To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (28 page)

Frederick watched in disgust as the man pissed himself And damn it, but thoughts of Eleanor pushed their
way right back into his consciousness. As if she were
there in his head, he could hear her pleading with him
to spare Eckford's life. His determination wavered, and
he slackened his hold on Eckford's throat.

"We're alike, you and I," Eckford rasped as he attempted to back away from him, his boots kicking up
bits of earth and grass as he scrabbled backward. "Cut
from the same cloth. You like your women as much
as I-"

Frederick had him by the throat again, pulling him up
so that the tips of his scabbed boots barely touched the
ground. "By God, you'd best shut your mouth, man. I'm
nothing like you, you hear me? Nothing." The blood
roared so loudly in his ears that Frederick could barely
hear, the burning sensation in his shoulder now an excruciating distraction. Bloody hell, but he needed to end
this. He raised the pistol and took aim, only to hesitate
once more as the man whimpered pitifully, now reduced
to a blubbering, sniveling coward.

A wave of nausea washed over him, and he stumbled
back, releasing his hold on Eckford who slid limply
back to the grass, gasping for air. The scent of burnt
flesh, of damp earth, of urine reached his nose, making
Frederick gag.

Good God, he couldn't do it. Couldn't bring himself
to kill the man who had misused Maria and cast her
aside like rubbish. What the hell was wrong with him?
He'd gone soft, weak. With an oath, he tossed the pistol
to the wet grass beside him.

"I speak the truth and you know it, brother-in-law,"
Eckford said, eyeing him coldly now that Henley had
retrieved the pistol from the grass and tucked it safely
into the band of his breeches. "We are one and the
same-weak, a slave to our vices. Did you hear what
became of your recent conquest, Missus Cornelia Darby
of Shropshire? Miscarried a babe and bled to death, not
long after you left her bed, I'm told. Who are you to
judge me?" he spat, his face a mottled red and his eyes
full of hatred.

"No" His voice a strangled cry, the air left Frederick's
lungs in a whoosh. Cornelia Darby, miscarried? Dead?
It could not be so. She'd sworn she could not conceive,
said he needn't worry. He stumbled backward, his lungs
burning. His arm felt weak, his sleeve now stained red
from shoulder to elbow. By God, if it were true, then he
was no better than Eckford. He fell to his knees with a
groan.

Chaos. The surgeon hastened to Frederick's side as
the swelling crowd of onlookers circled about like a
humming swarm of locusts.

"It's naught but a flesh wound," the surgeon pronounced, and Frederick realized he'd been divested of
his linen. "You've only been grazed by the bullet,
though you're losing a fair amount of blood. .

Frederick stopped listening to the surgeon's words,
focusing instead on Henley who looked surprisingly
comfortable standing over Eckford, pointing the pistol
at the cowering man with a sure and steady grip. "You'll
go to London at once at make full restitution, return any
of her jewels you might still have," Henley was saying.
"I don't give a bloody damn if you're forced to work the
docks, but you will repay Missus Eckford what is owed
her. You'll satisfy your creditors and pay a living to your
wife and children. Do you hear me, man? And if you
don't, by God, I will blow your brains out myself. Let
this be a warning" Henley fired a shot into the grass not
three inches from Eckford's right kneecap, causing the
crowd to leap back with a collective gasp of surprise.

Frederick's attention snapped back to his wound as
the surgeon poured some foul-smelling liquid over his
shoulder that burned like hell. "Good God, man," he
roared. "Are you trying to kill me?" It suddenly felt as
if someone had prodded his torn flesh with a hot poker,
and a wave of dizziness washed over him.

"Lie back," the surgeon ordered. "I need to apply
pressure, and I cannot have you thrashing about. Drink
this," he ordered, pouring a generous draught of some
unidentifiable spirit down this throat.

Without argument, Frederick did as he was told, now
mercifully rendered incapable of thinking of anything
save the searing pain as the surgeon pressed forcefully
on the gaping wound with fabric torn from someone's
coat. Likely his own, he realized. The situation was so
absurd that he almost laughed.

Instead, he remembered Eckford's words, words the
pain had mercifully erased, if only temporarily. Cornelia
Darby, dead. Entirely his fault.

"Here, have some more of this," Henley said, pressing the liquor bottle to his lips. He drank thirstily,
hoping the numbing effects would leave him senseless.

And then, just as he was thinking that the situation
could not possibly get any worse than it was, he could
have sworn that he heard Eleanor's voice rise above the
din of the crowd, calling out his name.

Bloody hell, what next?

While Mister Whitby secured the carriage, Eleanor
dashed across the road toward the meadow, her skirts
raised high above her ankles most indecorously. Her
pounding heart kept rhythm with her half boots as she
ran, the din near deafening. She had to hurry. Hurry.

They'd heard a shot as they'd approached, then another. We've come too late, her mind cried, over and
over again as she reached the meadow at last, her fear
mounting with each passing second.

"Frederick!" she called out, her voice unnaturally
shrill. She paused, her eyes scanning the chaotic scene
before her. Where was he? Where was Henley? Whatever had happened?

One hand flew up to cover her mouth, to stifle a cry
as her searching gaze spied a dark-haired man lying
prone in the grass, not twenty feet away. Several men
knelt over him, others were standing about, nearly
blocking her view. It simply had to be Mister Eckford.
Her stunned mind could accept no other alternative.

She almost breathed a sigh of relief, until a memory
of Mister Eckford at the house party in Kent swam into
focus in her mind's eye, a man of medium height and decidedly fair hair. Her heart nearly stilled, her blood
turning to ice in her veins.

Dear God, no. No. It was Frederick, lying there in the
grass. Felled by a bullet.

"Frederick?" she whispered, unable to take a single
step closer, terrified of what she might find, what she
might see. Frederick, dead. No, it could not be so. She
couldn't bear it, she thought, feeling suddenly ill, as if
she might vomit.

She clamped a hand over her mouth, the ground tilting dangerously beneath her feet as she took several
deep, gulping breaths of air. Blurred images of him
rushed through her mind, Frederick standing in Mister
Whitby's parlor in his long, dark greatcoat, not so many
hours before. Telling her good-bye, a sardonic smile on
his lips. Strong and well. Alive.

Just then, someone turned toward her. Henley. It was
Henley, in his shirtsleeves, a pistol tucked into his
breeches, the bright sunlight glinting off its handle and
hurting her already stinging eyes. "Lady Eleanor?" he
called out, his voice laced with incredulity.

As Henley strode toward her, the crowd cleared and
afforded her an unobstructed view of the lone figure on
the ground-now propped up on one elbow, she realized, her heart skipping a beat in elation and causing her
breath to hitch in her chest. He was alive! She nearly
wept with relief and mumbled a prayer of thanks, not
caring who might hear her.

"What in God's name are you doing here, Lady
Eleanor? Where's Selina?" Henley looked past Eleanor's
shoulder with a scowl. "George? What's going on?"

Ignoring his barrage of questions, Eleanor brushed
past him, continuing on toward Frederick's side in hopeful anticipation. He was clearly injured; how badly, she
could not tell. But he was alive! A gray-haired man a surgeon, perhaps-knelt over him, pressing something
to his shoulder.

And, dear Lord, but there was blood everywhere. The
sight made her stop dead in her tracks, her stomach
pitching uncomfortably. She could smell it-the blood.
Frederick's blood. For a terrifying second, she swayed
on her feet once more. Do not let me faint. Not now.

"It's just a flesh wound," Henley said, coming up
behind her and placing a firm hand on her shoulder,
steadying her. "Let the surgeon do his work"

She shrugged off his hand, shaking her head. For all
she knew, his life's blood was ebbing away at that very
moment. "I must go to him."

"Eleanor?" she heard Frederick call out. "What the
devil are you doing here?" His words were thick, slurred.

In seconds she was by his side, kneeling in the wet,
blood-soaked grass, not caring if her dress was ruined.
"I had to come," she said, reaching for his hand. "Whatever happened?" she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper
as she fought to steady her nerves. Blood everywhere.

"The bastard fired before the signal was thrown,
that's what," he snapped, his eyes looking unfocused,
slightly wild. A lock of unruly hair fell across one
darkly shadowed cheek, and Eleanor gently pushed it
away, his skin stubbly beneath her shaking fingers. Suddenly aware that he was entirely bare to the waist, a
shiver worked its way down her spine.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and took a deep
breath before speaking. "And where ... where is Mister
Eckford now?" Had Frederick killed him? A part of her
almost wished he had, and that thought brought with it
a pang of guilt. She shook it away, reminding herself
that he'd almost killed Frederick, and dishonorably, too.

Frederick tipped his head to the right. "He's over
there, the sniveling coward."

Eleanor followed the direction he'd indicated and saw
a man in his shirtsleeves, with close-cropped blond hairlooking much as she'd remembered him-struggling
against two men who restrained him.

Returning her attention to Frederick, she saw him
wince as the surgeon began to wrap the wound with lint
that smelled faintly of camphor.

"You should not be here, Eleanor," he said through
gritted teeth. "Go back to Whitby Hall. Henley will take
you home to Essex"

"And where will you go?"

"To London, with Eckford. Dammit, man, that hurts,"
he groaned, coldly eyeing the surgeon as he finished
wrapping the bandage and securing the ends.

"So long as it does not get putrid, you should heal well
enough. You must change the dressing daily, madam," the
surgeon said, turning to address Eleanor. "Clean it each
night with warm, soapy water, and then re-dress it, but
not too tightly"

She shook her head, confused. "No ... I ... I'm
afraid you're mistaken." A blush warmed her cheeks
and she dropped her gaze. The sight of the hard, muscled planes of Frederick's bare chest, his skin surprisingly bronzed, made her cheeks grow hotter still.
Involuntarily, her gaze traveled lower, to the fine line of
dark hair that ran from his navel downward, disappearing into the band of his breeches.

She quickly averted her gaze, silently scolding her
boldness. "I am not his wife, you see," she said at last.
"I ... I am ... we are betrothed." Her heart soared as
the halting words left her lips. How good it felt to say
them aloud!

"Are we?" Frederick slurred, a wry smile upon his
lips as he pushed himself to a seated position.

"I believe we are," Eleanor murmured, holding up one bare hand-her gloves forgotten in her haste to
depart Whitby Hall. The ruby and diamond ring caught
the rays of the early morning sun, reflecting them in colorful prisms onto the grass.

"Good day, Mister Stoneham," Mister Whitby
drawled, strolling up with Henley beside him. "How
good to see you've all your limbs intact"

"I should throttle you for bringing her here," Frederick growled, his face paling as Henley helped him to his
feet.

"Ali, but you've far better things to do. You've a fine
woman here, Stoneham. I hope you realize just how
lucky you are"

His face alarmingly drawn and pale, Frederick looked
from Eleanor to Mister Whitby, and back to Eleanor
again. "I've the idea of it," he said softly, understanding
shining in the depths of his dark eyes. Bracing his injured arm, he tipped his head toward the road and the
waiting carriage beyond. "Will you see her back,
Whitby? I'll need Henley's assistance here for several
more hours, at least."

"With pleasure," Whitby answered jovially, reaching
for Eleanor's arm.

"Go, then, love," Frederick said, then turned and
walked stiffly away without so much as a glance back in
her direction.

Eleanor hastened up the bluff, her breath coming fast
as her frustration mounted. The sight of the sea would
calm her, and she hurried her step toward her destination. How she wished to entirely forget the events of the
day, to lose herself in the exquisite view, instead. For
what else could she do?

Frederick was gone, off to London with Mister Eck ford in tow. They had quarreled before he left. Terribly
so, for more than an hour. Frederick had insisted that
she remain there at Whitby Hall with the Henleys until
the morrow, then travel back to Essex and await his
return there. Eleanor wanted to go to London. With him.
He was injured; who would change his dressings?

It was not her place, he'd argued, nor did he need the
distraction as he sought to deal with Eckford, to force
him to settle his debts and make restitution to Maria.
He'd all but ordered her to obey him.

Harsh words, indeed. Worse still was the look in his
eyes when he'd spoken them-distracted, defeated. He
had barely been able to meet her gaze, and that troubled
her more than the words themselves. Even more alarming, he'd kept a careful distance from her, as if he were
suddenly a paragon of propriety. Not a single embrace,
no kiss good-bye. Not even a touch.

She could only wonder what had changed him so,
there on that grassy meadow near Plymouth. Whatever
it was, he was not the same man who had left her there
at Whitby Hall the night before, who had kissed her so
passionately, so boldly.