If You Give a Rake a Ruby (6 page)

***

Warrick rolled to a stop, lifted his head, and watched as the coachman did his best to control the horses. The turn was steep, and the horses screamed in protest. As it was, the carriage bounced against one of the trees, rocking it and sending a shower of leaves and branches on his head.

The carriage flew away, but he knew it would be back. He and Fallon had to get out of here. Under the canopy of trees, the night was dark and he had not seen where she landed. “Fallon?” he hissed.

No answer.

“Fallon!” he called louder. It would take a moment for the carriage to return, and until then, its occupants could not hear him.

Still nothing. Where the devil was she? He stood and surveyed the darkness around him, his eyes gradually adjusting. She couldn't be far. He would find her if he did a quick perimeter search, but he really didn't believe he even had the time for that much.

“Fallon, goddamn it! Where are you?”

He heard a moan and raced toward the sound. His boot thumped something hard, and the thing moaned again. He bent and cleared leaves off her fallen figure. This time he didn't even ask if she could rise. He lifted her and carried her deeper into the woods. She was lighter than she looked. All those curves made her seem more substantial, but she was a petite thing and fit easily into his arms.

He could hear the carriage returning now, and he scanned the darkness for somewhere to hide. The men would be as blind as he, and by the time they returned with dogs, he and Fallon would be gone. He spotted a fallen tree trunk a few feet away and arrowed for it. He could set her down on the other side and keep them both hidden from view. When he rounded it, he saw the ground beneath had been excavated by some creature or another, making just enough room to slide both of them inside. He set Fallon down, and she groaned again. It was a groan of pain, which concerned him, but he didn't have time to do much more than frown for the moment. Instead, he reached into the small cave and felt for occupants.

It was empty, and he lowered himself in then dragged Fallon in beside him. The space was small and cramped, and her body pressed against him. She was warm and solid. He had the faintest sense of the scent of something musky and exotic and knew it was her scent. Fitzhugh leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

For some reason, he was strangely content.

Fallon opened her eyes and groaned. She hurt…everywhere.

“Here, madam, drink some of this.”

Fallon did as she was bid, swallowing the tepid tea then glanced at her server. It was Anne, her lady's maid. Thank God. She looked about and noted she was in her own room, in her own bed, and in her own nightshift. Perhaps she had dreamed last night? Although, she supposed she should classify it as more of a nightmare.

But if it was a dream, why did it hurt every time she breathed in? And if it was a dream, why was Fitzhugh sleeping in the chair across from her bed?

“I'm sorry, madam,” Anne said hurriedly. “I tried to convince him to leave.”

“What is he doing here?” Fallon hissed, not wanting to wake him. “Where is Titus?” Titus could throw him out.

“The gentleman brought you home, madam, and wouldn't allow anyone but himself to carry you up to your room. He seemed so tender about it, I supposed we all assumed…” She trailed off, and Fallon knew what the staff had assumed. They knew they worked for a courtesan, even if they never saw her allow a man into her boudoir. She supposed they had their own notions about where her romantic liaisons occurred.

“Well, perhaps you could assume that he's the one responsible for putting me in this condition! He pushed me out of a moving carriage!”

“Madam!” Anne felt Fallon's head for fever. “Should I call for a physician?”

Fallon closed her eyes in frustration. The man had thrown her out of a moving conveyance, and she was the one everyone assumed was daft.

“No. Just leave me now. Thank you.”

“Are you certain, madam? Would you like some refreshment? Cook prepared a small meal for Mr. Fitzhugh. I am certain she has more.”

Fallon's gaze flicked to the tray on the table beside Fitzhugh. The plates were completely bare. So not only was he sleeping in her chair, he was eating her food! “I'm fine, Anne. That will be all.”

Anne bobbed and closed the door quietly behind her. With only the crackle of the fire, Fallon could hear Fitzhugh's snoring. She lifted a pillow from the bed and threw it at him. Without even opening his eyes, he reached up, snatched the pillow in midair, and stuffed it behind his head.

“Oh!” Fallon was seething. “You're not asleep at all!” Wretched man.

“How can anyone sleep with all the noise you are making? I must say you make a very poor hostess, Fallon.”

She jumped up, winced at the pain in her side, and eased back onto her pillows. “I don't recall inviting you.”

“Exactly!” he said, opening his eyes. “A good hostess would not have commented—what's wrong?” He was up and beside her in a matter of seconds. He put his hand on her shoulder, and she shrugged it off then winced in pain again.

“Nothing.”

He knelt beside her. “Where does it hurt?”

“Nowhere. Everywhere. It's not your concern.”

“You've got quite a few bruises,” he said, inspecting her. He took her arms in his hands and turned them this way and that. “But I don't see anything…”

“Stop touching me.”

His fingers were light on her arms, tender, and she didn't want tenderness from him. He rose and began to feel her head. “A few bumps and bruises. Does this one hurt?”

“Yes! Ow! Stop touching me.”

“What about your legs?” He bent, lifted the hem of her nightshift, and began to poke at her calves. Fallon kicked him away and lowered the gown.

“What are you doing?”

“For a courtesan, you're rather modest. Don't you dance naked at the Cyprians' balls or some such thing?”

Courtesans did dance naked at some of the debauched balls held by the Fashionable Impures like the Wilson sisters and Julia Johnstone, but Fallon had never participated. She wasn't all that modest, either, but she didn't like the effect his touch had on her.

Or perhaps she liked it too much.

“I said I was fine. I don't want to be poked and prodded.”

“If you tell me where you hurt, I won't have to poke and prod. And stop denying it. I can see in your face, you're in pain.”

“Fine.” He was not going to let it go until she told him. She glanced up at him. He was barefoot, and his shirt hung loose over the waist of his trousers. He wore no cravat or coat, and his shirt was open at the throat. His hair was mussed but his eyes were clear. “If I tell you, will you leave?” she asked.

“No.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “If I tell you, will you—”

He bent and lifted her hem again.

“Fine. It hurts when I breathe!” she conceded. “My side hurts. Here.” She pointed to the spot on her side, below her breast, where the pain seemed to coalesce.

He nodded. “Broken rib. How much pain are you having?”

“Enough.” She didn't like his questions, but he'd put his hands on his hips and wasn't touching her any longer. Broken rib. No, she couldn't have a broken rib. Surely, if she'd broken anything she'd be in more pain.

“What about your breathing? Can you breathe deeply?”

“My rib isn't broken.”

“Breathe deeply.”

“Stop ordering me about!”

“I will if you just goddamn do what I say!” he roared. “Bloody hell, woman, do you have to be obstinate about everything?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. She would have stood and roared back at him if she wasn't certain it would cause her more pain. “I don't want your help.”

“I don't care. Now breathe or I'll do it for you.”

She frowned, and he waved his hand in dismissal. “You know what I mean.”

“Not really,” she muttered, but she did as he asked. The pain was there, but it wasn't overwhelming.

After he made her breathe several more times, he said, “I don't think it's punctured your lung. That's a good sign, but I'd like to examine you.”

“Absolutely not! You are not a doctor, and you are not touching me.”

His look was granite, and she knew he'd be just as immovable. “I can fetch a physician, if that's what you wish, but I don't know how you're going to explain this to him—or to the
ton
when word leaks that you've been injured and I was tending you.”

Fallon opened her mouth to argue then shut it again. He was right. The speculation about an affair between them would run rampant. She didn't mind speculation about her liaisons, but only if it served her purposes. A connection with Fitzhugh was counter to her purposes. He was not a social sort of man and would gain her little, if any, press other than the rumors about their liaison. Added to that, there was that niggling little fact that he had men chasing him and shooting at him last night. She really did not want her name linked with his publicly.

“Am I fetching the doctor or are you taking off your nightshift?”

“I am
not
taking off my nightshift!”

“You really needn't be so modest. I haven't seen you naked, but some of your gowns leave little to the imagination. I've no doubt you have a lovely body.”

She did not know why this statement should both infuriate her and send a shot of arousal through her.

“Of course, I won't be looking at it. This is purely a medical examination.”

She rolled her eyes. “No, I'm sure you won't look. And this is quite the medical examination, considering you are not a doctor.”

He shrugged. “I have hidden talents and skills, including some medical training. Unless you need me to deliver a child, I can probably tend you as well as, if not better than, any surgeon.”

“Fine.” Argument seemed futile. “But I am not removing my shift.” She climbed back under the covers, then wriggled—a painful motion but necessary to raise her hem—and then lifted the material so he could see the inflamed area. Throughout it all, he wore a bemused look, but once he bent to examine her, his face grew grave and serious. He touched her very lightly, so lightly, her skin rose with gooseflesh at the stroke of his fingers. He bent close, and she felt his warm breath on her skin. He touched her hand where she held the material.

“Lay your arm down flat.” His hand grasped the material of her shift, giving her no ability to protest. She lowered her arm, feeling incredibly vulnerable. She tried to stare at the ceiling, but her gaze was repeatedly drawn to his face. In that moment, it was completely unguarded, and there was a softness about his mouth, despite the intensity of his expression.

“Does this hurt?” He touched her ribs lightly.

“No,” she said, feeling only the warmth of his hand on her bare skin.

He frowned slightly, and a small crease formed between his eyes. She studied the crease and her gaze followed the slope of his nose down and over the bump indicating it had been broken. “How did you break your nose?” she asked.

“I jumped from a carriage.”

She wanted to believe he was hoaxing her, but his expression remained serious.

“What about when I touch here?” he asked. She jumped, and he nodded. “That's where it is. Hmm. I already see some bruising.” He leaned closer, moving his arm and sliding the hand holding her hem upward slightly so that his knuckles caressed the curve of her breast. Fallon almost leaped again, but this time it was not from pain. The jolt of arousal from his touch on the tender skin of her breast was enough to force her to bite her cheek to keep from moaning.

He poked her rib again, and pain flared. “Ouch.”

“My apologies. Breathe again.”

She did so, and the movement caused the hand on her breast to slide farther up the curve. His gaze flicked to hers, and she could see in the way his eyes darkened that he'd realized where he was touching her. She expected him to draw his hand back quickly, to act ashamed or repentant.

He did neither. Instead, he slid her hem down slowly, dragging his fingers with the material until he'd covered her completely. She wanted to speak, but her mouth was too dry.

“The good news is I do not think your rib is broken.”

“No?” she rasped. Absently, he handed her the cup of tea on the bedside table.

“I think it's merely cracked. I can wrap it for you, but I'll need some strips of old linen.”

“I'll have my lady's maid fetch them.” She rang for Anne and made the request. She would think about how she would feel when he touched her again later. He was a man, she reminded herself. He was the same as any man. There was no reason he should make her skin burn or her breath hitch. There was no reason she should imagine his fingers walking up the bare skin of her breast, sliding over her hard nipple…

“And when you've finished the binding,” she said to break the silence and divert her thoughts from the path they seemed hell-bent on traveling, “then you shall go home.”

“No.”

She blinked and waited for an explanation. When none seemed forthcoming, she added, “What do you mean,
no
? You can't think to stay here.”

He paced to her window, parted the draperies, and peered out before shutting them again. Fallon had a brief glimpse of bright sunlight before gray descended. “That was my thought, actually,” he said, turning to face her. “Unless you'd prefer to come to my residence. But I assure you, yours is more comfortable at the moment, though mine is undoubtedly safer. Of course, you do have that ox of a man—”

“Why would I want to go to your residence?” she demanded, sitting forward. How she hated the persistent jab of pain in her side. If not for it, she would be on her feet and challenging him. He seemed to know she was slightly incapacitated because he gave her a sympathetic look. Pity—the last thing she wanted from the likes of him.

“You and I will stay close together from now on,” he said.

“No, we won't.” Damn this pain. She was standing. She winced as she slid off the bed, and he moved to assist her. She pushed his arm away. “Don't help me. It's your fault my rib is cracked.”

“I'm prepared to accept the blame for your injury.”

“Good!”

“In return, I don't believe a little gratitude for saving your life would be too far amiss.”

“Saving my life? You all but killed me!” She liked this much better. Standing toe-to-toe with him, she felt much more in control. Why, the tingles of arousal had all but faded.

“The men who were after us might have killed you.”

“After
us
? They were after you.” She poked him in the chest. Unfortunately, she had forgotten his shirt buttons were undone, and she touched warm, bare flesh. She drew her hand back quickly.

“They were, but they would have taken you in my stead. I can't say they would have killed you. They might have taken you to their leader. He's the one who wants me dead.”

“And who is that? Lucifer?”

He shook his head. “No. Your father.”

***

Warrick watched as all of the steam whooshed out of her. She deflated like one of those new balloons people were using to fly. So she hadn't known. He hadn't thought she did, but he couldn't be certain. He still wasn't certain. Courtesans were known to be excellent actresses, and she was no exception.

Of course, she was no courtesan—and that only proved her acting abilities were exceptional.

“What are you talking about?” she said coldly, backing away from him.

“Those were your father's men after Daisy's carriage last night. Well,” he conceded, going to the window again and peering out, “I cannot be certain until we speak to Gabriel, but all of the information I have points to Joseph Bayley.”

“He's dead,” she said, but her eyes slid away and wouldn't meet his.

“And how do you know that? You haven't seen him since you were fifteen.”

She took a deep breath and ran a hand though her long, thick, dark hair. “I know because I killed him.”

“Here we are then!” the lady's maid said cheerfully, opening the door. Fallon moved away from him quickly, and he saw her wince. The pain on her face probably hurt him more than her. She was right about that at least—her injury was his fault.