Realm 06 - A Touch of Love (19 page)

“Damnable woman!” he murmured as he fell into step behind her.

On shaky legs, just to be away from the infuriating baronet, Lucinda rushed to the side of a man she had never met. His accusations stung in the manner of
her late husband’s insinuations regarding her actions toward the other officers. At the time, Lucinda had seen Captain Warren’s biting words as a sign he truly cared for her, and they would have a normal marriage after the war ended. Only in the last six months had she realized Mr. Warren’s words had hid his guilt, rather than to define his unspoken love for her.

“Permit me to see to the gentleman’s wound,” she said as she shoved one of the bar patrons from her way. “I shall require clean water and rags to wash away the possible infection. Is there a surgeon available?”

The innkeeper, Mr. Blackston, replied, “Only a midwife. We could send someone to the next village if’n ye think it best, Ma’am.”

Lucinda wrestled with Monroe’s jacket before tearing away the cloth of the man’s shirt to better view the wound. Her fingers probed the opening. From behind her, she could feel the baronet’s eyes upon her back, but Lucinda did not turn to see whether those dark eyes held disdain or approval. If the former, she would likely lose her nerve and abandon Mr. Monroe to the likes of a midwife. “The bullet went through the fleshy part of the shoulder. Permit me to clean the wound, and then we will determine whether to send someone for a surgeon.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Monroe said in some discomfort.

“Mrs. Warren,” she said. A bit of mischief made her want to tell the man to call her “Lucinda,” just to view Sir Carter’s reaction to her daring. Before the moment passed, she added, “Lucinda Warren.”

Before she could rise from where she sat upon the bed beside Mr. Monroe, the baronet joined them, possessively placing his hand on her shoulder, as if he claimed her, an action again reminiscent of Matthew Warren. “Mrs. Warren followed the drum, Mr. Monroe,” she heard a bit of pride in the baronet’s voice. “I would trust her judgment over a country doctor, who has seen few wounds.”

Despite his words of trust, Lucinda did not like the feel of his hand upon his shoulder. It weighed her down, holding Lucinda in place, making her feel helpless. But worse, it spread warmth through her veins–an uncomfortable feeling after her earlier anger. She glanced up at Sir Carter. “Perhaps, you could see to Simon while I tend your associate.”

“The boy is here?” he asked suspiciously.

“Of course,” she said sweetly. “Your note asked me to bring the boy to The Rising Son.” She watched with satisfaction as he fought the urge to refute her words, but he would not argue with her before the others.

Sir Carter bowed. “I will leave you to your ministrations. Monroe, you are in excellent hands.”

Carter schooled his countenance and strode from the room. He turned to the still open door to find his coachman lingering in the opening. He had a thousand questions for Mr. Watkins, but first he would care for the child. “The boy?” he asked as he nodded at Watkins.

“Within, Sir, and worried for Mrs. Warren’s safety.”

Carter squeezed Watkins’ shoulder as he entered the room. His eyes immediately fell on Simon. The boy, in a too large shirt, stood barefoot in the room’s middle. “You came, at last,” he accused.

Carter still was not certain how the lady had thought to be at this particular inn, but he would not upset the child further. “I have, and everything is safe. You have nothing of which to worry.”

As was typical for the boy, Simon would not relent until he knew all the facts. “Who was injured? Is Mrs. Warren well?” The child’s voice rose with anxiousness.

“Mrs. Warren has not suffered from the ordeal. In fact, she tends one of my associates, who was injured in the skirmish below. The lady will return as soon as she finishes with Mr. Monroe.” Belatedly, he wondered if he should have spoken so honestly. With his young nieces and nephews, he generally spoke of fairy tales and butterflies, certainly not of bullets and raging Balochs. “I will leave Mr. Watkins with you until Mrs. Warren returns. I must assist the innkeeper and the local magistrate in discovering the culprit.” He walked purposely toward the bed and straightened the counterpane. “Now, return to bed,” he encouraged without looking at the boy. “You have nothing to fear.”

Reluctantly, the boy climbed into bed, but Carter doubted the child would sleep. “You will protect Mrs. Warren?” Simon whispered. “She is a good person.”

Carter ruffled the boy’s wiry hair. “With my life.” He blew out the candle and exited the room. The child was correct: The lady was exceptional. From the hall, he motioned Watkins to step into the passageway. “Tell me what you know of Mrs. Warren’s presence at The Rising Son.”

Watkins leaned closer as if in secret. “According to Mr. Vance, Mrs. Warren received a letter two days prior. Mr. Vance delivered it hisself and says the lady claimed the message be from you, Sir. The duke meant to send her on her journey, but she refused both the duke’s small coach, as well as yers. The Duke of Thornhill let a hack, and I’s volunteered to drive the lady.” Carter relived his earlier accusations with regret. Instantly, he wished to read the note Mrs. Warren had thought to be from him. He felt compelled to discover who practiced deception in his name. However, first he must learn what he could of what had occurred below, and then he must apologize to Mrs. Warren.

Lucinda had cleaned and dressed Mr. Monroe’s wound before assisting the man to know restorative sleep by adding a few drops of laudanum to the man’s ale. Mrs. Blackston kept the drug in storage “for those who be causin’ trouble in me inn.” She was just gathering her things when Sir Carter slipped into the room. Still angry from his earlier attitude, Lucinda purposely ignored him. She placed the bloody rags in a bow before brushing a strand of straw blonde hair from Mr. Monroe’s forehead.

Finally, unable to avoid Sir Carter any longer, she stood and straightened her shoulders before turning to face him. In the soft candlelight, he was even more appealing than before. The baronet leaned casually against the door. “Has Simon found his bed?” she asked for she could think of nothing intelligent to say.

“Watkins is with the boy,” he said softly so as not to wake his friend. “The child worries for your safety.”

She found herself frowning. “I can be nothing to the boy,” she said in protest.

“Those are the most foolish words I have ever heard cross your lips,” he protested. The baronet watched her intently. His broad shoulders spoke of strength, and Lucinda would love to give over to the illusion of his protection, but his earlier actions had cut her to the bone.

She swallowed hard to find a bit more resolve and set her feet in action. “Then I should tend to the child’s anxiousness. If you will excuse me, Sir Carter, I shall seek my bed. In the morning, I must make arrangements for Simon and
me to return to London. I assume you will send my belongings on once when the child and I are settled.” The thought of the unknown future frightened her more than had the Baloch’s assault.

The baronet did not step aside as she had anticipated. Instead, he blocked her exit. “Mrs. Warren,” he said so close to her ear that Lucinda felt the warmth of his breath against the shorter hair tickling her nape. “I am truly aggrieved for my earlier response. I acted unreasonably and placed my frustrations upon your shoulders. I beg your forgiveness.” He caught her hand and held it firmly in his grip.

Lucinda heard the hitch of her breath, but she had yet to forget his offense. “It is my experience, Sir Carter, words spoken in anger are what a person wished he could say if Society did not forbid it. You thought me the world’s worst wanton. When you made your accusations, you believed every word you spoke.”

“And what of you? Was your characterization of me as a tyrant said in frustration or in truth?”

Lucinda enjoyed keeping the baronet off balance. “You may decide for yourself, Sir.”

He caught the bowl she carried and set it on a small table. Her defiance enflamed him as no woman ever had, and Carter was not certain if his heated blood came from his ire or his desire. Either way, he was lost to her closeness. She was not the sort of woman to whom he was normally attracted. With the golden highlights framing her face and the changing color of her eyes, she reminded him of a pixie set upon mischief. The thought brought a wry smile to his lips, but he swallowed his thoughts when a flash of irritation crossed her countenance.

He watched with interest as the lady pushed a stray curl behind her ear. Carter murmured, “Perhaps we should start again.” Despite knowing her mere touch would send his blood reeling, he gently brushed her hand away before catching the loose strand between his fingers. Slowly, he wrapped the hair about his finger. “There is no need for us to be ill friends.” He leaned closer, where his lips might graze her temple. His was a primal need. A slow, easy smile tugged at his lips’ corners when he heard the delay in her breathing. It was satisfying to know his presence disturbed her as much as hers did his.

“I should go,” she said on a rasp, but rather than reaching for the door’s handle, the palm of her hand slid up the front of his jacket. He wondered whether she planned to push him away, but she fingered the thread of his badly worn costume.

Carter turned his head to slide his lips along her cheek. “Must you?” he said huskily. “You have yet to forgive me.”

Her eyes closed in anticipation. “Forgive?” she whispered, as if she held no knowledge of the word.

Carter used his fingertips to raise her chin. “You are so beautiful.” Her eyes blinked several times in an unknowing response, and he used the moment to claim her mouth. Gently. Encouragingly. Testing. A soft sigh of expectation.

When she leaned toward him, Carter slid his arms about the lady’s waist. The taste of her lips brought the blood to his erection. Although she was tentative, Carter recognized the signs of her desire.

However, before the kiss could progress to something more pleasurable, Mrs. Warren jumped, in what could only be termed surprise.

The movement had broken the connection, but not Carter’s desire for her. Instinctively, he tightened his hold. “What is amiss?” he asked with a bit more irritation than he intended.