Wicked Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (14 page)

      
Alex stood quietly, then said, "I wish I could have chopped the vicious bastard into fish bait."

      
"Better this way, my friend," Drum replied in a low, deadly voice. "Now he will learn to chew fear. Legions of men about town will think nothing of taking their walking sticks to him should he dare show his face in any of his old haunts. That hand of his, so feared by so many, will never kill again. Limp and numb it may be now, but in time it will wither and gnarl into a pain-wracked claw, as ugly and twisted as the soul in his filthy body. I hope he lives a long while before a friend of one of his victims kills him, but I fear he has so many enemies he won't last long."

      
Drummond's eyes glittered in a face that hatred and relived grief had stretched into a satanic mask. Then the expression faded as he turned to Alex with a suddenly stricken look on his face. "I never intended to use you to exact revenge, my friend. I do hope you believe that."

      
"Considering the circumstances that caused Sir Rupert to challenge me, there is no way you could have had a hand in it—Joss's children were the immediate catalyst. I plead guilty to insulting him into the challenge, but the colonel did go out of his way to provoke me."

      
"You were an unusual victim, I suspect. He would have enjoyed the sport of toying with you before he dispatched you ... had you given him the opportunity to use his foil against you."

      
"So that's why you instructed me to slash that way," Alex replied.

      
Drum nodded. "Your blade severed muscle, tendons, blood vessels, all. The good Miss Woodbridge can keep the chamber pot alive but no one can repair the hand."

      
Joss approached them carrying her medical bag. "I've done what I can. He won't bleed to death. The major is going to remain with Sir Rupert, but someone needs to ride posthaste and summon a carriage to convey him to hospital." She looked from Alex to Drum.

      
The little dandy sighed theatrically. "Very well, I suppose it behooves me to ride pell-mell to summon a hackney, a better alternative than carrying you on my horse, Miss Woodbridge. I should hate to stain my new doeskins," he said, eyeing her skirt, which was smeared with blood and liberally caked with dirt from where she had knelt on the ground.

      
"Far be it from me to mar your sartorial splendor, Mr. Drummond," Joss replied with overly dulcet civility.

      
"Your servant, Miss Woodbridge," Drum replied, sketching a bow before he turned to Alex. "You will be all the go at Watiers before midafternoon. I shall expect to see you there for a friendly game of whist." With that he mounted his beautifully turned out little white Arabian and galloped down the road.

      
Alex observed Joss as she stared after Drum. "You'd best have a care. Your most un-Christian detestation is showing," he said with amusement.

      
Her cheeks crimsoned. "I know. I can't seem to help it," she replied impenitently.

      
Alex swung up on his powerful blood roan with such fluid grace that Joss was reminded of a tawny golden lion she had once seen in a traveling circus. Her mouth went dry as dust when he extended his open palm to her. "Give me your satchel; then I'll help you mount," he said.

      
She stared dumbly for a moment before handing the bag up to him. Her heart hammered painfully in her chest and her breath hitched.
I shall make an utter cake of myself when he touches me,
she thought with a surge of panic as he leaned down, reaching out to her. "Really, Alex, I'm too heavy for you to whisk up in front of you. Let me try climbing up behind you."

      
He grinned. Skinny as Joss was, her weight would not present a problem. "I think I can manage to lift you. You're naught but skin and bones," he chided.

      
"N-no," she stuttered, backing away. Only part of her fright came from fear of betraying her feelings once he held her in his arms. "I fear I must make a confession. I am terrified of horses."

      
He looked at her as if she had just announced she feared white bread. "You can't be serious. You, who calmly stitch up bleeding men and risk life and limb to save a pit dog?"

      
"Dogs are different," she replied irrationally. "I was almost trampled by a horse when I was a child."

      
"You never learned to ride at all?" he asked incredulously.

      
"Not at all. My father could scarcely afford the luxury of owning horses."

      
He chuckled in amazement. At last his fearless bluestocking revealed a chink in her resolute crusader's armor. "You should have considered how you'd get home before dismissing your coachman so precipitously."

      
"I was afraid if I did not, you'd send me packing with him."

      
That small statement of bravado touched him. "Come, Joss, I'll keep you from falling. Sumac doesn't bite, I promise."

      
Her fear stemmed only in part from an aversion to horses. "Very well," she replied, uncertainly. "My fate shall be in your hands."

      
A powerful arm encircled her waist as he swung her easily up in front of him and seated her across the saddle. How strong he was. Joss felt dwarfed by the breadth of his shoulders and strength of his arms reaching around her to hold the reins.

      
As he urged the roan into an easy canter, he murmured against her ear, "A good thing I decided to ride civilized today, not bareback." He sensed her stiffen with what he believed to be fright.

      
"If you'd ridden without a saddle, I should be walking home," she replied, her fingers clutching at the horse's mane until her knuckles turned white.

      
"My brave bluestocking. I can scarcely believe Sumac frightens you. He's gentle as a kitten."

      
Each time he spoke, she could feel a deep rumbling vibration in his chest. His breath was warm and sweet against her cheek. All she wanted on this earth was to turn and press her body tightly against him, to feel his mouth on her skin, his hands—no! She simply must stop thinking this way at once. He must never suspect what she felt.

      
Finding her voice, she replied, "More like this great red beast is Satan in horseflesh." As if to reward her, Sumac tossed his head and broke stride, nearly unseating her from her precarious perch. She gave a shriek of terror and threw her arms about Alex's neck.

      
His laughter rang out as he steadied the horse. "Your face is as red as his coat, Joss," he teased when she quickly withdrew her arms. "Don't be frightened of him and he won't be so nervous. All intelligent animals sense our feelings. You know that."

      
"I do not include horses in my catalogue of intelligent animals," she replied tartly.
Nor are you, my blind darling Alex, thank heavens!
If he had any inkling how his proximity disturbed her, he would have been horrified. She was so grateful for the stallion's diversion that she almost forgave the great beast for frightening her so much.

      
After all, he allowed you to hold Alex in your arms without betraying yourself
, an invidious voice whispered in her ear. She repressed the thought and stared at the road ahead.

      
Alex also turned his attention to the road, brushing aside a vague thought that had only partially emerged in his conciousness. When Joss had clung to him, she did not feel at all as skinny as she looked in her hideous gown.

Chapter Eight

      
The juicy scandal over Alex's crippling of the infamous Colonel Chamberlain was displaced by early summer when Sir Rupert mysteriously dropped from sight and the Prince Regent threw his first big ball at Carleton House. The press was so great that waiting coaches backed up for miles, allowing the great unwashed to throng the streets, ogling the Quality who impatiently awaited their turn at the royal trough.

      
Alex received an invitation but declined to attend, preferring to spend his time in pursuit of carnal gratification. He and a beguiling Cyprian named Solange dined in Vauxhall Gardens and returned to her apartments for a sybaritic evening of delight.

      
Joss worked diligently at the charity hospital and her school, to which Alex had become a generous patron. The Reverend Elijah Woodbridge was gratified by the support, which he attributed to divine intervention. Joss omitted telling him it was more directly attributable to Alex's luck at the gaming tables. She knew she should approve no more of his vices than her father would—had he known. But she could not condemn him since the money certainly was used for the highest good. In her more honest moments, Joss admitted that any reason that brought Alex to visit her was sufficient to overcome her scruples.

      
Their friendship—and her one-sided love—grew as summer melted into the fall of 1811. But with the return of chill rain and dreary skies came yet more gloomy news from America. Alex sat before a crackling fire in the Woodbridge's spartan apartment, and disconsolately handed Joss the letter written on black-bordered stationery. His father's bold scrawl contrasted with his mother's flowing script on the pages, but the gist of both messages was the same.

      
"It would seem I must repair myself to Bertram Therlow's lair posthaste and learn how to keep accounts." He shuddered with loathing as he took another sip from the steaming mug of liquid Joss had brewed for him, uncertain which was worse—the prospect of becoming a man of business or the taste of her fowl nostrum for overindulgence.

      
Joss quickly scanned the missive. "How tragic for your sister to be widowed at such a young age. It would seem her husband Tobias was much relied upon by your father."

      
"Toby was a right enough chap, I suppose, even if he didn't approve of me." He sighed and took another swallow, admitting, "Perhaps
because
he didn't approve of me. I grieve more for Mellie than Toby. What a senseless way to die, tripping and striking his head against a hearthstone."

      
Joss observed his bleak expression and knew he did indeed grieve for his elder sister. He had come to her that morning after a night spent drowning his sorrows in drink. The harsh realities of life were finally catching up with her carefree rake. "Now your father has no one else to rely upon but you. It's time to take responsibility, Alex."

      
He looked up at her balefully. "I am all too well aware of that fact. Drat, but Toby loved bookkeeping as much as I abhor it. Drum advised me to break with my family and make my way as a gambler."

      
"Leave it to Mr. Drummond to suggest such a despicable thing," she sniffed.

      
"I've been living on my winnings. I could do it..."

      
"But you won't," she replied resolutely.

      
He smiled ruefully at her. "I have an appointment with old Bertie this afternoon to begin my apprenticeship."

      
"Your family shall be exceedingly proud of you."

      
"That remains to be seen. I'm not at all adept at figures—unless they're swathed in muslin and lace."

      
"You shall do splendidly. I'm certain of it, but spending your nights drinking and gambling must cease."

      
"Right now I couldn't agree with you more. Lud, I'm always penitent the morning after I've tipped too many. What is in this noisome concoction?" he asked, inspecting the dregs clotted in the bottom of the cup with bloodshot eyes.

      
"Gingerroot, calomel powders and Saint-John's-wort steeped in black pekoe tea. My father gives it to men he ministers to in the streets who have passed out from drunkenness."

      
"As a penance for their sins, I don't doubt."

      
Poc chose that precise moment to burst into the room, his nails clicking across the bare wooden floor as he sprinted up to Alex, tail wagging, barking his welcome.

      
To forestall any further outbursts, Alex quickly reached down and thumped the terrier affectionately on his sides, then closed his eyes and whispered, "Softly, old boy, softly, lest you shatter my skull with another bark."

      
As Alex alternately scowled at the dog, then at her, Joss almost smothered her chuckle. "The wages of sin may not always be death, but they are painful."

      
"At the moment, I am more afraid I shall live than I should be to die and have done," he croaked.

      
"Here, let me," Joss said. Stepping over Poc, she walked around the table and stood behind Alex. "Papa often has the headache after he's exerted himself too greatly. I've learned how to ease it a bit."

      
Her hands with their long slender fingers were cool and clever, soothing away the pounding ache in his skull, which felt as if General Massena's artillery were bombarding it. "Joss, Joss, what would I do without you?"

      
She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his skin and the thick spring of his hair beneath her hands. When he murmured his low rhetorical question, she looked down at the broad expanse of his shoulders and felt such a rightness in the simple act—as if they were long and comfortably married and she performed a wifely task. The fire crackling in the hearth and Poc lying at Alex's feet all presented a warm homey picture.
Pretty daydreams,
she scolded herself, yet she could not break free of the magic of touching him. There were so few opportunities for touching and she craved it so. She only prayed that she would never slip and reveal her true feelings.