Louise Allen - The Lord and the Wayward Lady

‘No! It was an accident—it wasn’t loaded! I tried it. It wasn’t loaded!’ The driver must have whipped up the carriage, for it was there beside them. Behind her, windows were flung open and people were shouting; in front of her, the big man she had thought so solid was swaying on his feet as the coachman jumped down from the box.

‘My lord!’

‘Get her into the carriage.’

‘No! I—’ Nell was picked up ruthlessly in arms that were more than capable of controlling a six-horse drag and thrown without ceremony into the carriage—to be followed by the viscount who slumped onto the seat.

The front door of the house opened; there were raised voices and someone shouted, ‘Murder! Call the Watch!’

She reached for the far door handle and was jerked back against the viscount with enough force to make them both gasp. ‘You shot me,’ he said between gritted teeth. ‘Now you can stop me bleeding to death.’

‘I’ll get you home, my lord, just you hang on there.’

The coachman slammed the door and the vehicle lurched forward.

There was something hot and wet under her hand. Nell held it up in front of her face. Blood.

He was struggling with the buttons of his greatcoat. Nell pushed his hands away and tore it open herself, shoved it back over his shoulders, ignoring the grunt of pain. Stopping the bleeding was more important than worrying about hurting him. He deserves it, she thought fiercely, trying to ignore the panic churning inside her. I have shot a man. Dear God, I have shot a man.

The carriage lurched again and more light came in. They must have reached one of the major streets. Nell yanked at the greatcoat, then his open coat, then the buttons on his waistcoat. ‘Sit still and let me undress you,’ she snapped as he tried to help her—and was rewarded with an unexpected gasp of laughter, choked off as between them they pulled his arms free.

He was in his shirtsleeves now. His neckcloth would be useful as a bandage, she told herself, trying not to think about what would be revealed when she got the bloodstained shirt off him. Nell ripped down the buttons, careless of them flying loose, and dragged at the shirt. He was not helping now; she rather thought he was close to fainting.

She tipped him forward to rest against her while she pulled the shirt free, struggling with the weight of his body, her nostrils full of the metallic smell of blood.

Then she pushed him back to see what damage had been done. She mopped at his shoulder then peered at the wound in the poor light. It was not, she told herself firmly, as bad as it might have been. There was a raw, deep groove torn through his shoulder but the bullet was not buried in his body.

But it was bleeding like a spring, the blood already covering his chest. Nell bunched up the shirt and held it to the wound. He grunted, half conscious. It needed something finer to make a pad she could tie on with the neckcloth.

Nell reached under her skirts, took hold of her petticoat and tugged a ragged length of cotton free. That, at least, was easier to deal with. She made a pad, pressed it to the wound and began to bandage.

The viscount was coming round from his faint, his head restless against the squab.

‘My lord, be still. I cannot get pressure on this if you move.’

‘Hurts like hell.’ He grumbled. ‘Don’t know why I’m so damned dizzy. Hal said getting shot didn’t hurt. Bloody liar.’

‘You are dizzy because you are bleeding. And if it hurts, that serves you right, my lord,’ she retorted, finishing her binding. ‘You really are the most difficult man.’ They passed a row of grand houses, each with a flaring torch set outside. Light flooded in and she saw the naked torso under her hands clearly for a few seconds.

Not the pampered body of an indolent nobleman, she realized. But then, she hadn’t expected it would be. His ribs were strapped with muscle, hard under her palms. There were scars over his ribs, bruises. She frowned, puzzled, then guessed that he boxed, although that did not account for the scars.

Nell shivered, her hands sliding over the muscles, lingering on the scars. Crisp, dark hair tickled her palms. He is magnificent, she thought, suddenly breathless. Then he shifted, the muscle bunching and flexing, and she snatched her hands away, remembering what male strength could do, remembering who this was.

‘Just do as you are told for once and be still, my lord,’ she ordered. Blood was seeping through the linen. Nell put both hands on the bandage and pressed, kneeling up on the seat beside him to apply more force.

‘Marcus,’ he muttered.

‘Who?’

‘Me. My name. You cannot call me my lord every sentence, not when you’ve torn half my clothes off.’

He was teasing her?

‘My lord,’ Nell said with emphasis,’ we are nearly at Albemarle Street. You will kindly have your coachman drive me home the instant you are safely inside.’

‘Oh no, Miss Smith.’ He smiled thinly. Whatever his mood a moment ago, now she could discern no humour whatsoever. ‘You stay with me or John Coachman will take you straight round to Bow Street and lay charges of attempted murder by shooting.’

‘Stay with you? You mean go into the house with you? No! Why are you doing this? Why won’t you believe me?’

Nell heard the viscount grit his teeth as they went over a bump in the road, but his voice was steady and intense as he said, ‘You lied to me. You do not work for a dressmaker and your name is not Smith.’

‘Oh, very well!’ How he had found her, she had no idea, but he had and now she must deal with it. ‘My name is Latham, Nell Latham. Of course I lied to you. You were angry, you were blaming me for something I know nothing about. You are powerful, my lord,’ she added bitterly, trying to tighten the knots on the bandage. ‘I am not. I need every advantage I can gain. Oh, sit still for goodness’ sake, or you will make it bleed badly again!’

‘How can I sit still with you digging your fingers in like that?’ He showed, unfortunately, no sign of faintness again. The carriage was rattling over the cobbles at a speed that would make it lethally dangerous to jump out, which seemed the only possible means of escape.

Nell turned back from a speculative study of the door handles and glared at her patient. ‘I am attempting to stop the bleeding,’ she scolded. ‘I have to press hard. Now, I am sure we are almost at Albemarle Street and when we get there I expect your man to drive me straight home again—with none of this nonsense about Bow Street.’ Perhaps a voice of firm reason would work.

‘You shot me.’ The piercing eyes were dark with pain, but they had lost none of their force. ‘Shooting a viscount is not nonsense. You could get hanged for less.’

‘It was self-defence, as well you know,’ she retorted. ‘I am a respectable woman, walking home at night, and a large man pounces on me at my door. What am I supposed to do?’

‘Scream?’ he suggested. ‘Hit me with your reticule? That would seem to be the normal reaction. Few respectable women walk the streets of London armed to the teeth.’

‘They do if they are made the pawn in some stupid game between men who ought to know better,’ she snapped back, anxiety making her forget the wisdom of control for a moment.

Under her hands he went very still. ‘Game? This is no game, Nell.’

‘Miss Latham, if you please, my lord. I have not made you free with my name.’ They were turning into Piccadilly, slowing. Her heart raced as she slid off the seat. ‘I have scissors in my reticule. I’ll see if I can cut a better bandage.’

The door opened smoothly as she twisted the handle. The horses were just picking up their pace again—too late. No, she must get away, must jump now. Nell launched herself forward, but was grabbed from behind and dragged back; she landed part on the seat, part on top of the half-naked viscount. The door slammed shut, the carriage lurched as the driver whipped up the team, and Nell took hold of whatever she could to keep from falling to the floor.

What she had done, she realized a split second too late, was to wind one arm around the viscount’s neck and bury her face against his naked chest. His free arm came round and held her to him, his breath rasping in his throat as she wriggled. She managed to pull herself up so they were face to face, so close she could feel his breath on her mouth, see, in the flashes of light as they passed lamps, that his eyes were intent on her face with a kind of focus that sent answering heat surging through her.

He wanted her. Aroused, she supposed, by the chase, by the violence, by his half-naked state and her quivering body clamped to his, Marcus Carlow quite patently wanted her. And for an insane moment, she wanted him too, wanted that strength and the certainty and the sheer animal physicality that lay hidden beneath the veneer of the civilised gentleman.

Desire must have shown in her eyes, or perhaps in the way her breath caught, and he saw it, recognized it. His mouth, when it took hers, was hot and hard. Not polite, not questioning. He had seen the need in her; it met his and so he acted on it.

For a moment it was what she wanted, what she had dreamt of, powerfully erotic, all-consuming, sweeping her away from reality. He made no allowance for inexperience, his tongue thrusting into her mouth with arrogant demand, his lips sealing over hers, his arm shifting her to lie across his legs so she could feel the shameless jut of his erection against her buttocks.

What broke the spell, she did not know. Some sound, the play of the shadows, a touch? She could not be sure, but the dark memories flooded back and with them the shame and the fear. She was no longer a willing partner in this embrace, this primal sharing of heat and breath and desire. She was afraid, hurting, overwhelmed and helpless. Blindly, Nell struck out, fighting, desperate against the man imprisoning her.

One moment his arms were full of supple, warm, yielding woman, the next a fury was struggling to be free, hands and heels flailing, her gasps of passion replaced by sobbed words. ‘No, no, no...’

Dizzy with loss of blood, with desire and pain, Marcus opened his hands. ‘Nell, don’t. I won’t—Nell, it is all right.’ She recoiled from him, wrenching free the arm that had been around his neck, her clenched fist striking his wounded shoulder like a hammer blow. The pain was exquisite, the world went dark. With what remained of his strength, he pulled her back against his body. ‘Nell...safe.’

‘My lord!’ Wellow’s voice? The butler seemed to be shouting down a well. Had he fallen down one? That would explain why there was all this pain. Marcus decided he had broken his shoulder; that was logical. It explained why he was cold and hurting, but it did not explain why he was sitting on something that rocked, or what the light against his closed eyes was.

Reluctantly, Marcus dragged his lids open and prepared to deal with this. Only he was not down a well and he appeared to be in his own carriage outside his own front door, half-naked and with Wellow and three footmen all peering anxiously at him from the pavement. ‘What the hell?’

‘Get him inside,’ said a decisive and irritated female voice from behind him. ‘And send for the doctor. He has been shot; the bullet is not in the wound but he has lost blood. Hurry up, if you please! He will catch his death from cold out here.’

‘Managing female,’ he muttered, amused despite himself. If he could only recall who she was and why—