Scoundrel of My Heart EPB

by Heath Lorraine

  She did yearn, did crave. The scent of him, the feel of him, the sound of him as he growled, taking the kiss deeper.

  Skimming her hand over his neckcloth, she noted it was no longer perfectly knotted. Perhaps she’d remove it. Would he object? Or would he welcome her mouth nibbling along his neck? Gliding her fingers along his waistcoat, she considered loosening the buttons, reducing the amount of cloth separating his heat from hers. Lower—

  She stilled at the warm dampness. Stiffening, he grabbed her wrist.

  “What is that?” she insisted.

  Only he didn’t answer. His breathing was harsh, and she suspected perhaps it wasn’t the kiss causing it. Wrenching her wrist free of him, she brought her fingers nearer to her face. There wasn’t enough light with which to see, but she could smell the coppery tang. “You’re bleeding. You told Marcus you weren’t hurt.”

  “He wouldn’t have left if he knew I was.”

  Oh dear God. And he was going to see her home and then take himself off to his club? To a surgeon? To suffer alone? To possibly . . . die? Horrified, she scrambled off his lap, sitting beside him, wanting to touch him, afraid of hurting him. “How bad is it?”

  “Not so bad.”

  He’d lied to Marcus. Why wouldn’t he be lying to her at that precise moment? She saw everything differently now. The strain in his voice when he’d first approached her. The manner in which he’d held her, tucked in against his right side, the rest of his body angled away from her. The wound was on the left. In the darkness, with only the moon and stars, he’d been able to hide so much from his brother, from her. It flayed her heart, scored her soul that he’d kept this from her, had not trusted her with it.

  In the dark, she ran her hands across the bench until she located his unique walking stick, used it to bang on the ceiling, and immediately felt the coach slowing.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m going to instruct them to take you to hospital.”

  “No hospital.”

  “A surgeon then.”

  “No.”

  Infuriating man. “I will at least see how bad it is.”

  “Lady Kathryn, it’s not your concern.”

  She did not miss the fact that he was using a formal address to put distance between them. “The devil it isn’t.”

  Did he not understand that she cared for him? Did he think she went around kissing any gent who caught her fancy? Although even if she did, only one had ever come close. This one. This stubborn man who didn’t seem to have it within him to ask for help of any kind—not from her, not from his family, not from anyone. While she admired his independence, it also frustrated her. He was alone, so alone.

  The carriage came to a full stop. Without waiting for the footman to assist her, she opened the door before he reached it. “I need a lantern.”

  He removed one from a hook at the front of the carriage and handed it to her.

  “Wait for my orders.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Ducking back inside, she hung the lantern on a peg above the window, grateful the glow allowed her to see Griff more clearly—or perhaps not clearly enough. He appeared wan and pale, with tight lines about his mouth, and his brow furrowed. He was in pain, excruciating pain if his expression was any indication, and yet he’d kissed her, pretending all was as it should be, when it was anything but. “Show me.”

  “Lady Kathryn—”

  “Show me.”

  He scowled. “When did you become such a termagant?”

  “About the same time you became such an idiot. The coach cushions are probably going to have to be replaced, with your bleeding all over them.”

  That corner of his mouth, the one she’d licked only moments ago, curled up. “I don’t think it’s that bad.”

  Gingerly she helped him tug his blood-soaked shirt free of his trousers and lifted the hem up. Grabbing the lantern, she lowered it in order to direct most of the light on the glistening, gaping wound. “Oh God, Griff, it is that bad. It’s a long, deep gash. I wouldn’t know where to begin to stitch it up.”

  “I don’t think it’s deep enough to have pierced anything.”

  She shook her head. “No. It looks like he just sliced into you.” But he’d done damage, horrible damage. She didn’t think the bleeding was going to stop on its own. She lifted her gaze to his. “Please let me take you to a physician.”

  “Your parents are going to worry about you if you’re not home soon.”

  “They’re in Paris. I’m quite on my own. No one is going to know.”

  He studied her for what seemed an eternity before averting his gaze toward the window and nodding, as though he viewed himself as weak for allowing her to help. She cursed his father, the Society that had turned its back on him, and everyone else who had led him to believe that he stood alone in all his battles.

  Chapter 14

  He awoke to faint sunlight drifting lazily into the bedchamber and the salt-scented air stirring the curtains at the open window. Aching and unsteady, he cursed the grogginess that was a result of the laudanum the surgeon had given him before he’d begun stitching him up. The medication had also been responsible for his inability to think clearly after the physician had finished his work. So when Kathryn had told Griff she needed to come to her grandmother’s cottage in order to put the ugliness of the night behind her, he’d agreed to accompany her, not yet ready to let her out of his sight, still shaken by how close he’d come to losing her.

  But before she had told him what she needed, she had held his hand, the one farther away from where the doctor worked, clutched it hard enough that he feared the bones might crack. Although her head had been bent and her gaze averted so she didn’t have to view the torn flesh and muscle, the blood seeping out, he’d seen the solitary tear fall, landing silently on her hand where it clasped his, and he’d known an agony greater than anything he was enduring from the doctor’s ministrations. That single tear had seemed far worse than a torrent. She’d been so courageous, so stoic—and he in so much pain, praying she wouldn’t discover how badly he was hurt—that he had failed to comprehend fully how she was struggling to come to grips with all that had transpired.

  As a result he’d been unable to refuse her request, to let her go on her own, to not be there for her after she had insisted on seeing him cared for when it would have been so much easier to simply send him on his way to tend to himself.

  And so here he was where he shouldn’t be, with a woman he shouldn’t be with. A woman who belonged to another, even if they’d not yet come to terms. A woman he’d given to another.

  He didn’t want to think about that monstrous regret.

  With a groan, he shoved himself out of the bed and glanced around at the pale blue room. Her grandmother’s room, she’d told him. His gaze stopped at the plush chair with the small stack of clothes folded neatly on it. Not the things he’d been wearing last night because they needed a good washing and some mending. Through the fog of his mind, he remembered her saying something about a housemaid who saw to the place.

  Kathryn had brought him to this room and helped him remove his clothes. All of his clothes. He’d never been particularly modest and wondered now if she’d liked what she’d seen. He grimaced at the inappropriate thought spawned by lust. She was deserving of nothing except his respect. Without her insistence, he might not have gone to a doctor, might have attempted to tend to his own wound.

  He picked up the shirt and trousers. Coarse material, a simple style. Perhaps they’d belonged to her grandfather. Or perhaps she’d sent the footman out to borrow something from a villager. It didn’t matter. They were clean. They’d be a tight fit, but they’d do for the short amount of time they were going to be here. He walked to the washstand and splashed the cold water on his face. He stilled, the droplets plopping back into the bowl as another image came to him, another memory.

  Her washing him. Removing the blood, and the dirt, and the grime. Slowly, gently, tenderly.
Him, gripping the edge of the bed, so he didn’t reach for her, didn’t carry her down to the mattress.

  Her courage out on the banks of the Thames had undone him. He’d never wanted anyone more. When she’d crossed the expanse of the coach to straddle his lap and kiss him, he’d been unable to hold his desire in check. He’d forgotten about the wound and his intention to keep it hidden from her. All that had mattered was Kathryn and giving her what she needed, what she wanted.

  He’d managed not to tumble her onto the bed during her sweet ministrations, but once he was in it and she’d brought the sheet and blankets over him, she’d joined him anyway, the covers separating them.

  “Just for a little while,” she’d whispered.

  Slipping his arm around her, he’d brought her in against his uninjured side and held her close as the laudanum finished its work and took him under. How long had she stayed? Where was she now?

  He shook off the memories, the unsteadiness, and the cobwebs that blurred so much of what had happened after his time with the physician: the journey here, the settling in, the falling into slumber. He tossed water on his face several more times, reached for the towel, and dried himself off. The clothes came next, and as he’d judged, they were intended for a somewhat smaller man.

  After walking to the window, he looked out. Not another building or rooftop to be seen. Trees, flowers, and green eventually gave way to blue that stretched to the horizon. Not only sky, but water. The sea.

  He’d heard it last night, crashing against the shore, but had been too weary to go to the bother of seeing it. But he had a memory of her standing there, gazing out. Had he awakened and seen her? Or only dreamed it?

  They were in Kent, only a few hours from London. They could return to the city easily enough, sometime today if she was of a mind to. He would leave the decision to her. But he had to find her first.

  He wandered down a small hallway, past a set of stairs, to the front of the house. On one side was a dining room with a circular table. Across from it was a cozy parlor.

  “Ah, sir. Good morning to ye.”

  Turning back toward the dining room, he offered a polite smile to the woman dressed in a black frock, with a white apron and mobcap. “Good morning.”

  “I’ll have breakfast ready by the time her ladyship returns from her walk.”

  “Very good. Think I’ll stretch my legs as well.” He carried on. Beyond the door, the cool breeze wafted over him. He took it deeply into his lungs, feeling revitalized by the scent of salty sea air. In the distance seagulls circled about, their cries mingling with the rush of the waves. Glancing around, he wondered in which direction Kathryn might have gone.

  He began wandering toward what appeared to be a cliff’s ledge, relishing the silk of grass against his soles. His boots had seemed like too much trouble to tug on. As a lad, he’d raced across meadows in bare feet whenever he was able to escape the watchful eye of a nanny or governess. His father had caught him once and taken a switch to his backside, while lecturing him about the importance of always being perceived as a gentleman. The irony of his traitorous father lecturing him about anything was not lost on him now.

  When he reached the land’s edge, he looked down, and his breath caught. Not because of the dizzying height but because she was there with her skirt hiked up over her knees as she waded about in the blue water. She gave a little screech, hopped back, and the wind carried her laughter up to him. He wondered if some sea creature had pinched her toe.

  Gingerly he eased himself down to the ground and simply watched, feeling at peace for the first time in months. It was as though cares couldn’t reside here. He understood why she’d wanted to come.

  She began walking away from the waves rolling onto the shore, her movements light yet sinewy, not displaying the stiff posture, the erect spine, the calculated actions of a well-tutored lady. Instead he caught glimpses of the girl she’d been when she’d visited her grandmother here, more relaxed, more at home, more herself.

  A woman the Duke of Kingsland would never see, would never explore, would never understand.

  Abruptly she stopped, lowered herself to the ground, drew her knees against her chest, and wrapped her arms around her legs. Even from this distance, he could detect her shoulders heaving. Issuing a harsh curse, he shot to his feet, grinding out a slew of profanities as his wound protested his sudden actions. Glancing around, he noticed a spot where the grass looked to have been recently trampled. Heading for it, he discovered a path leading down to the shore and carefully navigated it until his feet hit the sand. With a purpose to his stride, he crossed over to where she sat with her brow pressed against her knees and crouched beside her, near enough that the fragrance of oranges mixed with salt wafted around him. “Kathryn?”

  Giving a little sniff, she turned her head to the side, away from him, for all of two breaths. When she looked at him, he realized she’d been swiping at her tears, as unobtrusively as possible, but some still clung to her long auburn lashes. She gave him a tremulous smile. “How is your side this morning?”

  “Aching like the devil.” Little, if any, laudanum remained to course through his blood and dull the pain. He didn’t know how many stitches had been needed to close the gaping wound. If she hadn’t distracted him with her presence, he might have counted them. He’d felt every blasted one going in. Reaching out with his thumb, he captured a tear glistening at the corner of her eye. “How are you this morning?”

  She released a shuddering breath. “I thought I was all right. And then suddenly I wasn’t. All the emotions of last night just hit before I could prepare for them.”

  Lowering himself so he was sitting on the sand, better able to balance himself, he nestled her face against his shoulder. “There’s no shame in weeping.”

  “It makes me feel weak.”

  “You’re far from being weak, Kathryn. Your strength was clearly evident only a few hours ago.”

  “As was yours.” Pulling away, she studied him as though she hadn’t known him for years, had never really seen him before. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  “While I was working the docks.”

  Her brow furrowed. “A lot of brawling goes on there?”

  “No, but a lot of bruisers haul cargo. Like Billy, the fellow who stopped you at the door the first night. Althea and I lived in Whitechapel for a while, and I wanted to ensure I had the wherewithal to protect her, if need be. On those streets they hardly follow the Queensberry Rules. So I hired Billy and a couple of other blokes to teach me how to fight in a manner no gentleman ever would.”

  “Did Althea know?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t want her worrying that we were in dangerous environs or that I might get hurt. If the lessons went long and she asked where I’d been, I told her I was with a woman. She seemed to accept that easily enough.” Without giving it much thought, he took hold of Kathryn’s plait and brushed his thumb over the loose strands at the end of it, all the while watching the myriad emotions coursing over her features. “Go ahead and ask.”

  He saw the delicate muscles at her throat roll as she swallowed, part of her lower lip disappearing as she bit into it. “He referred to you as an assassin.”

  She left it there, but in the barest hint of a quiver in her voice, he heard what she didn’t dare put into words, say aloud, as though doing so would taint this idyllic spot: Are you?

  “These men Marcus was associating with . . . they’re ruthless. You witnessed it. They didn’t trust him, so they had their spies watching him. I spied on the spies. One night, one of them”—he shook his head, still baffled by it—“for some reason that we have yet to decipher, tried to kill him. I stopped him. Permanently.”

  He looked to the water, to the sea, wondering if he waded into it, if it would wash away his sins and regrets. “I’m not proud of it, Kathryn. To be honest, I hadn’t meant to kill him, just to wound him, to send a message that Marcus had a protector. I was aiming for his thigh, but he came
in lower, quicker than I expected, and the knife went into his gut . . . deep. It was not a pretty death. But the message was sent.” He dared to glance over at her. Her eyes were wide, the color of the sea in the distance, beyond this little alcove. Her face was pale.

  “He killed himself, then, really.”

  He’d used the same argument many a night in order to find even a few minutes of sleep, but the truth wasn’t so easily glossed over. He’d been the one holding the knife. He’d been the one who struck. “Shortly afterward, I decided I wanted no further part in Marcus’s quest. I was tired of my father, even in death, determining my fate. He did what he did. I don’t care why or with whom. But then, I didn’t lose as much as Marcus.”

  “I would argue you all lost the same, but I think you were right to find your own path. Now you have a business that looks as though it’s likely to succeed.”

  Her voice still carried a hesitancy, a slight tremor. She was willing to move on when questions remained to be answered, and he realized she feared the truth of them. He’d been too distracted by his own pain to truly recognize hers. “I didn’t kill those men last night.”

  Her hand coming up to cover her mouth, she gave a little gasp. “You didn’t?”

  “The first one I wanted to, desperately, but I didn’t want you to have his death on your conscience. I delivered a devastating wound, but it shouldn’t kill him, although I suspect he’ll have a slow recovery, might even wish it had.” After he’d discovered the sword-hidden-in-a-cane in a pawnshop and purchased it, he’d visited with a physician to learn how and where to strike with maximum damage without causing death, as well as where to strike to cause it. “The other fellow I merely knocked out with a hard punch—after he got the better of me.” He was the one who’d slid his knife across Griff’s side.

  Another gasp. And then she was weeping. “I kept seeing them dead. Marcus said they were.”