Danger Wears White

Hoping to live down her family’s connections to the traitorous Jacobite cause, Imogen wants nothing more than a quiet life in the country. When she stumbles upon a wounded man, the white cockade in his coat tells her he’s a Jacobite, and a danger to the crown. Yet there’s something about him she can’t resist . . .

In search of a document on behalf of his powerful family, Tony is shot and left for dead. Secreted away to a hidden chamber, he finds himself both a guest and prisoner of a beautiful but mysterious woman. What she wants and who she serves, he cannot know. But what he does understand is the desire burning strongly between them. And that neither of them will be spared until their lust is sated.

When the action moves to London, suddenly it’s Tony who has to act to save Imogen. Forced to become a lady in waiting to Princess Amelia, she is in peril from the Jacobites, who are convinced she is their salvation. Only the strength of Tony and Imogen’s love can save them now.

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Emperors of London Series

Rogue In Red Velvet

Temptation Has Green Eyes

Danger Wears White

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Emperors of London Series

Lynne Connolly

LYRICAL PRESS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

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Copyright © 2015 by Lynne Connolly

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First Electronic Edition: July 2015

eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-571-4

eISBN-10: 1-61650-571-0

First Print Edition: July 2015

ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-595-0

ISBN-10: 1-61650-609-1

Printed in the United States of America

Imogen hunched her shoulders against the drizzly rain and patted her horse’s neck, but he was far too used to the inclement weather for it to make any difference to him. The white stone of the boundary marker stood starkly against the green of the hedge, in its rightful place. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Sir Toby had left them alone. He’d become so persistent, insisting the lush Lower Meadow belonged to him, that she’d taken him to court, but they’d conducted the case in as cordial a spirit as possible, and now Sir Toby appeared content. He was probably off harassing another neighbor.

Satisfied with her discoveries, Imogen turned to head for home. A stumble from her horse gave her pause. Had Blackie picked up a stone, or just skidded on the slick grass?

She’d had the gelding since he was a foal, hence the childish name the poor animal still bore. Imogen would rather have a stone in her own shoe than cause him pain. He was retired from most duties these days, but he’d stamped around his stall this morning, clearly restless, so she’d taken him on the relatively easy task she assigned herself today. That was before it had started raining.

A hut stood at the bottom of the field. Or rather, it teetered. It had suffered from the recent dispute, neither party wanting to go to the expense of repairing it until the courts decided on the boundaries. The roof was held on by a promise and let in more than it kept out. Any creature with nowhere else to stay might find a modicum of protection there. It would have to be a small creature, though.

Imogen climbed down from her saddle and led Blackie to the hut. Her cocked riding hat protected her head from the drizzle, but this kind of persistent rain tended to penetrate after a time, and she’d been out an hour already. Her practical close-woven brown wool riding habit kept out the rest, but it wouldn’t have passed muster in the more fashionable areas of Lancashire. Not that she cared.

Blackie seemed steadier now she’d climbed down, but when she walked him, she spotted that slight stumble again.

When she reached the hut, she sighed. Usually she tried to ignore this tumbledown structure. Maybe she should get Young George to pull it down completely. Some aristocrats built ruins on purpose to make their estates appear more picturesque; they were welcome to this one.

Fumbling in her pocket, she found the hooked piece of metal she used to help scrape hooves. Blackie bent his head and started cropping the grass, hardly noticing when she tapped his hock for him to lift his foot.

Ah yes, there it was. A couple of scrapes and she had it. A small, though sharp, piece of stone. It hadn’t done any significant damage, but if she’d ignored it, it would probably have eased his shoe loose by the time they got home and dug into him painfully.

Worth getting wet for. Her leather gloves were soaked and now grimy from the dirt Blackie had picked up—probably ruined.

Still, this was the north boundary, and the house was only a mile or so away. Her mother would murder her if she wasn’t in the drawing room at half past three, ready to greet whatever guests she’d invited for dinner. Mother had mentioned guests at breakfast, but Imogen hadn’t listened properly, so she wasn’t sure who they would be.

Imogen tucked the hook back in her pocket and urged Blackie to lift his head. “I’ll give you oats with your feed,” she promised him, giving him a pat. “You’ve been a good boy.”

About to lead him to a nearby tree stump so she could mount, she heard a groan. Was it her imagination, or perhaps some creature lurking nearby? Rabbits and foxes could make the oddest sounds.

The groan came again—low, soft, and…male.

She glanced around but saw nothing. Hearing another sound, she spun around and stared into the dimness of the rickety hut. She stepped closer, caution ruling her. A miasma of rotting vegetation and something else she couldn’t identify rose to give her pause. Wrinkling her nose, she pressed on.

It had no door, and grass grew sparsely inside. A pile of forgotten hay lay in one corner, sodden and useless. That would account for the stink.

As her eyes became used to the gloom, a glint in the corner of the hut caught her attention. A large shape—hulking, the smell of old clothes and something tangy and metallic. Heavens, a man!

She raced back to Blackie, unfastened the saddlebag, and grabbed her father’s old pistol. She never went out alone without it, but more for foxes and vermin than protection. She dragged back the hammer. Old the weapon might be, but she kept it in excellent working order.

She stepped forward. “Who’s there? Come out at once!” If it was a beggar, she’d give him short shrift and send him on his way. A beggar was highly unlikely to be armed with more than a knife, so as long as she kept her distance, she’d be fine.

The pistol wavered in her grip. She brought her other hand up and braced her hold on it. “Answer me!”

All she got was another groan. Daring to move closer, she peered into the darkness.

He moved, and a shot of alarm arced through her. His body went on forever, and his bulk wasn’t entirely due to his heavy clothes.

The rain had lessened and the sun had come out, giving her better light.

Something sticky and dark glimmered on the floor of the hut. The straw had absorbed some of it, but not all. That accounted for the rest of the smell she’d detected when she’d approached this place. It was the smell of the cobbled yard at the back of the pigsty after the slaughterman had paid his autumn visit.

Imogen uncocked her pistol and crept forward. When he stirred, blood seeped from a wound somewhere on his body, and the fresh red stain was easily visible, even in this gloom.

This man was no vagabond. He didn’t wear rags but a sturdy overcoat covering a coat that, while not the height of fashion, was well made—and currently stained with his blood. Her heart missed a beat. How much had he lost? More than a man should, that was for sure.

Imogen dropped to her knees next to him, doing her best to avoid the sticky pool. She needed to discover the source of the blood, so she could try to stop it. He rolled on to his back.

He wasn’t conscious, but a slit of blue showed from beneath his lids. If he’d ever had a wig and hat, he’d lost them long since. His short dark hair was clammy, either with rain or sweat, clinging to his skull. His hands, bare of gloves, were pale, and his nails broken. Had he had a horse? Horse thieves were rife around here. If thieves had set upon him, why hadn’t they taken his clothes as well as his horse? And left a perfectly good pair of riding boots?

While she considered the situation, she pulled at his clothes, dragging them aside to discover the wound. Either she’d have to ride for help, in which case he might bleed to death, or she might find a way of stopping the bleeding long enough to get him to a place of safety. It didn’t pass her understanding that she could be in danger here too, if the attackers were still lurking nearby. She laid the pistol down by her side and remained alert to any untoward sound or a whinny from Blackie.

His side was clear of wounds. The damage was to his arm. She breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn’t near a vital organ. After taking her knife, she cut up the sleeve of the man’s overcoat, and then, with more effort, the coat he wore beneath. She had to deal with the shirt. This man had dressed far too well.

There it was. A deep wound on the upper flesh of his left arm bled sluggishly. When he changed position he’d caused the fresh flow. Imogen breathed out slowly in relief. She had uncovered no mortal wound. He would most likely live.

Now to find something she could use to bind his wounds and prevent them opening up again when she moved him. The solution lay before her in the creamy white of his linen. She cut away the sleeve of his shirt, taking great care not to cut his skin. Busy about her work and planning her next move, she started so violently at the sound of his voice that she nearly leaped three feet in the air like a startled cat.

“Are you planning to hurt me again?” His deep and rich tones were tinged with amusement.

Imogen shrieked. Gripping the shirt sleeve, she sat back on her heels and glared at him. “How long have you been awake?”

“I keep drifting,” he said. “I hit my head when I was shot. Didn’t you realize that’s what happened?” He closed his eyes and groaned. “Please tell me the bullet passed through and didn’t shatter the bone.”

“You’re a doctor?”

When he shook his head, he winced. “What about my head?”

“Your head’s hurt?”

He took a couple of deep breaths. “My horse bolted and threw me off. That’s when I hit my head. I’m a damned idiot for letting the landlord talk me into hiring the beast. But perhaps if somebody hadn’t shot at me, the beast wouldn’t have run off. My head hurts like the devil. Somehow I found this place, I’m not sure how.”

The road was at least half a mile away. “The bullet went through you. It’s not inside you.”

He closed his eyes and bit his lip. “Would you mind binding that wound before I bleed to death?”

Thus admonished, she returned to her task. After she ripped the shirt down its seam and split it in half with her knife, she had plenty of linen to bandage the wound. She bound it loosely to start, but gentleness wasn’t the best way. Blood oozed through the fabric. Gritting her teeth, she started again. This time she pulled it tight.