Rachel Van Dyken

by The Wolfs Pursuit

  Chapter Fourteen

  Red—

  Forgive me if I am wrong, but did you just first encourage me to bite and then act on instinct, and finally refer to you? My dear! A worthy opponent you are, but do you truly think it safe for your virtue to make advances toward an animal such as me? You’ve done nothing but encourage the beast within, and I guarantee you that soon, you will see why they call me the Wolf of Haverstone. By the by, did you get my drawing? I worked hard on that. Sheep are not the easiest of God’s creatures to draw. Tell me, my dear, do you like being compared to a farm animal? Or would you rather be compared to a tiger? Spend the night in my bed and let me decide. Woof.

  —Wolf

  Blasted conscience. Why was he suddenly developing one, now of all times? When he had the most beautiful woman in his arms moaning and rubbing against him?

  He sighed. “I have something for you.” That came out wrong. He tried again. “A surprise.”

  Gwen stiffened in his arms.

  He should have let his horse finish him off, for he truly had fallen off of it. Not that it was his own fault. Someone had shot at him.

  But that was beside the point.

  “Shall I start over?”

  “That would be best,” Gwen said.

  “First, help me off the floor.”

  Gwen pushed herself away from him and onto her feet. “Why are you on the floor to begin with, if you are not even that drunk?”

  “Attention.” He chuckled. “Not but a few months ago, Dominique was shot in the arm. Nearly died. I wanted to see what it was like to be nursed to health by a fallen angel.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes. “Who says I’m fallen?”

  “All you need to do is ask, and I’ll do the pushing.”

  “Must everything be a joke to you?”

  Hunter sighed. “If I cannot joke, then I must settle with reality, which frankly makes me wish my horse would have finished me off.”

  Gwen said nothing as he shrugged and staggered to his feet. He probably should not have said that aloud and was momentarily thankful that she chose not to comment. He stumbled a bit and swore.

  Gwen cursed and put an arm around him, then gasped. “Hunter, you’ve been shot.”

  “Oh, now I remember!” He snapped his fingers. “Yes, that was what I was going to tell you.” He looked up into her crystal blue eyes and grinned. Most likely from the alcohol, not the simple fact that she had her arms around him, and he’d just finished kissing her. “I’ve been shot.”

  “Yes. I can see that.”

  “But I didn’t feel a thing. Remarkable!”

  “Thus the drinking?”

  Hunter suddenly felt faint. “Well, yes, I didn’t feel a thing immediately, that is, until I tried to get back on my horse and that’s when I began to wail like an adolescent girl.”

  “Never been shot before, hmm?” Gwen asked.

  “No.” Hunter took a steadying breath. Sweat poured down his face. “Never been kicked by a horse before, either. An entirely uninteresting experience I have no desire to repeat.”

  Gwen stopped walking. Why had she stopped? Did she not see that he was clearly bleeding all over the place?

  “Your horse kicked you as well?”

  “Yes.” He gritted his teeth. “But to be fair, he’s never been shot at, either. Easy mistake.”

  Gwen said something about the stupidity of beasts and wolves, or perhaps she said wolves were just as stupid as beasts. Whatever she said, he had trouble hearing, since he was going in and out of consciousness. It did not help that his vision was suddenly going very, very dark.

  He cringed as she helped him walk. He decided the only way he was going to make it any farther was to keep himself awake and distracted. “I had two drinks at White’s earlier this afternoon and emptied the contents of my flask on the way here to numb the pain, though I think your mouth helped more than the whiskey. Care to give it another try?”

  “That depends.” Gwen sighed. “Are you feeling the need to get shot again?”

  Hunter waved into the air. “Take me to Dominique’s study. We will have to dress the wound.”

  “We?”

  “Yes.” He cursed aloud.

  “As in you and I?”

  “Is there anyone else here?”

  Servants walked silently by them, for the most part. The odd Russian butler ignored everyone anyway. Besides, he could not call for a doctor. He didn’t want anyone knowing that his life was in danger. That would just draw more attention to Gwen, and the last thing he wanted was her in the line of fire.

  “I cannot simply…” Gwen waved her free hand in the air as she braced him against her side. “Sew up your wound!”

  Hunter leaned against her even more heavily than before. “But I thought you were a woman?”

  “Pardon?” A perfectly arched brow lifted, as if to taunt him into thinking she was upset. Surely she knew her place in the world.

  Hunter chuckled, partly because he was somewhat foxed and near fainting, and partly because he found her angry eyebrow intriguing. All dark and menacing, as if it had all the power in the world to make him feel intimidated. “Women, they sew all day long. They gossip, they sew, they drink tea, and they gossip some more. Surely you know how to do some of those things?”

  Gwen was silent.

  She helped him the rest of the way into the study and promptly dropped him onto the floor — onto his wound, to be more precise, and though the bullet had gone clean through his side, it hurt like the devil.

  “What was that for?” he roared, suddenly seeing two of her standing before him.

  “You son of a—”

  “Sheep! Sheep! Bahhhh!”

  “Are you mad? What nonsense are you spouting?” Gwen knelt by his side, concern etched in her brow as she pressed a hand against his forehead.

  Hmm, that felt good. “Sheep,” he repeated. Perhaps pretending to be mad with fever had its advantages.

  “Sheep,” she agreed. “Why are you screaming about sheep? Why are you making sheep noises? Oh, I’ve gone mad. Why do I even ask you these things when I know you’re going to somehow turn it into something sensual or erotic?”

  “I hate to break it to you, my dear, but there is nothing erotic about a sheep.”

  Gwen smacked him across the shoulder.

  Hunter winced. “Sorry, I was just trying to keep you from screaming at me, causing Dominique and Isabelle to stop dallying upstairs and the servants to come running. We are spies, you know. Show a little decorum.”

  Hunter could have sworn that, in that moment, he saw her eyes flash pure murder, as if she dreamt she could have a pistol and shoot him repeatedly with it, or perhaps knock him upside the head with her hand or a blunt object, or perhaps throw him off his horse or— “Ohh…” He moaned. “I cannot decide what hurts worse, the bullet or my backside.”

  “Finally turned into a horse’s a—”

  Hunter clamped his hand over her mouth. “Whiskey, towels, and please cease your cursing before I’m forced to cover that dirty and delicious mouth with my lips again.”

  Gwen jerked away and went to the sideboard. She loudly pulled out two glasses and poured the whiskey, sloshing it over the side.

  He muttered his thanks as she returned, only when he held out his hand for the glass, she lifted it to her own lips and drank heavily. “I believe you’ve had enough. This is for me. I know nothing of wounds, and I fear I may be a hindrance.”

  Hunter grimaced as pain shot down his side again. Gwen left the room and quickly returned with a cloth. “This will have to do.”

  “It is dirty.” Hunter stared at the revolting cloth. What did she do? Stomp on it before bringing it in here? Feed it to his horse? Allow a chicken to relieve itself on the threads?

  Gwen huffed and sat down. “It is fine. Besides, it is only to catch the whiskey after I pour it across the wound.”

  “Do you know?” Hunter felt the sweat drop from his chin. “I’m feeling much better. I—”r />
  “Be still.” Gwen was already lifting up his shirt. That was nice. Perhaps if he closed his eyes, he could imagine that she was seducing him. Her cold hands felt like heaven against his hot skin. He sighed loudly and then moaned.

  Gwen gasped. He opened his eyes. “What?”

  “There is a lot of blood.” Her face went white as a sheet.

  “Red,” Hunter urged, not sure why he was using her little pet name. “Sweetheart, it must be cleaned. Besides, I’m a wolf. We are tolerant of flesh wounds.”

  “Are you now?” Her lower lip trembled before her teeth bit down on it and chewed. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to be that lip instead of a wolf. Perhaps he should change his name. Yes, Gwen’s lip, sounded much more fierce.

  Obviously he was more foxed than he’d realized, considering he was contemplating changing his nickname to something so absurd. But blast, how she had plump lips.

  “This is going to hurt.” She tilted the glass of whiskey.

  “Already does,” he grumbled, as the first remnants of alcohol washed over his wound. He clenched his teeth. He would not scream, not in front of Gwen. Distraction. He needed a distraction.

  He felt the sweat pour down his neck as she began to pour more whiskey. All the while Hunter focused on nothing but her eyes.

  And then she looked at him.

  A moment is what the storybooks would call it. Time did indeed seem to stand still, but it could have been his inability to think straight. All he knew in that moment was that it was probable he was developing perhaps a small attachment to the woman.

  Not an “Allow me to begin naming our future children” type of attraction; more of one that perhaps a fellow feels deep in his soul when he sees a type of loneliness in someone else’s eyes and realizes he could be the one to take it away.

  “Sleep with me,” he blurted.

  Gwen’s mouth dropped open. Carefully, she placed the glass on the floor and used her dress to press against the wound.

  Hunter’s breath came in short gasps. “Blast, woman! Must you be so rough?”

  Gwen turned a brilliant shade of crimson. “I bet you say those sweet words to all the ladies.”

  Too shocked that the minx hadn’t backed away or slapped him, but fired back with her own innuendo, Hunter promptly passed out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wolf—

  Better to be compared to a sheep than become a wolf’s prey. Apologies, but the minute I saw the picture I quickly threw it into the fire. It frightened me, you see. I was under the impression it was a self-portrait and you know how I feel about you being anywhere in my bedroom, real or not.

  —Red

  Gwen tapped Hunter’s shoulder.

  Had she killed him?

  She pushed him a bit.

  He moaned.

  Should she retrieve the smelling salts? Did men need smelling salts? She whispered into his ear, “Hunter, are you able to hear me?”

  Motionless. She snapped out of her panic and ran to the sideboard and poured some more whiskey into the glass. When the rim was near spilling over, she brought it over to Hunter and threw it in his face.

  “What the—“ Hunter jerked out of his state. Whiskey droplets fell from his chin. He blinked, once, twice, and then shook his head. “Am I not foxed enough that you felt the need for me to bathe in whiskey?”

  “I thought you died.”

  “So you were burying me in my sin, is that it?”

  Gwen swallowed. “I- I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Yes, well, apparently whiskey is the answer to everything, or so good Englishmen say. Now help me up. I must somehow make it up the stairs and into my room, where I can properly bandage myself without passing out again.”

  “You mean fainting?”

  “Men do not faint.” Hunter struggled to get to his feet. “We merely close our eyes for a spell.”

  “You were unconscious.”

  “I was dreaming of a beautiful woman…”

  Gwen rolled her eyes and helped him up.

  “…she was wearing red. And she confessed her love to me not once, not twice, but thrice!”

  “Interesting.”

  “My story?” Hunter held tightly onto her as she led him down the hall and slowly up the stairs.

  “No.” Blast, but the man was heavy. “The fact that alcohol could so easily be soaked in through the skin that you would start to hallucinate.”

  “Hmmph,” Hunter grumbled, as they made their way up to the second level and slowly stumbled down the hall.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence. Hunter winced as Gwen used her free hand to push the door open. Once they were inside, Gwen gently laid him onto the bed, not because she wanted to but because she figured if she went about it more aggressively he would get the wrong sort of idea.

  Even though the idea of being alone with him in his room was causing her treacherous body to heat. No self-respecting woman should be alone with a man, especially not one whose reputation hung in the balance.

  Hunter groaned and pointed toward a small dresser. “Inside the first drawer are enough supplies to pack the wound. If you would be so kind.”

  He lay back across the bed.

  Gwen briskly walked to the dresser and pulled open the first drawer, then she really wished she wouldn’t have.

  “How many knives do you possess?” Knives of every sort littered the inside of the first drawer. Did the man actually use them with his victims or have a strange fascination?

  “Under the knives,” Hunter said, ignoring her question. “Look under the knives.”

  She lifted the board where the knives lay. It clicked open and then pulled back, as if it was on some sort of mechanical device. “Fascinating.”

  “Yes, perhaps we can discuss my many treasures before I bleed to death. Once I’ve closed my eyes, you may touch as many knives as you want, including mine.”

  Gwen felt herself blush but ignored him. Was everything a joke to this man? Every blasted little thing? She quickly grabbed the bandages and marched over to him. He leaned up on his elbows. Sweat still marked his brow. With a curse, Hunter got to a sitting position and attempted pulling off his jacket. But once he raised his arms, he cursed a blue streak and paused. “A little help, please.”

  The sooner she helped him, the sooner she could go home. Gwen licked her lips and began tugging at the jacket. She tried, she really tried to keep her eyes framed onto his jacket as she helped him tug out of it. But the minute she removed it, she was faced with his shirtsleeves.

  Gulping, she helped pull that off of him and told her hands to stop shaking. The situation seemed too intimate. It felt too intimate, as if they were about to share the same bed. Hah, if she ever shared his bed, it would be a product of lust and nothing more. The man had no heart, and even if he did, she highly doubted he would share it with a virgin.

  “My thanks,” Hunter breathed as he placed the bandage on his side. Her eyes trailed down his muscular stomach. It seemed the Wolf liked to box or play, or do whatever wolves did out in the wilderness.

  Her eyes flickered down as Hunter finished bandaging himself. “Now.” He winced, commanding her attention. She looked into his eyes. “I think it’s safe to say I’m in danger.”

  “Your powers of deduction astound me.” Gwen swallowed and fought to keep her eyes on his, though it was one of the most difficult things she’d never tried, for the man was beautiful. It shouldn’t be allowed for a man to have such smooth skin. Tight muscles rippled across his stomach and chest. His skin wasn’t pale like that of most Englishmen. No, it was the perfect color, almost bronzed, as if he spent a great deal of time out of his clothes, which honestly made a lot of sense.

  “The people of London believe me to be retired. There is no reason I would be an open threat. The traitor has to be one of those three men. I do not think the person shooting at me aimed to kill. It was more of a warning than anything. It’s possible what you said during their visits struck a nerve
.” He winced and continued. “Gwen, you need to find out who the mole is. When you go on your walks and dally in the carriage, have a care. You are not debuting in order to win a husband. You have a job to do.”

  “Are you scolding me?” And drunk? Unbelievable!

  “No.” Hunter reached out and grasped her hand. “I’m merely telling you the truth. You must be careful. After your carriage ride with Trehmont, find a way to meet me so we can discuss any information you may find. Talk with him about the French, see if he gets nervous, study his mannerisms, is he always looking at his pocket watch? Does he seem to defer your questions at all? You know what I mean.” He leaned up and winked. “Where shall we meet?”

  “The masquerade.” Gwen nodded. “Nobody will recognize us.”

  Hunter groaned. “Please tell me you’re not referring to Madame LaMont’s masquerade?”

  “It will not be so bad.”

  “I will want to shoot myself the minute I arrive, but yes, if you say it won’t be so bad, I’ll take your word for it.”

  Gwen let out a heavy sigh. “I’ll be dressed as a shepherdess.”

  “Not a sheep?” Hunter grinned. Blast, how she hated that grin. His glaring white teeth irritated her. Was everything perfect about him? Without thinking, she looked down at his body again. Yes. It seemed everything was perfect. Stupid man.

  “No, I thought it unsafe, considering the circumstances.”

  “Circumstances?” Hunter narrowed his eyes. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Gwen began walking toward the door, then turned and gave him a wink. “I have it on good authority a wolf is to make an appearance. Wouldn’t want to tempt him, now, would I?”

  “You tempt him by breathing,” Hunter whispered.

  “Is that your way of telling me to stop breathing?”

  “No.” Hunter’s eyes narrowed. He looked away and began to slouch against the bed. “Not at all. Gwen, be careful, please. I—” He looked away and cursed. “I cannot lose you. Do you understand?”

  Confused by the sudden hurt she saw in his eyes, she nodded and gave him, the great Wolf, a curtsy. “I will be safe. I promise.”