by Anna Bradley
A generous measure of brandy was certainly necessary, but he had a vague idea he’d need other supplies.
Tristan had never doctored anyone before, but he was strangely reluctant to turn Sophia over to anyone else. So he carried her down the hallway to his library and approached an overstuffed leather sofa near the fireplace.
Sophia winced when he put her down. “Was it you, Lord Gray, who knocked me to the ground?”
Tristan winced. “I didn’t knock you down, no, but I…ah, well, once you were there, I fell on top of you. I beg your pardon, Miss Monmouth.”
I beg your pardon?
Tristan grimaced at this absurdly inadequate reply. He hadn’t stepped on her foot during the quadrille or spilled tea on her gown, for God’s sake.
Sophia was once again prodding gingerly at the lump on her head. “You’re a rather large man, Lord Gray. Really, I can’t think why it’s necessary for you to be so large. I feel as if I’ve been trampled by a horse.”
Tristan stood awkwardly beside the sofa, not sure what to say. He’d never fallen on top of a lady before—at least, not under these circumstances. He cast about for something sophisticated and gallant to say, but what came out instead was, “Seventeen stone.”
She blinked up at him. “Seventeen stone? What, you mean you weigh seventeen stone?”
Heat rushed up Tristan’s neck. Why the devil had he blurted that out? “I, um…well, yes.”
“That’s all?” Sophia studied her palms, which were scraped raw. “It felt like more than that.”
Tristan didn’t answer. He was staring down at her, appalled. Her hands were bleeding, her lip was swelling, and the knees of her breeches were ripped to shreds. He might have gone breathless at the glimpse he got of those smooth, bare legs if her flesh hadn’t been torn to pieces.
“Tribble!” Tristan rushed to the library door and stuck his head into the hallway, ready to shout the entire house down. “For God’s sakes, man, what’s taking so…oh, here you are.”
Tristan stepped back from the doorway and Tribble, who was bearing a large silver tray loaded with doctoring supplies, entered the library and laid his burden down on a table near the sofa where Sophia was stretched out. “May I help you, my lord?” he asked, taking in Sophia’s injuries with a shake of his head. “Perhaps one of the maids could be of service?”
“No, thank you, Tribble. That won’t be necessary.” Tristan, who hadn’t any intention of letting anyone other than himself touch Sophia, had to resist the urge to shove poor Tribble out the door. “I’ll tend to Miss Monmouth.”
“Very well, my lord.” Once again, if Tribble was shocked, he did an admirable job of hiding it. “I wish you a pleasant evening, my lord.” He offered each of them a solemn bow, then made his way out the door.
“A pleasant evening,” Tristan muttered as he sat down on the large table in front of the sofa. “Not much chance of that.” He pulled the tray closer and held out his hand to her. “Give me your hand, Miss Monmouth.”
She held out her hand, palm up. She was quiet for some minutes, watching as he gently cleaned the blood and loose rocks away before reaching silently for her other hand. She gave it to him, but this time as he worked, Tristan could feel her curious gaze on his face.
“I don’t wish to be presumptuous, Lord Gray.” She winced a little as he swabbed at her palm with the wet cloth. “But why did you leap on me?”
Tristan froze, his hand still wrapped around hers. “You don’t remember the attack?” He’d have to have a careful look at the injury to her head. That villain had dealt her a vicious blow.
“Who attacked me? Sharpe? I knew he was following me, of course. He’s as subtle as a herd of cattle.”
Tristan didn’t answer right away. He finished tending to her hand, then laid it carefully on her lap. “Not Sharpe. The other man.”
Sophia frowned. “There was another man?”
Tristan braced his hands on his knees and met her gaze. “Yes. Did you think I simply leapt on you and nearly knocked the brains from your head on a whim?”
“Well, no.” She kept her gaze on her hands, avoiding his eyes. “Though after that business with Jeremy, perhaps you had reason to.”
Tristan stared at her. It was the closest she’d come to confessing her part in the business with Jeremy Ives. Strangely enough, as determined as he’d been this morning to have the truth out of her, it no longer seemed to matter now. He gripped his knees to keep himself from touching her. “I won’t pretend I was pleased by it, but I wouldn’t hurt you, Sophia. Not ever.”
They looked at each other, and Tristan had to force himself not to touch her, to take her soft hand in his again.
Sophia cleared her throat. “There was another man, then? Aside from Sharpe?”
“Yes. I saw him slip from the shadows after Sharpe disappeared. Sharpe knew you were on the pediment roof, Sophia. As soon as you dropped to the ground, he went after you.”
She blew out a breath. “I was afraid of that. I nearly took him straight to No. 26 Maddox. I know he saw my face at Ye Old Mitre Pub, but I was hoping he didn’t know who I was, or where I came from.”
“He knows.” Tristan’s tone was grim. “So does the man who attacked you. Sharpe was there to distract you from his partner, who was hiding in the shadows, waiting for you. They knew you’d likely head toward Maddox Street. If you’d veered off, one of them certainly would have grabbed you.”
“The fourth man,” Sophia whispered. “The man Jeremy said was at St. Clement Dane’s the night of Henry Gerrard’s murder. It has to be him.”
Tristan set the cloth aside. “Yes. I didn’t see the man’s face. He was wearing a cap, but he was dressed all in black, and he was carrying a weapon. A stick, perhaps, or a club of some sort.”
Sophia swallowed. “A club?”
“Yes, and he didn’t hesitate to use it.” Tristan caught her chin in his fingers and turned her head to get a look at the injury on her temple, brushing a fingertip over the knot. “He leapt on you, and then I leapt on him. I still don’t know how he managed to squirm free of me.”
Or more to the point, why. Sophia’s attacker and Sharpe together might have had a chance at subduing him. Tristan hadn’t the faintest doubt the mysterious man who’d leapt from the shadows had intended to kill Sophia, but instead of persisting, they’d both fled into the night.
“You, ah…you saw me on Lord Everly’s roof tonight, then? You followed me?” The look she gave him from under cover of her thick, dark lashes was almost shy.
Tristan glanced down at her small hands, which were resting palm up in her lap. Her tender, olive-tinted skin was shredded to ribbons and oozing blood, despite his efforts. Her knees were even worse, and her forehead was smeared with blood from the nasty cut there.
How many bruises, as yet invisible, would appear on that smooth skin before the night was over? Yet it could have been worse—so much worse. He thought of the club in that scoundrel’s black-gloved hand, and a shudder of fear wracked him.
What if he hadn’t happened to see her on Everly’s roof tonight? What would have happened to her then? Even now she could be lying in a bloody heap in the middle of Pollen Street, alone and breathing her last breath.
Just like Henry.
He’d failed Henry, and tonight he’d nearly failed Sophia.
Tristan slid from the table onto the settee, dragged the silver tray with the supplies toward him, then reached for her legs and draped them over his thighs. He didn’t ask her permission, but she didn’t object—just watched him with huge green eyes.
He plucked up the damp cloth again, wetted it in the basin and began to dab at her knees, but he hardly knew what he was doing.
A cracked skull, a slit throat, a broken neck…
When he thought of all the possible ways she might have been hurt tonight, he was overwhelmed by a stagger
ing array of conflicting emotions, each more confusing than the last.
Anger, panic, fear, regret…
The first good look he got at her knees didn’t help. Her skin was as ragged as the cloth that had covered them. Tristan’s mouth went dry as he stared down at the bloody mess, his throat working helplessly. He should have taken it as a sign to be silent, because when he did find the words, they only made things worse.
“Why were you on Lord Everly’s roof again, Sophia?” Tristan’s voice was much harsher than he’d intended. “You had no business being up there. What did you think you were doing?”
“I thought—that is, I’d h-hoped…”
Tristan had never heard her stumble over her words before. Her little stammer went straight to his heart, but when he’d seen Sharpe go after her tonight, he’d been so damn afraid for her, and that fear made him lash out. “You hoped I’d see you there, and come after you? Why would you think that, when just this morning I told you I didn’t want to see you ever again?”
“I didn’t think you’d—”
“You didn’t think I’d be able to help myself? Well, you were right.” He laughed, but it was hard and bitter. “I saw you from my window and told myself it was best to just leave you alone, and let you return to No. 26 Maddox where you belong. What if I’d decided to do that, after all? What if I’d waited another ten minutes before going after you? You’d be dead by now!”
She said nothing, but her face drained of color.
“Look at you.” He jerked his chin toward her bloody knees, then snatched her hand up and dragged it toward him, his breath coming faster as he stared down at her ravaged palms. “You’re hurt, and this is nothing—nothing—to what it might have been.”
Sophia snatched her hand away. “It’s a few scrapes and bruises, Tristan. I’ve had worse. I’m a bit battered, yes, but I’m hardly at death’s door.”
“Damn you, don’t make light of it.” The words felt as if they’d been ripped from Tristan’s throat. “You might have ended this night at death’s door. It’s mere chance only you didn’t. Why did you come here tonight, Sophia? You’ve gotten what you wanted. Jeremy Ives is free. Your part in this business is finished.”
“Nothing is finished until Peter Sharpe and Henry Gerrard’s killer are made to pay for their crimes. What did you think, Tristan? That I’d skip blithely away once Jeremy was safe? Patrick Dunn, and Mr. Gerrard’s wife and son—do you think it doesn’t matter to me if they ever see justice?”
He…had thought so. Not just Sophia, but Lady Clifford, and Daniel Brixton. All of them. How could he have been so blind? She’d spoken to him of justice many times, told him over and over again she believed it should belong to everyone equally, but he hadn’t truly listened to her, and now he’d made a terrible mistake.
Sophia read the truth on his face, and her own face fell. “Oh. You did think so.”
“Sophia—”
She jumped to her feet so quickly she sent the tray crashing to the ground. “I-I think it’s best if I return home, after all. I won’t trouble you again, Lord Gray.”
“No. Wait.” Tristan shot to his feet and went after her, his heart in his throat. “I’m sorry. Can you…will you forgive me?”
She kept her face turned away from him, but Tristan could feel her trembling. God, he couldn’t let her leave, not like this. “Please, Sophia. I should never have said it, or even thought it. I know it’s not true. I want…will you let me take care of you?”
She hesitated for what felt like a lifetime to Tristan, but then finally, a silent nod.
He took her hand in his, careful not to touch her wounded palm, and led her back to the sofa. “Your hands and knees, and your head.” He brushed her hair back from her forehead, frowning as he traced the knot there. “Your mouth.” He brushed a fingertip over her lower lip, his chest squeezing at the drop of blood at the corner. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
He wasn’t just referring to having knocked her down, and Sophia seemed to understand this. Her green eyes darkened as they flickered over his face. “You followed me tonight. I needed you, and you were there.”
Needed him…
Tristan stared down at her, stunned, but he didn’t press her on how she meant those words. Perhaps he would, later, but now he needed to touch her. He took her face between his palms and stroked his thumbs over her cheekbones. “Sophia?”
She knew what he was asking, and parted her lips in invitation. He brushed his mouth over her lower lip to soothe her hurt, and tasted her blood on his tongue.
Chapter Fourteen
If their kiss earlier that day had been darkness, this one was pure, sweet light.
Tristan didn’t let himself think about whether he should be kissing her. He didn’t think about anything but the heady taste of her lips under his, her warm sighs in his mouth, the silky curls of her hair tickling his fingers.
He caught a loose lock of it and caressed the thick strands. “I’ve never felt anything so soft.”
Sophia twined her arms around his neck, sifting her fingers through the hair at the back of his head. “Softer than my lips?” she asked, a teasing glint in her eyes.
“There’s nothing in the world softer than your lips.” Tristan’s cheeks heated at the extravagant compliment. He wasn’t the sort of man who indulged in poetic ramblings about his lady’s lips, but then not every lady had lips like hers. He couldn’t stop his gaze from dropping once again to that sultry pout.
He ducked his head to take her mouth again, more insistently this time. He slid the tip of his tongue over the seam of her lips, then dragged his finger down her cheek to the corner of her mouth. “Open for me, Sophia,” he murmured, stroking the tender skin
She opened her mouth with a soft gasp and a low, hungry growl vibrated in Tristan’s chest. He sank into her damp, pink mouth, knowing as he did, he could only savor her for the briefest moment. It was like offering a starving man a single grape from a feast spread out before him.
I can’t make love to her…
She was in a vulnerable state, her body scraped and bruised. Only the worst sort of rake would take advantage of a lady who’d just been attacked. Tristan was no rake, but even so the warning drifted through his head, there and then gone again.
He couldn’t make himself release her. Not when she was so close, her sweetly parted lips a mere breath from his. He sank his hands into her hair and eased her head back so he could feast on her neck. He nibbled at her silky skin, chasing her flush of arousal to the hollow of her throat. Her pulse fluttered against his tongue, the skin there warm and faintly scented with honeysuckle, and he couldn’t stop himself from scoring it lightly with his teeth before skimming lower to drop kisses between her breasts.
She was so beautiful, her curves slight but perfect. As if in a daze, Tristan cupped one of her breasts in his hand and teased at her nipple with his thumb.
Sophia let out a breathless cry and he groaned at the needy sound, his mouth going dry. His gaze darted between her flushed face and the straining peak under his thumb, a desire unlike any he’d ever known curling hotly in his belly as she went boneless beneath his hands.
Tristan eased her onto her back on the sofa and lowered himself gently on top of her, nudging her legs wider to make a place for his hips. His cock twitched against his falls as he moved closer to her tantalizing heat, but he didn’t try and take it further than that—didn’t move his hips against hers or try and unfasten her breeches—but he did continue to stroke and tease her, brushing his thumb around her nipple again and again, his lips parting with his panting breaths.
She arched her back, offering herself to his roaming hands. “Tristan, please.”
God, it drove him mad to hear her breathless whimpers, to see her writhing for him. “I want to suckle you here.” He pinched her nipple gently, a groan tearing from his throat when her body shuddered
against his. “Will you let me?”
Her only answer was to clutch at him. She twisted his shirt between her fingers, urging him closer until he was leaning over her, then she buried her hands in his hair and tugged his head down to her breasts.
Tristan groaned at the slight sting in his scalp, then groaned again as he closed his lips over the stiff peak. “So hard for me.” He dragged his tongue over the swollen tip until the fabric of her tunic was damp, and her nipple was straining for his mouth.
“Tristan.” She dropped her head back, baring her neck for him.
Tristan pressed a half-dozen open-mouthed kisses over her tender skin before pulling slightly away. “Not here. Come to my bedchamber with me, Sophia.”
She didn’t answer at once, only looked at him, her pupils huge and dark, crowding out the green he’d grown to love so well. He could see the struggle on her face, the uncertainty in her trembling lips. He wanted to go to his knees, to clasp her around the waist and beg and plead with her, but he kept quiet, a bead of sweat sliding down his back as he waited for her to make her decision.
He saw the answer in her eyes before she spoke a word. The green depths softened as she gazed at him before she hid them behind her thick black lashes. She took his hand in hers, neither of them speaking as they rose from the sofa. Tristan led her to the stairs and together they climbed to the second floor, where Tristan’s apartments lay at the end of the hallway.
He took her into his bedchamber, closed the door behind him, then turned to her and held out his arms. “Come here.”
She went to him without hesitation, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her body flush against his. He captured her hand and raised it to his lips, kissed each of her fingertips one by one, then swung her up into his arms, carried her to his bed and lay her down on top of the coverlet. Her cheeks flushed as he looked down at her spread across his bed, his gaze touching her everywhere. “You’re beautiful.”
That word felt wrong, too weak to capture what he truly felt when he looked at her. A rueful smile quirked his lips. No, he was no poet. He did think Sophia beautiful—breathtakingly so—but her beauty was so much deeper than green eyes, silky hair, and pouting lips.