D2D_Poison or Protect (11 page)

He had. This one was a shallow dig through the flesh of his upper bicep, not bad at all. It was bleeding, of course, but not so much as it might have elsewhere.

Preshea picked up her revolver and wiggled the hot barrel at him. “Cauterize?”

“You canna be serious, woman! It’s na the bloody Dark Ages!”

“No need to be crass, my dear captain—”

“Gavin,” he grumbled at her.

“I’m only trained in limited field dressings, those designed to keep a girl moving.”

“Curious training, for a lass.”

“I disagree.” She lifted her skirts at that and began fishing about under them. She showed no embarrassment and a good deal of shapely leg. She was wearing bloomers, of course, but only to the knee, and she’d fine white stockings below.
If I stroke with one finger, might she excuse a wounded man?

His thoughts were arrested by a ripping noise. “What
are
you doing?”

“Tearing a strip off my chemise. Needs to be clean for field dressing. Cauterization may be out of date, but I assume that truth still holds?”

Practical lass.
The hem of her petticoat was muddied from the terrain, so she needed to reach farther up to get at something unsoiled.

Triumphant, Preshea produced a length of fine muslin, beautifully embroidered. The chemise she’d just casually destroyed cost more than his favorite boots.

“Would rather enjoy you in your best underpinnings than have you rip them apart for a mere scratch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She began wrapping his arm, efficiently but with unexpected solicitude.

“It is a
mere scratch
!”

“I know that. What’s ridiculous is the idea that I should be wearing my best underpinnings when riding!”

“Nay?”

“Certainly not.”

“You’ve finer than this?” He fingered the end of the bandage where it now dangled. She’d done an excellent job with the dressing, although she’d tied the tails into a bow.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you take me for, an amateur?”

She was so close.

“Of course na – silly me.”

His arm now smelled of peaches, her scent on his bandage. “I canna ken how you smell so delicious.”

“Delicious? What are you, a werewolf?”

“Preshea?”

She looked up from his injury at last.

Blue, her eyes are blue.
The deepest, darkest blue Gavin had ever seen
.

“I’m thinking that a kiss would make it better.” Gavin felt his request was greatly daring – her gun was still within reach. He’d wager she didn’t miss at close range.

“Thinking that, are ye?” She imitated his brogue and didn’t reach for her gun.

“Fair certain.”

“Well, if it’ll help.” She suited her actions to her words with a quick, sure kiss.

He let her try to make it brief, but then opened to her, waiting to see if she would take the bait.
Vulnerability, retreat – is she hunter enough to chase? Aye, she is that.
There came her tongue, only the tip, tentative. Then he felt a little sigh against his lips – the puff of acceptance.

Their kiss paused naturally, at the place where it could have gone further. He might have relaxed back against the earth, which he now realized was cold and damp. He might have caressed one stocking-covered leg. He might have coaxed her to lie atop him, kiss him more deeply.

Her eyes said she might have agreed.

But they heard shouting and the sound of horses galloping in their direction.

Preshea reached for her revolver, licking one finger to spit-test the heat of the barrel. Finding it cool enough, she flipped down one of her petticoats (Gavin was mighty disappointed) and stashed the gun away somewhere uncouth. Brushing down the rest of her riding habit, she stood and offered him a dainty hand.

He took it but didn’t use it to rise. He didn’t need it and likely would have overbalanced her with his weight, the laws of physics being what they were. He took her hand so he might stroke the back with one thumb. So he might feel how strong it was.

To his surprise, she smiled, gave his fingers a squeeze, and then let him go.

“We should return to the duke. I have a feeling he might require an explanation.”

* * *

Everyone who could had come to rescue them. Those cantering the fields heard the gunshots and raced back, except Jack. Lady Blingchester reported, snidely, that the foolish lad had fallen shortly after the party split, and returned to the house.

Miss Pagril and Lord Lionel also did not return. One assumed she had allowed her horse its head and they were already home. Gavin didn’t fret, for she was a fine rider.

The duke’s mount was gone and he was grumpy about it.

“He’ll return to the stables,” Preshea consoled him. “I shouldn’t worry. If not, we’ll send out a search party of groomsmen. Meanwhile, you take my mount and I’ll ride double with Captain Ruthven.”

“Are you mad?” objected Lady Blingchester. “That’s most unseemly!”

Preshea said, without inflection, “In case you hadn’t noticed, we are short a horse and the captain is injured. Someone must keep him in the saddle. What if he becomes dizzy from blood loss? Since I applied the dressing, it should be me. Unless the duke wishes to do the honors? Lady Violet is
certainly
not an appropriate choice. Are you offering, Lady Blingchester? I should struggle with your horse – too much mettle for me – but if you insist. Although I’m the least likely to be an additional burden to the captain’s animal.”

Gavin was impressed. She’d complimented Lady Blingchester on her riding and insulted her weight in the same breath.

Of course, his wonderful Rusticate, being a gentleman steed, would not protest any added burden – even as much as Lady Blingchester might entail. And Gavin had not lost that much blood. But he dared not open his mouth to protest her scheme. After all, it would net him Preshea in his arms for the entire ride back.

He was in luck. With no further objections, the duke assisted Preshea to mount before Gavin. She perched there, stiff. He held Rusticate back to take the rear of the party.

Once the others were far enough ahead, she allowed herself to relax against him. He pretended it was out of affection, although it was likely so they could talk quietly and not be overheard.

“I intended no insult, Captain. I know you could stick your horse, but this seemed the easiest solution. I’d like the duke back at the house quickly.”

“So, you
are
here to protect him.”

“You too, I take it?”

He nodded. “Fenians.”

“Reform League is what I was told.” She leaned her head back against his collarbone, on his uninjured side. He rested his cheek against the crown of her head.

“What’s daft is that Snodgrove is na the worst to stand against them. In February, he spoke for leniency. He’s a moderate.”

“Can one really be progressive and a Tory?”

“The duke’s a special breed of bagpipe.”

He could feel the movement when she shrugged.

“Perhaps it’s a violent faction of the League? He was seen lunching with Adullamites.”

“Careless lad.”

“Very. And he is too good a speaker. My sources tell me it is his rhetoric they fear, not the man himself. We should send someone after the attacker.”

“Aye. I’ll put Mawkins on it.”

“Your batman valet?”

“Aye.”

“But won’t you get awfully scruffy without him?”

She was teasing; how fine a thing. He was not above teasing back. “You ken I need a shave of an evening?”

“I
ken
no such thing! I meant
scruffy
in terms of wrinkled coattails and ill-tied cravats.”

“I can shift for myself if left clear enough instructions.” Gavin brushed his chin against her glossy hair. It was braided and looped for riding, soft against his skin. “You lost your hat.”

“That happens when one launches oneself off a horse at a duke.”

“We shouldna have left without looking for it.”

“It is of no consequence.” She tilted her head even farther back and brushed the tiniest of kisses on his chin. “Stop mussing my hair.”

“’Tis remarkable. I didna think tresses could be so black outside the West Indies.”

“Are you likening my hair to that of a heathen?” She pretended offense.

“And your eyes are blue.” He couldn’t stop his tone from sounding petulant.

“Well, yes, yes, they are.”

“’Tis disconcerting.”

“Sorry if the color offends – not a great deal I can do about it. Yours are blue, too, you do realize?”

“We’d make beautiful blue-eyed bairns.”

“What a thing to say!” She twisted in token protest, but not so much as to jostle his injured arm, which he’d rested about her waist.
’Tis the most comfortable position.

Rusticate twitched an ear at their antics but kept plodding along. The horse was keeping the others in sight but had allowed distance to develop, as if aware of his master’s desire for privacy.

Preshea changed the subject. “Remarkable beastie, this gelding of yours. Doesn’t look like much, but he’s a work of art underneath, isn’t he?”

“Aye.” Gavin’s affection for the woman in his arms expanded. The way to Gavin’s heart had always been through praise of his mount.
Weel, and dainty sandwiches.

She quieted a moment and then said, very softly, as if to herself, “Quite the opposite of me.”

“Now, lass, I’m thinking that’s somewhat for me to find out on my own.”

“If you must.”

* * *

Preshea had to accept that they were on the same side, which made the big Scotsman an ally of a kind.
I can no longer avoid him. How very vexing.
Why hadn’t Lord Akeldama said he’d double-booked? Unless Gavin represented a different interest. The werewolves, perhaps?
Immortals, always mucking about in mortal business.

To Preshea’s annoyance, the rest of the afternoon was spent fussing.

The Duchess of Snodgrove fussed over her husband. Lady Flo and Miss Pagril fussed over Captain Ruthven. Preshea retreated to her chambers for a nap, claiming fatigue over the excitement of the afternoon.

She watched a man who must be Mawkins (he was riding Rusticate) depart the grounds. He galloped back a good while later, empty-handed. The duke’s attacker had escaped.

Preshea did not return downstairs until well after the dressing bell chimed.

She was never alone with the duke long enough for him to interrogate her, which was perfectly fine with Preshea. It was most likely that, having tried and found Snodgrove well protected, the enemy would not try again during this house party. Certainly, the duke would not take another silly risk.

Preshea sighed as the maid helped her into a grey dinner gown.
The rest of my stay is going to be awfully dull. Unless, of course, I do something to liven it up.

Gavin had made an offer.
The question is, do I take him up on it?
Preshea had never engaged in a dalliance before. At least, not one of this particular nature, with no ulterior motive.
I would be pursuing nothing but my own pleasure. I would be using him. That’s appropriate for a woman like myself.
She tried to console herself by reasoning away her desire.

Would the experience be good for me or ruin me in some way? If I found I liked it, or liked him, more than I thought myself capable, will it destroy my future plans?

Oh, really, Preshea!
she reprimanded herself.
What plans are those?
She’d served out her indenture to Lord Akeldama. She’d done her work for vampire and by royal decree.
I’ve killed for them both and been well compensated for my trouble.

In truth, she’d given little thought to her future.
I could retire to the country. And do what? Take up bee-keeping?
She shuddered.
Perfect my badminton game?
She shuddered again.

Is that all that motivates me now? Boredom?

The idea was appealing. It implied that she was attracted to Gavin not for him but for lack of something in herself.

Except that it
was
him. The size of him. The easy way he rode. The comfortable nature of their discourse. He’d never questioned her actions, not once, during that fight. He’d been a partner. It had been easy.
Too easy.
And he was easy to trust, and lean against, and caress.
Too easy there, also.

There was Miss Pagril to consider. Was she trying to catch him? She was a pretty girl, vivacious, exactly innocent enough to tempt a man to marriage. She would make him the perfect wife.

Preshea was never one to let another lady win, no matter what the prize.

Boredom. Attraction. Curiosity. Competition. Do I really need a reason to take to his bed? What am I actually afraid of?

That he will change me. That he will make me regret my choices. That I will hurt him simply by acting as I have always acted. That in letting him love me, I become responsible for his emotions.

For some reason, the large, amiable Scotsman was the first man Preshea had ever met whom she did not wish to break.

Terrifying thought indeed.

* * *

Preshea left her room to make the rounds early that night. The house was silent and still, everyone abed. All the windows were shut. She encountered Formerly Connie in the drawing room, the fire cooling in the grate.

The ghost nodded to her. “Can’t sleep?”

“Yes. Then I remembered that my scarf was down here.” Preshea had taken to leaving accessories behind of an evening, with this excuse in mind.

“Try a glass of hot milk,” suggested the ghost, floating serenely.

“Do you find yourself calmer now than when you were alive?”

“Naturally. Not a great deal to worry about, you understand? Already dead.”

“I do understand. Thank you for the advice. Good night, Formerly Connie.”

“Good night, Lady Villentia.” The ghost drifted away.

Not so bad for a dead thing, as dead things go.

Preshea paused on the stairs when she heard the whisper of cloth. Someone else was awake and about. Someone else
living
, to be precise.

Preshea melted into the shadows.

Miss Pagril was creeping along the hallway, a candle held low, the light shielded with her free hand. Fortunately, she was not heading downstairs; instead, she hurried into the south-facing wing where the family slept.