“No!” The scream issued from inside the carriage with a force that almost rocked the vehicle off its wheels.
“Mr. Smith would prefer to remain a stranger to us,” Caroline explained in a gentle voice. “And you must promise, as I have, to forget this accident.” She pulled her cousin aside and whispered, “The man is terribly embarrassed. You know how these English are,” she added.
Bradford, standing close enough, heard the explanation and was about to question Caroline’s last remark when Charity said, “He’s embarrassed because he was injured? How very odd. Is it severe?”
“No,” Caroline assured her. “At first I thought it was, but that was because there was so much blood. But it’s in an awkward place,” Caroline finished.
“Oh, my!” Charity drew the statement out with a rush of sympathy. She shot a look at the man inside the carriage and then turned back to Caroline. “Awkward, you say?”
“Yes,” Caroline replied. She knew her cousin wished a full description but, out of deference to Mr. Smith’s feelings, didn’t tell her any more. “The sooner we finish and get on our way, the better.”
“Why?”
“Because he is being most dramatic over his injury,” Caroline returned, letting her cousin see her exasperation. She wasn’t telling Charity the whole truth and admitted that much to herself. She wished to hurry because of Mr. Smith’s overbearing friend. The sooner she got away from him, the better. The man frightened her in an unusual, irritating way and Caroline didn’t care for that feeling at all.
“Is he a dandy?” Charity whispered the question as if it were a dread disease.
Caroline didn’t answer. She motioned to Benjamin and then accepted the satchel of medicine. She climbed back into the carriage and said to Mr. Smith, “Don’t concern yourself over Charity. She isn’t wearing her spectacles and can barely see you.”
Benjamin listened to the explanation and then offered his arm to Charity. When she didn’t immediately take it, he grabbed hold of her arm and slowly led her away. Bradford watched the twosome, trying to figure out who and what was going on.
“You might as well see the mess I’m in,” Mr. Smith called out to his friend. Bradford nodded and walked around to the other side of the carriage.
“There are few men I would trust to keep silent about my predicament, but Bradford is one of them,” he explained to Caroline.
Caroline didn’t comment. She saw that the injury had quit bleeding. “Do you have any spirits with you?” she asked, completely ignoring Bradford when he entered the carriage and sat down across from Mr. Smith.
The carriage was much larger than the hired conveyance Caroline had acquired, but Bradford’s left leg touched her shoulder nonetheless as she knelt before Mr. Smith. It would be inappropriate to suggest that he wait outside until she was finished cleaning and binding the wound, since Mr. Smith had invited him inside, but all the same, she couldn’t help but wish!
“A portion of brandy,” the man answered, turning her thoughts back to him. “Do you think a stiff drink might be the thing?” he asked as he pulled a gray container from his breast pocket.
“If there is any left,” Caroline answered. “I’m going to pour some on the injury before I bind it. Mama says that spirits stop infection,” she explained. She didn’t add that her mother wasn’t sure about this theory but practiced it anyway, decreeing that it certainly couldn’t hurt. “It will sting and if you wish to yell out, I’ll not think less of you.”
“I’ll not make a sound, madam, and it is ungallant of you to suggest that I would,” the man stated with a pompous air just seconds before the liquid fire touched his skin. He then let out a full scream of protest and almost came off the seat.
Bradford, feeling completely helpless, grimaced with sympathy.
Caroline grabbed a small jar of yellow powder that smelled of stale rain and wet leaves and sprinkled a liberal amount all over the wound. She then took the long strip of petticoat and worked with as much speed as possible. “The medicine will numb the area and seal it too,” she told him in a gentle voice.
Bradford fell victim to the husky, sensual pull in her voice. He found himself wishing he could change places with his friend and had to shake his head over that ridiculous thought. What was the matter with him? He felt bewitched and confused. It was such a strange reaction to a woman, one he had never experienced before, and he found he didn’t like it at all. She challenged his control. God’s truth, it almost frightened him, this intense reaction to the black-haired chit, and Bradford was suddenly like the bumbling schoolboy of years gone by, unsure of how to proceed.
“I have behaved like a coward, screaming like that,” Mr. Smith whispered. He mopped his forehead with a small square of lace and lowered his eyes. “Your mama is a barbarian to use such vile methods of treatment.”
Bradford, seeing the distress in his friend’s face, knew how difficult it was for him to admit to any flaw but decided that if he tried to dissuade his thinking, he would only make it worse.
“Mr. Smith, you barely made a peep,” Caroline contradicted with firmness. She patted his knee and glanced up at him. “You’ve been so brave. Why, the way you stood up to those bandits was most impressive.” Caroline saw that her praise was having its effect. Mr. Smith’s pompous air was gradually returning. “You have been courageous and have nothing to carry on about. And I will forgive you for calling my mama a barbarian,” she added with a gentle smile.
“I was rather bold with the scoundrels,” Mr. Smith acknowledged. “Of course, I was helplessly outnumbered you understand.”
“That you were,” Caroline returned. “You should be very proud of your conduct. Don’t you agree, Mr. Bradford?”
“I do,” Bradford immediately replied, immensely pleased that she had finally acknowledged him.
Mr. Smith grunted his pleasure.
“The only coward in the vicinity is the Irish groom I employed,” Caroline remarked as she began to wrap the long string around Mr. Smith’s thigh.
“You don’t like the Irish?” Bradford inquired with a lazy drawl. He was intrigued by her vehement tone of voice. Caroline glanced up at him with eyes that sparkled her anger, and Bradford found himself wondering if she would love as fiercely as she hated. He then pushed the ridiculous notion aside.
“The Irish I have encountered have been scoundrels,” Caroline admitted. “Mama says that I should be more liberal in my understanding, but I find I cannot.”
She sighed and turned back to her duties. “Three Irish attacked me once, when I was much younger, and if Benjamin had not intervened, I don’t know what would have happened. I would probably not be here to tell about it.”
“I find it difficult to believe that anyone could get the better of you,” Mr. Smith interjected.
It sounded like a compliment and Caroline accepted it as such. “I didn’t know how to protect myself then. My cousins were terribly upset over the incident, and from that day on, they all took a turn teaching me how to defend myself.”
“The woman’s a walking arsenal,” Mr. Smith commented to his friend. “She says she protects herself against London.”
“Are we to argue over the differences between the sophisticated Colonies and your shameful London once again, Mr. Smith?” Caroline’s voice was filled with laughter. She teased, more to take the man’s thoughts off his pain than anything else. With gentle, sure motions, she tied the long strip around and around his thigh.
Mr. Smith had slowly lost his pained expression. “I am feeling remarkably better. I owe you my life, dear woman.”
Caroline pretended she hadn’t heard his fervent statement and quickly turned the topic. She was always uneasy over compliments. “You’ll be dancing within a fortnight,” she promised. “Do you attend the grand functions of the ton? Do you, as they say, belong?”
The innocent question caused Mr. Smith to cough. He sounded like he was strangling on something caught in his throat. Caroline watched him for a second and the
n looked over at Bradford. She saw the amusement in his eyes and thought that the smile around the corners of his eyes almost made him look handsome.
She patiently waited for him to answer her, as Mr. Smith, continuing with his coughing and gasping, just didn’t seem capable of the task.
Bradford wasn’t a fop, she thought as she awaited his reply. It was actually a bit of a disappointment to acknowledge that. No, he didn’t act like Mr. Smith at all. Oh, they were dressed in the same type of garment, but Caroline didn’t think that Bradford carried a handkerchief made of nothing but lace. She didn’t believe that his thigh would feel so much like the skin on a new baby’s backside either. No, it would probably feel tough … and hard. He was so much more muscular than Mr. Smith too. He didn’t run to flab at all. She imagined that he could easily crush an opponent with his weight alone. How would he be with a woman? Caroline felt her cheeks warm at her mind’s alarming fantasy. What was the matter with her. To actually try to visualize a man without his clothes on, to consider what he must be like when he touched a woman. Lord, it was all unthinkable!
Bradford saw the pretty blush and believed that she thought Mr. Smith was laughing at her. He immediately answered, “We do belong to the ton but Mr. Smith attends more of the gatherings than I.” He didn’t add that he rarely attended any of the parties anymore and considered it all a trial to his patience. Instead of voicing his true feelings, he inquired, “You mentioned that you are visiting your father? You live in the Colonies then? With your mother?”
Bradford wanted to find out as much as he could about Caroline. He refused to acknowledge his sudden compulsion to gather as much information as possible and pretended, even to himself, that it was a mild interest and nothing more.
Caroline frowned. It would be rude not to answer the politely phrased questions, yet she found she didn’t want to tell either of the gentlemen anything about herself. She would be in London for only a short time if her plans didn’t go astray, and she didn’t wish to form any friendships with the English. Still, there didn’t seem to be any way around the expectation on both men’s faces. She had to say something. “My mother has been dead for many years,” she finally stated. “I moved to Boston when I was just a little girl. My aunt and uncle raised me and I’ve always called my aunt Mama. She did raise me, you see. And it was easier … to fit in,” she added with a negligent shrug.
“Will you be staying in London long?” Bradford asked. He leaned forward, placing his large hands on his knees, obviously intent on hearing her answer.
“Charity would like to attend some of the functions while we are here,” she replied, avoiding the real question he had asked.
Bradford frowned over the way she had skirted his question and then said, “The season will soon start. Do you look forward to your adventure?” He forced the cynicism out of his voice, admitting that he didn’t want to spoil her innocent expectations. She was a female and therefore had to be eager to participate in the frivolousness of it all.
“Adventure? I hadn’t thought of it in quite that way. I’m sure that Charity will enjoy the parties,” she answered.
She was frowning up at Bradford and he was struck with the thought that her gaze, when directed with such force, could well make any man stutter and lose his train of thought. Of course, Bradford hastily reminded himself while he tried to remember what it was they were talking about, he had seen too much, experienced too much, to be taken in by the wiles of any chit. He was, however, growing more alarmed at his own undisciplined reactions. By God, he had never been so affected, so overwhelmed, by a woman before. What the hell was the matter with him? It must be the heat, he reflected, even as he vowed, in that instant when their gaze held, that he would know all about the woman kneeling before him. She glowed with innocence and promises of real warmth to a man who had been out in the cold for such a long time.
The spell holding Caroline captive by Bradford’s dark eyes was broken when Mr. Smith cleared his throat and inquired, “You don’t look forward to the season, do you?” He seemed, to Caroline’s way of thinking, to be completely astonished by his own question.
“I haven’t given it consideration,” Caroline answered. She smiled and then added, “We have heard such stories! They are a prickly, closed group and one must always be terribly correct. Charity fears that she will do something that will embarrass my father her first night out. She wishes to be correct, you see.”
Her voice sounded strained and Bradford became all the more intrigued.
Mr. Smith commented, “I predict that you’ll be the talk of London.” His voice sounded smug and arrogant.
He had meant it as a compliment and was confused when Caroline nodded and frowned up at him. “That is Charity’s worry about me. She fears I’ll do something quite dreadful and all of London will hear of it. You see, I am rarely correct in anything that I do. My mama calls me a rebel. I fear she’s right.”
Her comment about her character was made in a very matter-of-fact voice.
“No, no. You mistake my meaning,” Mr. Smith stated. He waved his handkerchief in the air like a flag. “I mean to say that the ton will embrace you. I predict it.”
“You are most kind,” Caroline whispered. “But I hold little hope. It doesn’t signify, as you English are fond of saying, for I’ll be returning to Boston. It doesn’t matter if I’m cut by Pummer himself.”
“Pummer?” Both Bradford and Mr. Smith stated the name together.
“Plummer or Brummer,” Caroline returned with a shrug. “Mr. Smith, if you would just move your leg a little so that I can catch this loose end. There, now I can proceed.”
“Do you mean Brummell? Beau Brummell?” Bradford asked, a smile in his voice.
“Yes, that is probably the correct name. We were told by Mrs. Maybury, before we left Boston, that this Brummell rules the ton, but of course you must know that. Mrs. Maybury had only just arrived in the Colonies before we left, so we believe her story to be accurate.”
“And what was her story?” Bradford asked.
“That if Brummell decides to cut a lady, then she might as well join a convent. Her season is ruined and she must go home in disgrace. Can you imagine one person having such power?” She asked the question of Bradford and glanced up at him. She immediately wished she hadn’t. Of course he could imagine such power, she told herself. The man probably invented it. She sighed with frustration and lowered her gaze. Bradford’s closeness was beginning to irritate her. She looked up at Mr. Smith and saw his distressed frown. “Oh, have I made the bandage too tight?”
“N-no, it’s fine,” Mr. Smith stammered.
“You must understand that I personally do not care if Brummell cuts me or not. London holds no promise for me. Still, I do worry that Charity will be affected by my behavior and possibly hurt and I don’t wish to see her humiliated. Yes, that is a worry.”
“I have the feeling that Beau Brummell will not cut you or your cousin,” Bradford predicted.
“You’re far too beautiful to be discarded,” Mr. Smith interjected.
“Being attractive should have nothing to do with being accepted. It is what is inside a person that matters,” Caroline advised.
“Besides that noble fact, I hear that he values his grays exceedingly,” Bradford commented, his tone dry.
“His grays?” Caroline asked, clearly confused.
“His horses,” Bradford answered. “I’ve no doubt that you’d try to shoot them if he dared to cut you or your cousin.”
His expression looked serious but his eyes had turned warm and teasing. “I would never!” Caroline said.
He smiled then and Caroline shook her head. “You jest,” she stated. “There,” she said, turning back to Mr. Smith. “I’ve finished. Keep this medicine and have the bandage changed once a day. And don’t allow anyone to bleed you, for heaven’s sake. You’ve lost enough blood.”
“Another one of your mama’s practices?” Mr. Smith inquired with a good deal of suspicion in h
is voice.
Caroline nodded as she moved out of the carriage. When she stood outside, she turned and propped Mr. Smith’s legs on the opposite seat, next to Bradford’s looming form. “I fear you’re correct, Mr. Smith. Your lovely boots look ruined. And your tassels are coated with blood. Perhaps if you wash them with champagne, the way Mrs. Maybury explained that Brummell does, then they’ll be just the thing again.”
“That is a most guarded secret,” Mr. Smith decreed with indignation.
“It can’t be much of a secret,” Caroline replied. “For Mrs. Maybury knew all about it and it appears you do too.” She didn’t wait for a reply to her logical statement and turned to Bradford. “You’ll see to your friend now?”
“We’ve found the groom,” Charity called out just as Bradford nodded to Caroline. “He has a bump on his head the size of a church steeple, but he’s coming around.”
Caroline nodded and said, “Good day to you both. Benjamin, we must go now. Mr. Bradford will tend to Mr. Smith.”
The black man said something to Caroline in a language Bradford had never heard before but he knew, from the way that Caroline smiled and nodded, that she understood perfectly.
And then they were gone. Neither gentleman said a word as they watched the black-haired nymph lead her cousin down the road. The Duke of Bradford jumped out of the carriage for a longer look while his friend stuck his head out the window and also watched the retreat.
Bradford found himself smiling. The little cousin with the blonde curls was talking to Caroline, and the silent black man, with his pistol drawn, followed behind, obviously intent on seeing to their protection.
“My God, I believe I’ve contracted the king’s madness,” the injured man stated. “The chit hails from the Colonies,” he added with a hint of a sneer in his voice, “and still I find I’m infatuated.”
“Get over it,” Bradford advised, his voice curt. “I want her.” His tone didn’t suggest an argument, and his friend wisely agreed with several vigorous nods. “I don’t care if she is from the Colonies or not.”
Julie Garwood Page 3