The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Page 4

  “I know, I know. You’ll be the death of me, lass. We’ll bring him to the Bellowing Bull.”

  Even the short distance to the Bull seemed to take forever. The sky had lightened into dawn when they arrived at the stable behind the inn. Jed woke one of the ostlers, and together they carried Colin indoors.

  “Put him in my bedchamber,” Bridget said. “I’ll share Sylvie’s cot.”

  Jed and the ostler lugged their burden up two flights of stairs to Bridget’s chamber and laid him on the bed. He was too still, as pale and grey as the dawn sky, and cold as well.

  “Jed, get the fire going,” Bridget said when the ostler had gone. “I’ll need some wine to pour on the wound. The strongest you have. Brandy would be best. I’ll pay for it.”

  Jed said nothing, merely removing Colin’s coat and boots and then tending to the fire.

  Gingerly, she pulled Colin’s shirt up over his head. The blood-soaked sleeve stuck to his skin. She peeled it away and shuddered. Nausea swarmed up inside her, but she swallowed it down.

  Jed elbowed her away, slicing the shirt off as easily as he’d done the coat. Still he said nothing. She didn’t think she could take any more disapproval, not now, when Colin had almost been killed because of her. “It’s my fault he got hurt. If he hadn’t been trying to rescue me, he would have fought that footpad off himself.”

  “Seems likely,” Jed agreed, efficiently stripping off the rest of Colin’s clothing and pulling the coverlet over him. “I’ll get him a nightshirt.” He left.

  Bridget set Colin’s watch and fob on the chest of drawers and found a sizeable purse in one of his coat pockets—far more substantial than the small one the thief had taken. Had he expected to be set upon? It wouldn’t be surprising in that part of town. She set the purse on the dresser as well. She had ripped up one of her own clean petticoats by the time Jed reappeared with a bowl, some towels, and a decanter of brandy. Together they cleaned and dressed the gash.

  “It’s not deep,” Jed said. “He’ll do.”

  “But he’s not waking up. He didn’t even stir when I poured brandy on the wound.”

  “Likely he’s concussed,” Jed said. “Get some sleep. In the morning will be time enough to worry.”

  “Good night, Jed,” she said. “And thank you. Tell Millie it was all my fault.”

  “She’ll think that anyhow,” he said. “No point fretting, Miss Bridgy. He’ll wake soon enough and do fine.”

  That was kindness on Jed’s part and nothing more. Wounds turned septic all too often, and concussions killed people, too.

  At least she could keep Colin warm. Bridget changed her dirty, crumpled gown for a clean nightdress and crawled in next to him. He smelled of blood, sweat, drink, and the smoke of cheroots. She tucked the covers over them both and put an arm across his chest, nestling close, willing him to be warm again. Willing him to wake, going over and over the incident in her tired mind.

  If Colin hadn’t been distracted by the disturbance that was entirely her fault, he might have seen the purse-snatcher. Judging by the way he’d taken on the two drunkards, he would have trounced the thief as well. Come to think of it, why would a purse-snatcher stab his victim as well as clubbing him? A stunning blow, a purse cut or snatched, and escape into the night made more sense.

  Had the thief lain in wait specifically for Colin? It was possible, she supposed; if he’d won a lot of money, the owners of a disreputable hell might think to rob it right back. How horrid, but one took risks if one patronized such an establishment in the first place. Still, why would such people seek to kill him?

  Warmth stole over her, and along with it sleepiness. Colin lay entirely quiet and still, but now he was warm, too. She wasn’t quite ready to hope yet, but she snuggled closer and shut her eyes, thinking about the attack once again.

  Would the owners of the hell rob a patron who had won too much? Perhaps, but not directly in front of their own premises. That might discourage future gamblers, especially if the hell was new—and this one had opened recently, according to Jed. So . . . who had been waiting to rob, and perhaps kill, Colin Warren? And why?

  There was a woman in Colin’s bed. He was too sleepy to open his eyes. She smelled warm and wonderful. They must have had a good time together, but strangely, he couldn’t recall a thing. Her scent washed over him with every breath. He rolled to the side, thinking to take her again, but pain tore through his arm and he fell back. Damn, it burned like fire, and as the sharp pang subsided, it was replaced by a devilish, insistent throb.

  He tried to puzzle out what had happened, but he couldn’t think through the pain, and besides that, he was too tired. He sank abruptly into sleep.

  “Mama, who is that man in your bed?”

  Bridget shot wide awake. “Hush!” She scrambled out from under the coverlet and tiptoed to the connecting door with the adjoining room, where Sylvie slept with her nurse, who, thank the Lord, was still asleep. “He’s your real father, Sylvie. The one I’ve been trying to talk to for the last week and more.”

  Sylvie scowled. “It’s not proper for you to be in bed with him.”

  This was Millie’s influence and an infernal nuisance. Sylvie, quite rightly, had known nothing about such matters before their trip to London.

  “Nan goes to bed with men she’s not married to,” Sylvie said. “Millie says that makes her a trollop.”

  “Millie should mind her own business,” Bridget snapped, taking a look at Colin’s watch, which fortunately hadn’t stopped; in her experience, gentlemen wound their watches at bedtime. It was now half past six and full daylight.

  She wound the watch and set it on the dresser again, then bent over Colin’s sleeping form. She’d slept fitfully, waking over and over to check on him. He had twitched and mumbled in his sleep, but now he lay utterly still again. She thought his color had improved a little. She hoped.

  “Are you a trollop too, Mama?”

  Bridget narrowed her eyes. “Does Millie say so?”

  “Not when Mary Joan and I are in the room,” Sylvie said. “But I heard her.”

  “Then kindly disregard her. I’ll explain about trollops and proper behavior when you’re older.”

  Although how she was to postpone the discussion, much less explain things convincingly, she had no idea. Sylvie reminded her far too much of herself as a child—inquisitive and stubborn to a fault. “In the meantime, don’t tell her I was in bed with this gentleman. He’s ill, and he was chilled when Jed and I brought him here, but since no one was awake to get me a hot brick, I had to warm him by cuddling him under the covers. Knowing Millie, she’ll refuse to understand, and she’s certain to make a fuss as is.”

  Sylvie nodded uneasily. “I won’t tell.”

  One of these days, Sylvie would understand her mother’s predicament, but for now she was confused and embarrassed, which made Bridget feel even worse. Sylvie pulled out the steps from under the bed and climbed up to examine Colin.

  “You may look at him, but don’t touch,” Bridget said. “A purse-snatcher hit him on the head and stabbed him, and he fell onto the cobbles, so I expect he is sore in many places.”

  Sylvie made a face. “I don’t want to touch him.” Her critical inspection of Colin Warren lasted perhaps ten seconds. She climbed back down the steps and pushed them under the bed again. “I don’t want him for my father. I want Mr. Fallow.”

  Bridget sighed. “I assure you, Mr. Warren is even more charming than Mr. Fallow. Wait until he wakes up and then see what you think.”

  Sylvie crossed her arms. “I already know what I think.”

  “That’s what is known as prejudice,” Bridget said. Another explanation that would have to wait for later. “Go wake Mary Joan and ask for some wash water to be brought up. Then I need you to watch over him while I go to the apothecary. I’ll be r
ight back.” She steered Sylvie in the direction of the bedchamber next door, donned her stockings and boots, and went downstairs.

  Jed was in the kitchen, placidly enduring a scold. Millie rounded on Bridget the moment she appeared. “What if he dies here, I ask you? We’ll be in a peck of trouble. You should have brought him to his own lodgings last night, and so I told Jed.”

  “He was too ill to be driven that far, and he’s not going to die.” Bridget hoped she sounded more certain than she felt. “I’m going to see if the apothecary has something for him.”

  “He’s to leave this house the instant he wakes,” Millie said.

  “If he’s well enough,” Jed added with his typical patience.

  “We can’t take non-paying guests,” Millie said.

  “He can afford to pay,” Jed said on a sigh, making Bridget squirm.

  Much as she disliked Millie, she didn’t want the couple to quarrel because of her.

  “If Mr. Warren refuses to pay his shot,” Bridget said, “I shall pay it.”

  Millie glared. “You shared your bedchamber with him last night. I can’t have such behavior in a respectable inn.”

  This was pure nonsense. Grub Street was known for its population of writers and artists, many of whom disregarded propriety altogether. “What behavior? He’s injured and unconscious, and when he wakes, he’ll leave as soon as possible. He doesn’t even want to talk to me, much less have carnal relations with me.” Bridget stomped out the door.

  Emma?

  Colin’s arm hurt like the devil. So did his head, which hurt even worse when he opened his eyes. He knew he must be dreaming, for his little sister Emma was long dead, but there she was, solemnly watching him from a chair by the bed. No point in trying to keep his eyes open when it hurt so badly, so he shut them again.

  Where was the woman whose warmth he’d shared earlier? He felt about with one foot, hoping for a smaller, softer foot to tangle with, and then tried farther afield with his arm in hopes of a lush breast or thigh. Nothing. “Damn. Where did she go?”

  “That is a bad word,” said a firm but childish voice. “If you mean my mother, she went to the apothecary. It wasn’t proper for her to be in the bed with you, and so I told her.”

  If eyes could groan, they would have done so now, as they opened to the same vision of Emma. Except it was no vision but a real child, who looked so much like Emma that the soreness that hadn’t left him since her death swelled inside him and burst like an overripe plum, painfully sweet, hauntingly sad.

  She didn’t sound like Emma, though. Emma had been soft and funny. This child spoke like a budding schoolmistress. He shook his head to dispel the long-ago grief, then sucked in a harsh breath at the pain. What had happened to him? And where was he? This wasn’t the bedchamber in his lodgings, but a dingy room with a low ceiling of blackened plaster and even blacker oaken beams. There was a writing table that had seen better days, another chair, a chest of drawers… “Who the devil are you?” he demanded.

  “That is another bad word,” the child said. “I don’t want you for my father.”

  Her father? An unpleasant suspicion crept into the fog of his brain. “Hell and damna—” At the child’s offended glare, he got a hold of himself. Her fussiness about proper language was a blasted nuisance, but he needed information. “Without the bad words, then—what is your name?”

  The girl pursed her prim little mouth. “Sylvia O’Shaughnessy Black.”

  Of course. “I suppose Bridget O’Shaughnessy Black is your mother,” he growled, rolling to face the child, falling back with a groan. What the devil was wrong with his arm?

  The girl recoiled. “You smell bad. I refuse to have you for my father.”

  “So would you smell, if you’d been at a gaming hell all night and—” Recollection began to creep in, and he hardly heard her protest at another improper word. “How did I get here?”

  “Miss Sylvie, is he awake?” A plump, pretty maid trotted in, carrying a small gown and a needle and thread. “Oh, what a relief.” She dipped into a curtsey and said, “Good morning, sir. Mrs. Black has gone to the apothecary, but she’ll return soon with something for the pain. Come, Miss Sylvie. The gentleman is too ill to put up with your chatter.”

  “He uses bad words,” Sylvie told the maid. “I want Mr. Fallow for my father.” Together they left the room.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, Colin struggled up.

  And almost succumbed. No, he couldn’t afford to faint. He clutched his head in his good hand, well-nigh blind with dizziness, hearing his own moan through a fog of agony. For a long, long moment he remained entirely still. There was a goose-egg on his skull, but that was the least of his problems. Gingerly, he took a look at his arm.

  Just above the elbow, it was swathed in bandages. A dark stain showed where blood had seeped through. Had he been in a fight?

  Slowly, achingly slowly, he moved his legs out from under the coverlet and turned, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the bed. So far, so good, but he wasn’t quite ready to risk sliding to the floor, so he tried once again to recollect what had happened the night before.

  He’d gone to that new hell. It was in a rather rough area, but he wasn’t an easy mark for footpads, and he’d taken a stick with him just in case. When he’d won, he’d divided his winnings for safety’s sake—not that he gave a damn about money or anything else lately. In fact, he’d almost been anticipating—relishing—a fight.

  Now he remembered. Someone had been following him for a couple of days, making him warier than usual. Had the fellow trailed him again last night? Colin thought perhaps he recalled that.

  But it didn’t explain how he’d ended up in Bridget Black’s bed. Had he met her at the hell—or afterwards—and gone to bed with her? It certainly seemed that way, judging by the child’s remarks, but he didn’t remember it at all. What a pity.

  But if he’d tupped Bridget, how had he been wounded? Perhaps she’d gone on the attack, rather like the tigress she’d been all those years ago.

  Surely he would have remembered that.

  No—the operative word in that last thought was . . . attack.

  “I refuse,” Sylvie said, the instant Bridget returned by the kitchen door. “Mr. Warren smells bad and he says improper words.”

  “He’s awake? Oh, thank God.” She put the packet the apothecary had given her onto the deal table. “Nan, kindly brew a tisane with these herbs. I must go speak to Mr. Warren straightaway.”

  “I don’t want him for a father,” Sylvie said.

  “He is your father,” Bridget said, “but he will leave as soon as he’s well enough, so you needn’t fuss.” She hurried up the two flights of stairs to her bedchamber, tapped on the door, and opened it.

  Colin was sitting on the floor in Jed’s nightshirt, pulling on a boot with his good arm. He raised his head, winced, and reached gingerly for the other boot.

  “Thank God you’re all right,” she said.

  “No thanks to you,” Colin said.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I never meant such a thing to happen. Why are you on the floor?”

  “Because it hurts to bend over.” Colin took a deep breath, pulled on the other boot, and released a whisper of a groan, followed by a muttered curse. He stood, swaying. A trickle of blood escaped the bandages on his injured arm. “It hurts to stand up, too.” He leaned against the bedpost and closed his eyes. “Everything hurts, damn you.” His lips curled in a fragment of a smile. “If I recall correctly, you’re not as particular about bad language as your dreadful child.”

  That stung, but nevertheless, she let the comment pass. “You shouldn’t be on your feet.”

  “Clever of you to figure that out.” The sarcasm sat badly on his pale, strained features. He half opened his eyes. “While y
ou were at it, why didn’t you just kill me?”

  For an astonished moment, she didn’t know what to say. “I didn’t club you. I didn’t stab you. I just wanted to talk to you. Please lie down again. You look most dreadfully ill.”

  He ignored that. “You had someone follow me.” He winced again.

  “Yes, but how else was I know to where you were? You locked your windows, and you didn’t come to visit me.”

  “I was planning to,” he said. “Tomorrow.” He shook his head and let out a grunt of pain. “Today, I suppose it is now.”

  “How was I to know that?”

  “I gave you my word,” he said, as if that explained and excused everything.

  She huffed. “And how was I to know you would keep it?”

  “Because I’m a gentleman!” Apparently raising his voice hurt, too, for he lowered it again. “Perhaps you didn’t realize that by assaulting me, you would release me of all obligation to keep that promise.”

  “I didn’t assault you!” What made him think that?

  “Technically, no, but your flunkeys did.”

  “That’s not true!” she cried. “My flunkeys, as you term them, were two urchins who followed you last night and Jed, who drove my hackney, and none of them so much as touched you. Quite the contrary! In fact—”

  In her desperation to explain, she didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late. The door swung open. Millie stomped in and planted herself before Colin, arms akimbo.

  “Now, don’t you dare blame a thing on my Jed, sir. It was all Mrs. Black’s doing, and no one else’s. She’s been nothing but trouble since the day she arrived, and I—”