“Yer valuables,” the man answered with an obscene laugh, “startin’ with this pretty piece right here!” His hand shot out to grab Julia’s wrist, jerking her off the seat.
“No!” Rud shouted, his fingers digging into her ribs as he pushed her back. For an instant, she was torn between them, then Rud lashed out with his booted foot, sending the pistol spinning from the thief’s grasp.
Cursing, the man let Julia go to scrabble on the floor for the pistol. Rud reached for it at the same time. The two of them grappled back and forth in the rocking carriage. The stout man’s arms bulged with muscles and his face twisted in a bestial rage. He had, in addition, the advantage of standing on solid ground instead of having to kneel inside the carriage. Rud was a match for him in strength, but there was something ruthless in the man’s grunting efforts to bring the gun to bear on Rud’s chest, or to use teeth and nails to gain the upper hand.
Julia did not think Rud was in need of her help, but still the fear spiraling up into her throat compelled her to join the fray. Setting her lips, she kicked out, catching the burly man a fine blow in the ribs.
The action did not go unnoticed. The man flinched. Rud flung her a tight grin. “Julia, my pistol, side pocket!”
She had not known it was there. In frantic haste, she lunged across the seat, searching in the shirred pocket on the side where Rud had sat. Her fingers closed over cold metal.
Behind her, their assailant hollered out, “Gov’nor! Help me here! I can’t hold this ‘un I!”
Pistol in her hand, Julia swung around to see a second man shoulder into the open carriage door. He was cloaked in black, with a hat pulled low over his face.
“Bungling idiot,” he hissed, bringing the pistol he had been holding on the coachman up level. There was a flash, followed by a deafening explosion.
Rud was thrown backward as from a hard blow, blood pouring down his face, the horse pistol he had wrenched from the other man’s hand at last clutched in his fist.
Julia did not stop to think. Using both thumbs on the stiff mechanism, she cocked the pistol she held and fired.
The man in black took the ball in the side, spinning backward out of sight. As Julia threw the now useless weapon to one side and leaned to take the other from Rud’s limp fingers, the first man backed away, then turned and ran. Julia watched him for a brief instant before she slid to her knees beside Rud.
The door of the lodging house flew open and Gourgaud appeared. He hurried toward the carriage. “Madame Thorpe! I thought I heard gunfire! What has happened?”
“Two men — they attacked us,” Julia flung over her shoulder.
In the added light thrown from the open door, the two men could be seen, one helping the other climb into a hooded hackney standing across the fog-filled street. The door slammed and the dilapidated vehicle rattled away.
“I will catch them,” Gourgaud vowed.
“No, no, there is no time. Rud has been shot. A doctor — he must have a doctor!”
Gourgaud pulled the door wide to look down at the unconscious man. “No need for that.”
“You don’t mean he — he is dead?” Julia breathed, her fingers tightening on the broadcloth of Rud’s coat beneath her hand.
“No! Forgive me, Madame Thorpe. I did not mean to frighten you. I only intended to indicate that I have had a great deal of experience with wounds of this nature on the battlefield — far more, I daresay, than any London physician you might find who earns his living from midwifery and female complaints. If you will permit me?”
“Very well,” she said with quick decision. It might be the better portion of an hour before a physician of any kind could be summoned, and every moment counted. “Go ahead, only do something quickly. He is bleeding to death.”
Blood, so much blood. It soaked through layer after layer of bandaging from a long furrow that slanted across Rud’s temple.
“Head wounds always bleed profusely,” Gourgaud told her, but she could not believe any man could lose so much blood and live.
Even after the bleeding was stopped, Rud did not regain consciousness. He lay on the bed in the bedchamber of Gourgaud’s lodgings in perfect stillness, his face drained of color and vitality. Julia sat beside him with her hands clasped tightly in her lap. He looked so lifeless, so vulnerable, lying there. She felt she should be doing something to help, but there was nothing to be done. She had tended enough deep cuts as mistress of her father’s plantation to know that the French general had done everything possible, everything a physician was capable of doing.
A dozen times she was on the verge of sending a message to Rud’s aunt and uncle, but to do so would bring too much attention to Gourgaud and the late-night meeting at his lodging. True, he was supposed to have broken with Napoleon, and was, in his own fashion, currently cooperating with the English, but still this was a complication he did not need.
In spite of this, she had almost made up her mind to take the risk, to ask their host for paper and pen to send a note around to Berkeley Square, when Rud groaned and shifted his head on the pillow. An instant later, he opened his eyes.
“Julia,” he whispered.
“I am here,” she said, rising to move into his line of vision. She took the hand that lay with fingers curled on the coverlet and held it between both of hers.
Rud’s gaze focused on her face. His mouth tugged in a brief smile. “The men got away?” he asked in a voice so low she had to lean close to hear him.
In answer, she told him what had happened after he was shot.
“So, you got one of them? I knew you would. I am still at Gourgaud’s, then?”
The general had been resting in his sitting room. Now, he stepped into the bedchamber. “Yes, mon ami. You are still my guest, and also my patient, due to your carelessness.”
Rud smiled. “My thanks for your efforts, but I must not trespass on your hospitality any longer. If you will help me to my carriage—”
“You are certain you are able?” Gourgaud asked.
“I must be, since I can’t stay,” Rud said, and shifting to his side, pushed himself up on one elbow.
Gourgaud gave an unhappy nod. “I do not like it, but you are right, mon ami. You have, I think, the concussion, and should lie still for a time, but I have seen men with worse injuries walk with help from the battlefield.”
“So have I,” Rud agreed, “but not in the same army.”
“This has been made known to me,” Gourgaud said, a reserve coming into his face. “Strange, is it not, the fortunes of war?”
In Berkeley Square, the mansion was dark, though the butler was still on duty to answer their ring. With his aid, and that of the coachman, Rud was finally established in his own bed. Masters, with a slight cough, suggested that he make Rud comfortable. With no more than a moment’s hesitation, Julia agreed. The poor man fairly bristled with curiosity, but she told him only that their carriage had been set upon by robbers. When Rud was stronger, he could tell the butler, and also his aunt and uncle, anything else he wished them to know. The coachman could provide the truth, of course, if anyone chose to ask him. Julia suspected, however, that Rud had chosen him originally for his discretion. She had no choice except to rely on his judgment.
It was odd to see Rud attired in a nightshirt. She could only suppose Masters had borrowed it from Thaddeus Baxter’s wardrobe and slipped it over his head while he was too weak to protest. She fully expected that at the first opportunity it would land, like her black nightgown, in the corner, thereafter to be relegated to the bottom of the wardrobe.
It did not. By morning, Rud was caught in the grip of a high fever. For three days, he lay, his skin flushed and his eyes burning bright as they followed her about the room. Sometimes he dropped into a fitful sleep; more often, he tossed back and forth, a prey to the throbbing of headache. There was often a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were listening to other voices, and Julia thought when she approached him on those occasions that he prevented himself from slid
ing into the raving of delirium only by strength of will.
He was not entirely successful. On the third night, as the fever began to break, she stood beside his bed, testing the heat of his forehead with her hand. He opened his eyes, staring up at her. Reaching up, he captured her fingers, holding them against his cheek.
“Such cool hands,” he said, his voice a whisper of sound. “Give me rest and peace. The pure face of a nun with hate in your eyes. Don’t look at me that way. I won’t hurt you.”
She drew in her breath, pain swelling around her heart. Once she might have been glad to see him reduced to helplessness. She was not. The sight hurt her in some peculiar way she could not explain. Perspiration dewed his forehead beneath his bandage. His lips were dry and cracked. With her free hand, she stretched to take up the damp cloth left lying beside the bed after they had bathed him to lower the fever. She wiped his face with slow, gentle strokes. “No,” she said soothingly. “I know you won’t.”
By morning, he was rational and free of fever. At Aunt Lucinda’s insistence, Julia left him for the first time since he had been shot. In a spare bedchamber, she enjoyed the relaxation of a hot, scented bath and then fell into bed to sleep the clock around.
When next she saw Rud, the nightshirt had vanished and the dressing on his head, freshly changed, had not only shrunk, but had acquired a rakish tilt. His docility was a thing of the past. His head, much against his will, still ached, and he was far from satisfied with the thin chicken broth which had been brought to him for luncheon. More than these, he desired to know the whereabouts of his wife. No one else could do anything to suit him, whether it was smoothing the bedcovers or stirring his tea. Everyone else was too rough, too clumsy, too noisy — and much too likely to go away in a miff if he did not thank them properly for their efforts.
After a further forty-eight hours of this treatment, Aunt Lucinda barged into the bedchamber and swept Julia away with her for an afternoon drive.
“My dear, you must be descended from the angels,” Aunt Lucinda said when they were well away from Berkeley Square, bowling along with the folding top of the barouche thrown open.
Julia denied it with a smile and a shake of her head.
“Ah, well, make light of it if you wish, but I don’t mind saying I have been touched by your devotion. For many years, here in England, there has been a lamentable tendency to marry for money and position and seek love elsewhere. It is good to see a marriage in which the two are combined. Rud has been like a son to me, as I think you know. I am proud to think that he has found as much happiness in his marriage as his uncle and I have found in ours.”
Julia would have liked to deny this conclusion, but to do so would only cause his aunt needless distress. The truth was, it was guilt which caused her to appear so devoted. If it had not been for her, their carriage would not have been attacked and Rud would not have been injured. All too well she remembered that horrible man putting his hands on her, trying to drag her out of the carriage. It had been a daring plan, the second carriage waiting, one that was old and without visible identification. Two men, one to hold the coachman at gunpoint while the other persuaded Rud to part with his “valuables” — his money and Julia. Without false vanity, she was positive that of the two she had been the preferred prize. She was certain that out of lust or a twisted need for revenge, the purpose of the attack had been to kidnap her. She was certain, for though she had told no one as yet, she had recognized the voice of the second man, the man she had shot. It was Marcel. That she had failed to kill him she regretted exceedingly.
If Rud had recognized their assailants, if he realized their purpose, he had given no sign. For all he had said to her or to anyone else, he was content to leave it as a robbery attempt. Julia sometimes thought he was so reticent out of a desire to save her distress. Certainly, she had no wish to disturb him by mentioning it, not when he was unable to go after Marcel or to send the authorities to question him. Soon, when Rud was more nearly recovered, Julia knew she must discuss the matter with him. Together, they would have to decide what was to be done.
Rud’s aunt and uncle had accepted the incident without question as a robbery attempt. For this much, Julia was extremely grateful.
Aunt Lucinda beguiled the remainder of the drive with the kind of quiet, undemanding chatter which needed little reply. They moved sedately through the deserted park where only a few weeks before they had bowed left and right to acquaintances. It was a clear day. The sun shone down with a warmth they could feel. Aunt Lucinda resorted to a sunshade against its strength, but Julia lifted her face to its rays, enjoying its gentle touch.
“You will freckle, my dear,” Aunt Lucinda protested.
Julia only shook her head. “I never freckle,” she said.
The breeze of their passing was soft and sweet on her eyelids, and she realized that Aunt Lucinda was right; she had been shut up inside too long. How then must Rud feel? An inactive life was completely foreign to him. He was used to being out in the elements, the sun, wind, and rain. She wondered in sudden contrition if he ever felt that she was his jailer.
It was obvious there was some truth to that supposition when they returned. In defiance of Gourgaud’s advice and Julia’s entreaties, Rud had gotten out of bed. The most dire of threats on his part had produced a hot bath for his enjoyment and a change of linens for his bed. The paraphernalia of sickness — the laudanum drops, the pans of water, the excess bandaging and various powders used as a preventive against gangrene — had been swept out of the room. The windows and doors had been thrown open to rid the place of the last lingering closeness of the sickroom. Last of all, he had cajoled the woman who presided over the kitchen below stairs to send up a large sirloin steak with vegetable side dishes and a tankard of ale.
His efforts had served to convince him that he was not quite as strong as he had thought, however. Or, perhaps he had taken care to preserve what was left of his strength. The breeches he had ordered laid out still decorated a chair, while the patient himself was back in bed, propped high on pillows.
“There you are,” he greeted Julia when she stepped into the room. “I have been waiting for hours for you to come and shave me!”
She eyed him with misgivings. He certainly did not look any worse for his exertions. The bandage on his head had been reduced to nothing more than a sticking plaster. His broad shoulders were braced against the headboard of the bed, and though he lay still with his fingers knitted over his flat stomach, he had the look of a panther at rest, watching his next victim.
“Shave you?” she asked doubtfully. Masters had attempted to perform that service the day before and been roundly cursed for his pains.
“That’s what I said.”
“I don’t think I can,” she said, moving closer. “I would probably cut your throat.”
“Better you than Masters,” he answered, unperturbed.
“From the looks of it, you had quite a busy afternoon. Why didn’t you shave yourself while you were about it?”
“It crossed my mind,” he replied with a slow smile, “but I decided it would be more pleasurable to have you do it for me.”
“Oh, you did?” she said with the lift of an eyebrow. There was something in his manner that sent a quiver of alarm along her nerves.
“I did. The water has been heating below for some time, if it hasn’t all boiled away. Be a love and ring for it?”
There seemed nothing else to do. Julia complied with as much grace as she could muster. By the time she had draped a towel around him and brought out the razor and soap, the water had arrived.
Dipping a linen cloth in the steaming pan, she squeezed out the excess water and laid the wet towel on his face.
“That’s hot, woman!” he said, slinging it off.
“Isn’t it supposed to be?” she asked innocently.
He made no reply, but there was a smoldering look in his eyes as he lay back and allowed her to continue.
The straightedge razor with i
ts bone handle was sharp enough to split a hair. Rud had relaxed somewhat under her firm, but gentle touch as she worked lather into his beard. Now, he turned a wary eye in the direction of the blade in her hand. Seeing her watching him, however, he hastily assumed a waiting air, sticking his chin out.
Carefully, she scraped his face, wiping away the accumulated soap and stubby hairs on the dry towel about his shoulders. So intense was her concentration that it was a moment before she noticed the stroking hand moving on her back. After an instant’s consideration, she decided to ignore it. What could it hurt? Without doubt, it was a good sign that Rud was getting well.
Making such a resolution was easier than keeping it. The easy slide of his fingers on the tussah silk of her fitted bodice was more distracting than she had expected. With a deep breath, she leaned across him to reach the area just under his ear. The fullness of her breasts pressed against his chest, making her aware of its muscled hardness. His other hand came up to test the supple indentation of her waist, moving to the buttons down her back. She rose up, staring at him, but his face was bland. Once more, she turned her attention to the taut skin beneath his chin.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed.
“Serves you right,” she told him. She had not meant to nick him, but she was positive he was stealthily easing the buttons of her gown from their holes.
“Witch,” he muttered.
“Fiend,” she replied, her lips suspiciously tight.
Suddenly, they both broke into a wide grin. Taking the razor from her hand, Rud finished the job in a few deft strokes. Tossing the blade aside, he removed the last traces of soap with the wet towel. Julia took it from him and, dropping it into the pan of warm water, moved to set both outside the door to be picked up.
Fingering his chin, Rud said, “Nice job.”
Julia stepped back to the bed to take the dry towel from him. “Maybe I should try for a post as a valet.”
“You have a post already,” he said as he caught her wrist. “As my wife.”
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 17