warren’s words had hid his guilt, rather than to define his unspoken love for her.

  “Permit me to see to the gentleman’s wound,” she said as she shoved one of the bar patrons from her way. “I shall require clean water and rags to wash away the possible infection. Is there a surgeon available?”

  The innkeeper, Mr. Blackston, replied, “Only a midwife. We could send someone to the next village if’n ye think it best, Ma’am.”

  Lucinda wrestled with Monroe’s jacket before tearing away the cloth of the man’s shirt to better view the wound. Her fingers probed the opening. From behind her, she could feel the baronet’s eyes upon her back, but Lucinda did not turn to see whether those dark eyes held disdain or approval. If the former, she would likely lose her nerve and abandon Mr. Monroe to the likes of a midwife. “The bullet went through the fleshy part of the shoulder. Permit me to clean the wound, and then we will determine whether to send someone for a surgeon.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” Monroe said in some discomfort.

  “Mrs. Warren,” she said. A bit of mischief made her want to tell the man to call her “Lucinda,” just to view Sir Carter’s reaction to her daring. Before the moment passed, she added, “Lucinda Warren.”

  Before she could rise from where she sat upon the bed beside Mr. Monroe, the baronet joined them, possessively placing his hand on her shoulder, as if he claimed her, an action again reminiscent of Matthew Warren. “Mrs. Warren followed the drum, Mr. Monroe,” she heard a bit of pride in the baronet’s voice. “I would trust her judgment over a country doctor, who has seen few wounds.”

  Despite his words of trust, Lucinda did not like the feel of his hand upon his shoulder. It weighed her down, holding Lucinda in place, making her feel helpless. But worse, it spread warmth through her veins–an uncomfortable feeling after her earlier anger. She glanced up at Sir Carter. “Perhaps, you could see to Simon while I tend your associate.”

  “The boy is here?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Of course,” she said sweetly. “Your note asked me to bring the boy to The Rising Son.” She watched with satisfaction as he fought the urge to refute her words, but he would not argue with her before the others.

  Sir Carter bowed. “I will leave you to your ministrations. Monroe, you are in excellent hands.”

  Carter schooled his countenance and strode from the room. He turned to the still open door to find his coachman lingering in the opening. He had a thousand questions for Mr. Watkins, but first he would care for the child. “The boy?” he asked as he nodded at Watkins.

  “Within, Sir, and worried for Mrs. Warren’s safety.”

  Carter squeezed Watkins’ shoulder as he entered the room. His eyes immediately fell on Simon. The boy, in a too large shirt, stood barefoot in the room’s middle. “You came, at last,” he accused.

  Carter still was not certain how the lady had thought to be at this particular inn, but he would not upset the child further. “I have, and everything is safe. You have nothing of which to worry.”

  As was typical for the boy, Simon would not relent until he knew all the facts. “Who was injured? Is Mrs. Warren well?” The child’s voice rose with anxiousness.

  “Mrs. Warren has not suffered from the ordeal. In fact, she tends one of my associates, who was injured in the skirmish below. The lady will return as soon as she finishes with Mr. Monroe.” Belatedly, he wondered if he should have spoken so honestly. With his young nieces and nephews, he generally spoke of fairy tales and butterflies, certainly not of bullets and raging Balochs. “I will leave Mr. Watkins with you until Mrs. Warren returns. I must assist the innkeeper and the local magistrate in discovering the culprit.” He walked purposely toward the bed and straightened the counterpane. “Now, return to bed,” he encouraged without looking at the boy. “You have nothing to fear.”

  Reluctantly, the boy climbed into bed, but Cart
er doubted the child would sleep. “You will protect Mrs. Warren?” Simon whispered. “She is a good person.”

  Carter ruffled the boy’s wiry hair. “With my life.” He blew out the candle and exited the room. The child was correct: The lady was exceptional. From the hall, he motioned Watkins to step into the passageway. “Tell me what you know of Mrs. Warren’s presence at The Rising Son.”

  Watkins leaned closer as if in secret. “According to Mr. Vance, Mrs. Warren received a letter two days prior. Mr. Vance delivered it hisself and says the lady claimed the message be from you, Sir. The duke meant to send her on her journey, but she refused both the duke’s small coach, as well as yers. The Duke of Thornhill let a hack, and I’s volunteered to drive the lady.” Carter relived his earlier accusations with regret. Instantly, he wished to read the note Mrs. Warren had thought to be from him. He felt compelled to discover who practiced deception in his name. However, first he must learn what he could of what had occurred below, and then he must apologize to Mrs. Warren.

  Lucinda had cleaned and dressed Mr. Monroe’s wound before assisting the man to know restorative sleep by adding a few drops of laudanum to the man’s ale. Mrs. Blackston kept the drug in storage “for those who be causin’ trouble in me inn.” She was just gathering her things when Sir Carter slipped into the room. Still angry from his earlier attitude, Lucinda purposely ignored him. She placed the bloody rags in a bow before brushing a strand of straw blonde hair from Mr. Monroe’s forehead.

  Finally, unable to avoid Sir Carter any longer, she stood and straightened her shoulders before turning to face him. In the soft candlelight, he was even more appealing than before. The baronet leaned casually against the door. “Has Simon found his bed?” she asked for she could think of nothing intelligent to say.

  “Watkins is with the boy,” he said softly so as not to wake his friend. “The child worries for your safety.”