Thunder & Roses

by Mary Jo Putney

  When Nicholas successfully evaded another slash, Michael panted, "You're good at running, you filthy Gypsy."

  "I'm not ashamed of what I am, Michael." With a powerful snap of his wrist, Nicholas slashed another hole in the other man's shirt. "Can you say the same?"

  His taunt ignited an explosion of rage. The major launched a wild assault, flailing his whip back and forth to produce a continuous torrent of lashes. As the ugly sounds of leather striking flesh echoed across the courtyard, an agonized gasp escaped Clare. Why didn't Nicholas slide away again instead of enduring so much punishment with no more than a raised arm to protect his head?

  She learned why when Michael stepped forward into a lunge that put most of his weight on one foot. It was the moment Nicholas had been waiting for. He struck out with lethal precision, and his hissing thong curled round and round Michael's booted ankle.

  Though the lash itself did little damage, when Nicholas yanked his whip with both hands the other man fell hard, too off-balance to catch himself. His momentum sent him rolling across the ground and his head cracked audibly against the flagstones.

  Suddenly it was over, leaving Michael lying still as death in a frozen silence broken only by Nicholas's harsh breathing. Clare spent an instant giving thanks that Nicholas had won. Then she darted across the courtyard and knelt by the fallen man. She had tended her share of schoolyard injuries, which stood her in good stead as she gently examined his bleeding head.

  Nicholas dropped down beside her. His shirt was in ribbons and blood oozed from at least a dozen slashes, but a quick glance assured Clare that his injuries were superficial. He himself paid no attention to them, for all his attention was on the unconscious man. Voice shaking, he asked, "Is he hurt badly?"

  Clare didn't answer until she had checked Michael's pulse and breathing as well as the head wound. "I don't think so. Concussion certainly, but I don't think his skull is fractured. Head wounds always bleed freely, so they look worse than they are. Does anyone have a handkerchief?"

  One with an elegantly embroidered C was thrust into her hand. Firmly she pressed the folded cloth to the wound.

  Nicholas murmured, "Thank God it isn't worse. I wanted to slow him down, not kill him."

  "Don't blame yourself," Lucien said soberly. "He forced this quarrel on you. If you'd chosen pistols or swords, one of you would be dead now."

  "It was stupid of me to let myself be drawn into any kind of fight," Nicholas said, his anger at himself obvious. "You saw how Michael behaved earlier. Do you think he'll accept this as a final resolution of his grievance?"

  The silence that followed was answer enough.

  When the first handkerchief was saturated, Clare used another, this time with a Strathmore S on it. Fortunately the bleeding had almost stopped. Nicholas retrieved his cravat and she used it to tie a crude bandage that held the second handkerchief in place. Glancing up, she said, "He should be moved as little as possible. Can he stay here, Your Grace?"

  "Of course." Wry admiration in his eyes, the duke added, "Since you seem to fit into this gang of ruffians so well, you had better call me Rafe."

  Clare sat back on her heels. "I don't know if I'm capable of calling a duke by his first name."

  "Don't think of me as a duke. Think of me as someone who failed miserably at Nicholas's fish-tickling lessons."

  She smiled, realizing that his humor was a sign of relief that nothing worse had happened. "Very well, Rafe."

  The duke continued, "Luce, do you think the two of us can get him indoors? I'd rather not involve any of the servants."

  "We can manage," was the terse reply. "He weighs at least two stone less than he ought."

  As the two men gently raised Michael from the flagstones, his ripped shirt fell away, exposing an appalling mosaic of scars that ran from his left shoulder to his waist.

  They all stared, shaken, and Nicholas swore under his breath.

  "He was wounded by shrapnel at Salamanca," Rafe said grimly. "Obviously it was worse than he said at the time."

  As Michael was lifted to his feet, he seemed to regain a little consciousness, enough so that he wasn't quite a dead weight as his friends slung his arms over their shoulders.

  Nicholas donned his stockings and shoes, then collected the whips. As he and Clare followed the others into the house, she gave thanks that the duel hadn't ended in disaster. But she had little sense of relief, for she feared that Nicholas was right; tonight's duel would not satisfy Lord Michael's fury.

  Chapter 18

  Face fine-drawn by tension, Nicholas refused treatment for his injuries. He did accept a loose cloak from Rafe, since putting on his own closely cut coat was out of the question. Within a few minutes, he and Clare were heading home in his coach. The ball guests were still so busy celebrating that no one gave them a second glance when they left the house.

  There was no talk as they rumbled through the streets of Mayfair. Nicholas sat on the opposite side of the carriage, balanced on the front edge of the seat rather than leaning on his abused back. He also moved stiffly when he helped her from the carriage at Aberdare House.

  Once they were inside, she said, "Before you go to bed, I want to clean and treat those lacerations." She gave him her no-nonsense schoolmistress look. "I know that you delight in being stoic, but there are limits."

  He gave her a self-mocking smile. "Agreed, and I've reached them. Where do you want to hold your surgery?"

  "Your room, I suppose. I'll change out of this gown and be along after Polly finds me some medical supplies." She went to her own room, where Polly was napping. She woke quickly and helped Clare undress, then went for bandages and medications.

  Perhaps as punishment for her worldliness, Clare's blue silk gown had been ruined by Lord Michael's blood and her contact with the ground. She donned her practical white flannel nightgown and covered it with a handsome red velvet robe that was part of her London wardrobe. After brushing out her hair and braiding it into a loose plait, she sat down to wait for Polly's return.

  The nervous energy that had carried her through the duel and ride home disappeared, leaving her suddenly exhausted. She leaned back in the wing chair, pressed her hands to her temples, and began to shake as the stresses of the night caught up to her. Every blow struck in that ghastly duel was permanently engraved in her memory. If Lord Michael had gotten his wish and they had fought with pistols or swords... She shuddered and tried to change the direction of her thoughts.

  Though she had felt murderous when she saw Lord Michael attacking Nicholas, now that the duel was over her heart ached for the major. Though his wild accusations against Nicholas were the product of a disturbed mind, he obviously believed them, for his torment had been genuine. She sighed. He was not the first soldier to be destroyed by war, and sadly, he wouldn't be the last. Perhaps in time his mind would heal; she hoped so.

  But in the meantime, he was a very real danger. Though Nicholas didn't think his old friend capable of cold-blooded murder, Clare was not so sure. Perhaps it was time to return to Wales. Michael had implied that he would not have gone in search of Nicholas; with luck, out of sight would prove out of mind.

  When Polly returned with a tray containing bandages, medications, and a basin of warm water, Clare forced her weary body from the chair. After taking the tray, she sent the maid to bed and went down the hall to Nicholas's bedchamber. The door was slightly ajar, so she pushed it open and went in.

  Nicholas knelt on the hearth, adding coals to the fire. Clare almost dropped the tray when she saw him, for her first impression was that he was naked. A second glance showed that he had a towel wrapped around his loins. It was the absolute minimum necessary to make him decent, and rather less than what she required for peace of mind.

  It was unnerving to see at close hand the beautiful, muscular body that she had shamefacedly admired when he swam with the penguins. Still more unnerving was the sight of his injuries. Belatedly she realized that he had stripped off most of his clothing so she cou
ld treat his wounds. The thought steadied her; she was here as a nurse, not a mistress.

  He finished fixing the fire and set the screen into place, then stood and lifted a goblet from the table. "Care for some brandy? Tonight might be a good time to temporarily suspend your objections to strong drink."

  After a brief mental debate, she said, "The Methodist rule is to make decisions according to what is in one's heart, and my heart says that something calming would be welcome."

  He poured a small amount of brandy and handed the glass to her. "Drink carefully. It's much fiercer than sherry."

  "Shouldn't you be encouraging me to drink more? I've heard that getting a female tipsy is a standard seduction technique."

  "I've considered doing that, but it wouldn't be sporting," he said with dry humor. "I'll seduce you fair and square."

  "No, you won't, fairly, squarely, or otherwise," she retorted. Though the first taste of brandy made her choke, she appreciated the soothing afterglow.

  As she sipped, her gaze followed him as he prowled around the room, glass in hand. In his near-naked state, he was a most distracting sight. Trying to be objective, she noted that his arms and the upper part of his chest and back had sustained all of the damage. His beautiful muscular legs were unmarked....

  Clinical, Clare, remember to be clinical. Setting down her glass, she said briskly, "Time to get to work. Sit on that stool, please."

  Silently he obeyed. She began by gently washing the lacerations with warm water to remove grit and fragments of cloth that had been driven in by the lash. He stared across the room, occasionally sipping at his brandy. She tried not to be distracted by the ripple of taut muscles when he shifted position. All carnal thoughts vanished whenever the pain passed the limits of stoicism and he involuntarily winced.

  As she sprinkled basilicum powder on the open wounds, she said, "The lacerations are messy and must feel beastly, but they're fairly shallow, and none are still bleeding. I expected the damage to be worse."

  "Whips are more destructive when the victim can't avoid the lash, as when a soldier is tied to a post and flogged," he said absently. "A moving target doesn't incur as much damage."

  She transferred her attention to his left forearm, which was cut and bruised in several places. His fingers tightened around his glass as she cleaned dried blood from a gash on his wrist. "Odd that all of the damage is to your upper body. Lord Michael has no imagination—he kept striking at the same area."

  Nicholas reached for the decanter and poured himself more brandy. "He was trying to break my neck. If he'd been able to wind the thong around my throat and jerk it, as I did with his ankle, he'd have had a good chance of success."

  She stopped, appalled. "You mean he was deliberately trying to do the one thing that might kill you?"

  Nicholas raised his brows. "Of course. Michael said that he wanted me dead, and he's always been a man of his word."

  Clare's hands began shaking. After a quick look at her face, Nicholas stood and guided her into a nearby wing chair. She buried her face in her hands, unable to escape a horrific vision of what would have happened if the major had managed to wrap his whip around Nicholas's neck.

  "Sorry—I shouldn't have told you," Nicholas said as he returned to his stool. "There was no chance he would succeed. Once or twice I've seen similar brawls among the Gypsies, so I'm familiar with the basic tactics of whip fighting."

  After a brief, intense battle with incipient hysterics, she looked up. "He really is mad, as you said. Do you have any idea why he fixed his madness on you rather than someone else?"

  "Wouldn't it make more sense to ask if Michael was correct when he accused me of killing my wife and my grandfather?"

  She made an impatient movement with her hand. "I think he was only trying to shock, and their sudden deaths made convenient ammunition. Besides, I doubt that he cared about my reaction. He was more interested in antagonizing you, and in trying to drive a wedge between you and your other friends."

  Nicholas rose and began pacing again. "So coolheaded. But surely the thought has crossed your mind that I might be a murderer."

  "Naturally I considered the possibility four years ago, when the deaths occurred." She linked her fingers together in her lap, determined to be as cool as he thought she was. "However, though you have flashes of temper, I simply don't think you have that kind of violence in you."

  He toyed with the bellpull, twining it around the post of the bed. "Are there different kinds of violence?"

  "Of course," she replied. "It's easy to believe that Lord Michael is capable of murder. I think Lucien would be also, under extreme circumstances—certainly he can be as ruthless as necessary. But though you can be dangerous, as you proved tonight, you would rather laugh or walk away from a difficult situation. I can't imagine you killing except in self-defense, and even then only if you couldn't avoid it."

  His mouth twisted. "I damn near killed Michael tonight."

  "That was an accident," she said sharply. "Did you think I wouldn't notice how you held back? He's skilled with a whip, but you're better. You could have sliced him to pieces if you chose. Instead, you allowed yourself to be hurt much worse than necessary while you waited for a chance to disable him."

  "You notice a great deal." He drifted to the walnut dresser and began stacking coins by size. "Too much, perhaps."

  I notice everything about you, Nicholas. Her fingers locked more tightly. "My father's work brought many kinds of people to our home. I couldn't help but learn something of human nature."

  "You've deftly analyzed Michael, Lucien, and me in terms of our capacity for violence," he remarked, all his attention on the coins. "What about Rafe?"

  She pondered. "I scarcely know him. My guess is that he is like you—the kind of man who won't look for a fight, but who will acquit himself well when trouble can't be avoided."

  "You're even more dangerous than I thought," he said with a hint of amusement. "You're quite right about me walking away—I think it's bred into all Gypsies. We've always been persecuted—to survive as a race, we had to learn to fold our tents and steal away rather than wait to be slaughtered."

  "He who fights, then runs away, will live to run another day," she misquoted.

  "Exactly." Losing interest in the coins, he began fiddling with his silver card case. "You asked why Michael chose me as his target. My best guess is that his anger is because of the old earl. Though he was estranged from his own father, the Duke of Ashburton, for some reason Michael and my grandfather got on well. The old earl said in as many words that he wished Michael was his heir instead of me."

  Nicholas took the engraved cards from the case and spread them into a fan between his thumb and forefinger. "My grandfather was a healthy, vigorous man right up until the night he died. Perhaps Michael really does believe I killed the old boy with some subtle Gypsy poison or black magic spell."

  Thinking that he was unnaturally dispassionate about what must have been deeply hurtful, she asked, "Did you envy Michael for the way he got on with your grandfather?"

  He snapped the cards together and returned them to the case. "I might have minded when I was younger, but by the time Michael moved to Penreith, I no longer cared. If it made the two of them happy for Michael to play surrogate grandson, they were welcome to it. I spent most of my time elsewhere."

  Clare wondered if the old earl had deliberately set the two young men against each other as a way of hurting his grandson. Could the earl have been that devious, and that cruel? If so, he had much to answer for. And, like Emily, Clare hoped he was answering for it in a very hot location.

  Deciding she should finish her work so she could go to her room and collapse, she took a pot of herb salve, cornered Nicholas by the dresser, and began spreading the salve on minor wounds, where the skin was raw but not bleeding.

  He sucked his breath in when she touched a tender spot on his back, but didn't move. "What about your capacity for violence, Clare? You'll never convince me that you're a m
ilk-and-water miss who would never say boo to a penguin."

  "I believe that peace is better than war, and that turning cheeks is better than breaking heads." She spread salve on a scrape that ran from his collarbone to his ribs. "But though I'm not particularly proud to admit it, I suspect I could be violent on behalf of those I care about. If some villain came to the school and threatened my children, for example." Or if someone threatened Nicholas.

  She went back to the tray for a bandage. "I'm going to cover the worst of the lacerations with this." She wrapped his wrist, then began winding the muslin strip around his chest.

  Casually he asked, "How does Lucien kiss?"

  "What?" She was so startled she almost dropped the bandage. "Oh, that's right, he kissed me when Napoleon's abdication was announced. It was quite a nice kiss, I suppose—I didn't really notice." She looped the end of the bandage under his arm and tied a neat knot on top of his shoulder. The muslin looked very white against his dark skin. "He wasn't you."

  "Next time Lucien needs to be taken down a peg or two, I'll tell him how unimpressed you were with his skill."

  "Surely you wouldn't..." She looked at him uncertainly. "Oh, you're joking."

  "Of course—whimsy is my strong suit." Nicholas stepped away and rolled his shoulders, testing to see how much they hurt. "Why did you say that Lucien has a ruthless streak? You're right, but it's surprising that you deduced that after meeting him only a handful of times, and when he was on his best behavior."

  She began stacking her medical supplies on the tray. "It's just something I feel about him. Though he plays the dilettante very well, there is something inside him that makes me think of polished steel." She smiled a little. "I startled him by guessing that his Whitehall post involves gathering intelligence, and that you worked for him."