“You’re going to wish you’d shot me by the time this night is over,” he grumbled. “I swear I’ll take you over my knee—”
“Oh, hush, and give me the keys to the shop. Even if I’d let you take me over your knee, which I wouldn’t, you’re in no condition to do it.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that if I were you.” But he handed her the keys anyway. She unlocked the door, then helped him across the threshold.
He shut the door behind them quickly and locked it, relieved that they’d escaped the alley before anybody had seen them. Releasing her shoulder, he limped forward.
She hastened to his side. “Wait, let me help you.”
“I’m fine. I just need to sit down.” He suspected the wound wasn’t very serious or he wouldn’t be able to walk, but it hurt like the devil, and he figured he should examine it.
The shop was black as coal dust, but Morgan was used to moving about it in the dark. Clara wasn’t. She nearly walked into the stairway banister before he jerked her back.
“Should I call Johnny to come down with a lamp?” she asked.
“He’s not here. I sent him off with Samuel for the night.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think? For the same reason I didn’t want you here!”
“You were expecting the Specter, weren’t you?” she accused as he grabbed her arm and led her through the shop to the back.
“That isn’t the point. I told you to stay away tonight, so you should have listened. Why didn’t you listen?”
“I might have, if you’d actually explained things instead of barking out orders.”
“I thought you had more sense than to come here alone at night.”
When she answered, contrition filled her voice. “Looking back, I’ll concede it wasn’t a very bright idea. But I knew you were up to something. And I was right, wasn’t I?” She was so intent on accusing him that she nearly stumbled over his bed.
“Whoa, angel, hold up there before you break your shin. Then we’ll have two injuries to deal with.”
Sighing heavily, he dropped onto the bed, then reached for the lantern he always kept beside it. He lit it, and instantly a warm light filled the room. As he reached behind him to hang the lantern on a hook, he heard her gasp and glanced back to find her staring at his leg in abject horror.
“Heavens, Morgan, there’s so much blood.”
Damned if she wasn’t right. Blood stained the entire left leg of his breeches. But that didn’t daunt him. He’d seen too many wounds to be much surprised that this one was bleeding. “I doubt it’s as bad as it looks.” He examined the side of his thigh carefully. “No holes and only this tear here…the bullet must have just grazed me.”
“But the blood—”
“Sometimes the mildest wounds bleed the most. It burns like hell, but flesh wounds often do.”
“But you must see a doctor.”
He glanced up at her. “And who’s going to fetch me one? You? And have it be known that you were with me when I was shot?”
“I don’t care about that.”
The hell of it was, she probably didn’t. “But I do. Besides, I can handle this myself. I’ve done it before.” When she started to protest, he added, “If I need a doctor, I’ll send Johnny for one when he returns in the morning. But I don’t think I will. All it needs is a dressing—”
“Oh, you can be so infuriating!” Removing her cloak and tossing it over his dresser, she took off her gloves as she turned and scanned the room. “People die of ‘mild’ wounds all the time, you know.” She looked frantic, her gaze darting this way and that. “Where the devil am I to find water in here? And bandages and—”
“Calm down, Clara, it’s all right.” Her concern for him both touched and amused him. He gestured behind her. “The washstand is over there. And there’s clean linen underneath—you can use that.”
Turning on her heel, she headed with a purposeful stride toward where he pointed.
“You have dressed a wound before, haven’t you?” he asked.
“Once or twice at the Home, when a child was hurt and we couldn’t wait for the doctor.” As she knelt to search the washstand, she shot him a panicky look. “But never one so serious.”
“I keep telling you—it’s not that bad. I can do it myself if I have to. I’ve done it before.”
“I shan’t make you dress your own wound, for pity’s sake.” But her face was the color of chalk as she jerked out towels and tossed them onto her shoulder. “I’m the one who got you into this, and I’ll be the one to take care of you.”
He eyed her skeptically. “If you insist. But you look like you’re about to faint.”
“I am not the fainting sort, I assure you. I can handle this.”
“Nobody said you couldn’t, ma belle ange.” He bit back a smile. Having Clara fuss over him went a long way toward diminishing the pain in his thigh.
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’ve seen plenty of horrific sights in Spitalfields, you know—men shot in cold blood, a woman battered by her lover, some gin-loving matron emaciated from lack of real nourishment. This is no different.”
She was babbling now, but he let her talk. If his experiences in battle had taught him anything, it was that people reacted differently in times of crisis. Some of them grew morbidly quiet. Others, like Clara, talked to keep their minds off the difficulties at hand.
While she poured water in the basin, he removed his boots, then rose and stripped off his skintight breeches and stockings. The cloth was already starting to stick, and he cursed as he pulled it free of the wound. Removing his coat and waistcoat to keep them from being further soiled by blood, he tossed them aside. Then he hitched up his shirt and sat down to examine his leg.
A sudden clatter of metal against wood made him jerk his head up. Clara stood there mute, having dropped the basin of water she’d apparently been carrying to him.
He raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong, cherie?”
“You’re not wearing any…um…breeches.”
The blush rising in her cheeks made him chuckle…until he saw her staring at his bared legs in clear fascination. Despite all that had happened, he felt a stirring in his drawers. With a curse, he leaned forward, hoping his shirt would cover his annoying reaction. “I figured the breeches would get in the way of your dressing the wound.”
“Oh, of course. Yes. Certainly.” Kneeling to pick up the basin, she poured more water in it and brought it to the bed. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Forgive me, I’m not used to seeing grown men…well—”
“Half-naked. No, I don’t imagine you are.”
When she set the basin on the floor and knelt down, all flushed and angelic, he stifled a groan. The one time he’d imagined her kneeling at his feet she’d been performing an entirely different service for him. Unfortunately, his cock remembered the fantasy only too well.
Quickly, he turned his attention to his wound. “Looks like it’s just superficial.” He almost wished it weren’t. Then he’d be focusing on his pain instead of his pesky arousal. “I expect it will heal all right.”
“Thank God!” she said fervently as she soaked a towel in the basin.
When she began to wash away the blood, fire leaped up his thigh, and he swore under his breath.
Two spots of color stained her pretty cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. For everything. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“Remember that the next time you go snooping where you’re not wanted.”
She ignored his grumbling, apparently too intent on cleaning the wound to argue with him. “Have you any strong spirits here? Brandy? Whisky?”
“Good idea.” He could certainly use some brandy. “Look behind the towels in the washstand.” As she rose and headed in that direction, he added in a teasing voice, “I thought it wasn’t proper for ladies to drink strong spirits.”
She arched one elegant eyebrow at him. “I somehow think watching a man get s
hot is an acceptable excuse for flouting the proprieties. Unless you have a problem with that?”
“Not me. Women should always flout the proprieties. Makes life more interesting.”
“You would think that.” She found the bottle and pulled it out. “It’s strange, but I don’t think the Specter meant to shoot you at all. I think it was accidental. After it happened, he said, ‘Godamercy, I’ve kilt him!’ as if he were surprised.”
“I’ll give him a surprise, all right,” Morgan said grimly. “That arse will not get away with this. I’ll tear him limb from limb for daring to assault you.”
“Me? I’m sure he didn’t mean to assault me at all. Even though he threatened me some, he—”
“What? He threatened you? I thought you’d just come upon him while he was waiting for me, and you’d accosted him.”
She drew herself up, stony with offense. “I’m not an idiot, you know. I would never have accosted a stranger in your alley.”
“You accosted me a week ago.”
“That’s different. It was broad daylight, and I wasn’t alone. And you weren’t draped in a black cloak.” She came toward him with the bottle. “No, I was here knocking on the door when he came up and demanded to know where you were. When I couldn’t tell him, he pulled out that pistol and started waving it around—”
“Bon Dieu, he could have killed you! I’ll wring his damned neck, I will!”
He started up from the bed, but she pushed him back down. “It wasn’t like that. Not exactly.”
“Then tell me ‘exactly’ how it was.” The realization that it could be her sitting here wounded staggered him, made the hair rise on the back of his neck. “Why did he threaten you? What did he want from you? What was he saying?”
She sat on the bed beside him and uncorked the bottle. “It was very odd. He seemed concerned about Johnny, of all things. He told me to give you a message about him.”
When she poured brandy on the wound, he swore a foul oath, then snatched the bottle from her, temporarily distracted from their discussion. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing? Trying to kill me, for God’s sake?”
“Why do you think I wanted the brandy? To help stop the bleeding. Mrs. Carter swears that cleansing a wound with strong spirits will help it heal faster.”
“Mrs. Carter is entitled to her opinion, but I’d rather not have it tried out on my leg.”
She tipped up her chin. “She said her brother, the surgeon, used it in the navy.”
“We didn’t waste good brandy on a scratch like this in the navy, I promise you.” Lifting the bottle to his lips, he drank several gulps, then set it down again. “That’s what we used brandy for in the navy.”
“Fine. Use it for whatever you wish. I’m done with it anyway.” She stood and glanced around, hands on her hips. “Do you have anything I can use for bandaging?”
“Here, use my cravat,” he said as he removed it.
When he handed it to her, she scowled at him. “This is silk. I’m not going to ruin silk by wrapping it around your wound. Besides, silk isn’t absorbent enough. Don’t you have any clean sheets and a scissors or a knife to cut them with?”
He reached behind him for the sheathed knife he sometimes wore inside his coat when his pistol was inconvenient. He’d had to leave it off for the ball, since evening clothes made it difficult to hide.
He handed it to her. “You can use my knife, but the only sheets are on this bed, and I’m not letting you tear them up.”
“All right, I’ll use my petticoat. It’s made of cotton, perfect for bandaging.” Taking up the knife, she marched off to the front, apparently to preserve her privacy.
“Wonderful,” he called out behind her. “Wouldn’t want to have my wound dressed in anything but the latest female fashion.”
“Sorry,” she called back from the front room, “that’ll have to wait until the next time you’re shot. This petticoat is out-of-date—I never dress in my finest for Spitalfields.”
“I noticed. Just as I noticed that you changed into a black gown for your little escapade this evening. I assume you thought that would make it easier for you to snoop about without being detected.”
There was a long silence from the front room. Then she said in a small voice, “Something like that.”
He would have lectured her again, but the rustling of her skirts distracted him. He tried not to imagine her lifting them to cut strips from her petticoat. Tried not to imagine the filmy, calf-length chemise she’d be wearing underneath, the silky stockings clinging to her eloquent thighs and dimpled knees and…
Need roared through him with typhoon force, and he swore under his breath. He should have sent her to fetch a doctor after all. Anything would be better than this torture.
Especially when she returned to the room with strips of cloth in one hand and the ruined petticoat in the other. As she tossed the piece of clothing aside, he couldn’t help staring at her skirts, which now clung to her legs, though the black bombazine was too impenetrable to allow him to see much.
Too bad he didn’t have more wounds. Then she’d have to cut up her gown and her chemise to bandage all of them. Not to mention her drawers—to get her out of those, he’d shoot the damned pistol at his leg himself.
A tantalizing image of Clara naked rose in his fevered brain, and he squelched it ruthlessly. He had more important things to deal with right now than seducing Clara. “You said the Specter gave you a message for me. What was it?”
“That was the odd part. He said he wanted you to kick Johnny out. He was very adamant about it. He didn’t like that Johnny’s sister is friendly with a policeman.”
Morgan turned that over in his mind. Why would the Specter care about that, especially if he really did have connections in all the police offices? It made no sense. None of this made sense.
His eyes narrowed. What if the man who’d attacked her hadn’t really been the Specter? The man who’d fled the alley tonight hadn’t been husky and broad-shouldered, like the man who’d fled last time. And there’d been no horse waiting in the street when Morgan approached—tonight’s attacker had fled on foot.
“Something else I forgot about,” she said as she came to his side. “He dropped the pistol after he shot you. I imagine it’s still lying in the alley.”
“Damn it, Clara, that’s important! I’d better fetch it and bring it in here.”
He started to rise, but she shoved him back onto the bed. “You’re not going anywhere until I’ve bandaged you, Morgan.”
“Bossy wench,” he muttered.
“Besides, he’s probably already returned for it himself by now,” she said matter-of-factly as she sat down and propped his leg over her knee so she could bandage him.
She had a point. What fool left their weapon lying in an alley? But that reinforced his suspicion that her attacker hadn’t been the Specter. And if it hadn’t been, then the real Specter might even now be lurking about.
He watched impatiently as she folded a towel into a thick square, pressed it firmly against the wound, and then wrapped the petticoat strip around his thigh.
When she tied it off, he set the brandy bottle on the floor and took her hand. “Clara, I need you to give me a moment-by-moment account of what happened in the alley.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed two fingers to her mouth and added, “No, not yet. Not until I’m sure we’re alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain in a moment.” When he was sure the real Specter wasn’t listening in.
He rose from the bed, and she cried, “Morgan, what do you think you’re doing?”
“It’s all right. I can walk.”
“But you might injure your wound further!”
He smiled down at her. “I once fought a battle with a bullet embedded in my arm, ma belle ange. Trust me, this is nothing.”
He limped through to the front room and checked the door to make sure it was still locked. Coming back into the room, he
closed the door between the shop and his bedchamber. Then he climbed to the second floor to search the storage room, ignoring Clara’s cry of protest. Other than Johnny’s meager belongings and the few stored boxes, there was nothing upstairs, thank God.
When he came back down, she stood at the bottom, hands planted on her hips and eyes flashing. “I swear, if you make your wound bleed again, I’ll…I’ll make you dress it yourself!”
“What? And miss torturing me with brandy?” He reached her side and chucked her under the chin. “Relax, angel, I know what I can handle.” He headed back to the bed. “Now tell me exactly what happened tonight. Start at the beginning. I want to know everything you saw, everything your assailant said. All right?”
She stood there with a mutinous look on her face until he sat down again and leaned back against the wall. Then she hurried over to check his bandage. Satisfied that no fresh blood seeped through, she sat down beside him and began to talk.
In a surprisingly calm voice, she recounted the incident, so fully describing it that he smiled. The woman ought to be a spy herself. She had a fine attention to detail, even down to describing a hint of clean-shaven chin that she’d glimpsed beneath the hood. But the more detail she related, the more convinced he became that she had not met up with the Specter. The ill-educated accent, the erratic behavior…none of it fit.
He stopped her from time to time to clarify something, and when she finished, he leaned forward, scowling. “When you say that the pistol shook,” he asked, “what do you mean? The man was trembling? Perhaps even frightened?”
“At first. But later he was clearly just agitated, waving the thing wildly about and—”
“That wasn’t the Specter,” he said firmly.
“But he was wearing the cloak, and he acted like—”
“It wasn’t him, I tell you. For one thing, he speaks excellent English. And though I’ve only had a glimpse of him, he’s a hulking brute, very husky. Not the slightly built fellow you describe. Besides, no one with an ounce of knowledge about pistols would ever wave it around. It gives the person’s intended victim too many chances to snatch it or knock it aside. The Specter’s too clever to let himself be that vulnerable.”
Dance of Seduction Page 21