Breathless (31 page)

“You liar!” she screamed, hitting him. “You filthy, evil, degenerate piece of garbage, you slimy, unspeakable pile of offal, you worm-ridden dung heap of a human being, I hate you I hate you I hate you.” Her struggles were pulling them down again, and water filled her mouth, stopping her mid-tirade.

Unfortunately, even with a bleeding head he was still stronger than she was, and it seemed to take him no effort at all to disable her, clamping her arms together as he dragged her toward shore, doubtless helped by her angry kicks. By the time it was shallow enough for them to walk he released her, collapsing on the stone beach.

She followed him a moment later, her sodden dress clinging to her heavily. She looked down at him, then started looking around for another weapon. There was another abandoned oar in the weeds, and she started toward it, but he rolled over and caught her ankle and she went sprawling. A moment later he covered her, holding her down as she fought him, fury in every inch of her body.

He let her fight, doing nothing to shield himself from
her blows, simply pinning her with his weight so she couldn't get away. It seemed like hours later when she finally grew too tired. Her arms ached, her hands were sore and he seemed to realize she was spent. He let her shove him off her, and she rolled onto her stomach in the dirt, sobbing.

They stayed like that for a long time. The sun was sinking lower, and finally she looked up at him. “Your head is bleeding,” she said in a raw voice. Indeed, it was bleeding a great deal, pouring down the side of his face and staining his shirt bright red. Maybe she'd killed him after all.

“I know.”

She got to her feet slowly, slapping away his hand when he tried to help her. “Come back to the house,” she said wearily. “I may as well bandage you. It will bring me little enough satisfaction if you die of blood poisoning.”

He very wisely said nothing, following her up to the house. She gave orders for clean rags and warm water as well as bandages and lint, and then ordered him into the salon. “Not the green one,” she snapped, as he started toward it.

The red one was on the other side of the hall. He paused, looking at her. “Why did you jump in after me?”

“I wanted to make sure you'd stay down and wouldn't bob up again.”

He laughed, and something inside her, some cold hard rock of fury split and melted. She turned her back on him, placing more orders so he wouldn't see. He knew her too well.

His head wound was hardly serious, and she dabbed
at it with enthusiasm, hoping to inflict a little more pain, but he bore it stoically enough, saying nothing as she continued a muttered litany of his many character defects. She'd almost finished when she heard a huge commotion in the front hall, and she looked up from her ministrations, in no very charitable mood.

“What the bloody hell is going on out there?” she shouted.

The door burst open, and she groaned. In came her three brothers with swords and pistols drawn, accompanied by a panic-stricken Jane and a tall stranger. A man, she decided, who looked like a jewel thief prone to midnight kisses. He had a protective arm around Jane's shoulder, and then her brothers started shouting.

She was used to them. “Be quiet!” she thundered, and Lucien, who probably had a monumental headache, winced.

“Damn it, Miranda,” Brandon began in a plaintive voice.

“Brandon!” Benedick said in a shocked voice. “Remember there are ladies present.”

“She's got the mouth of a sailor and always has had,” Brandon muttered. “And it's your fault—you taught her those words.”

“Just be quiet, all of you,” she snapped. “Can't you see I have a wounded man here?”

“What happened to him?” her quiet brother Charles asked curiously.

“I hit him with an oar.”

“Good,” Benedick said.

Miranda rinsed out the rag, then dabbed it a little too enthusiastically at the wound. Lucien looked at her
sideways, cursing beneath his breath, but had the good sense not to say anything out loud.

“Why'd you do that?” Jane asked, curious.

“He probably deserved it,” the strange man.

“I was trying to kill him.”

“Oh, he definitely deserved
that
,” said the man.

“I can take care of that,” Benedick said in a threatening voice.

She glanced down at Lucien's impassive face. “It's tempting,” she said in a thoughtful voice. “But first let me stop the bleeding.”

“But why bother if Benedick's just going to kill him?” Brandon demanded.

“You idiot,” Jane said. “She's not letting Benedick anywhere near him.”

“I'm calling you out, Rochdale,” her oldest brother snarled. “You may choose your weapons. I know you're a dead shot, but you'll find…”

“Oh, go away, Benedick. I'll let you have him after I finish bandaging him.” Miranda poked Lucien again, just for good measure, and he muttered “vixen” under his breath.

“I'll have your bags packed,” her brother suddenly announced. “Our horses need to rest, or otherwise I'd take you out of here immediately.”

Jane put a gentle hand on the pugnacious brother's arm. “Let's leave them for a bit, Benedick,” she said soothingly to her childhood friend. “I'm sure she's perfectly safe.”

Benedick made a disgusted noise, but Jane was undeniable, and a moment later all was quiet with their departure.

“Is that the one who was going to marry my sister?” Lucien said after a moment.

“It is.”

“She's better off dead,” he said morosely.

She almost wanted to laugh. “He's a bit high-handed. So are you.” She took a clean cloth, dipped it in the second bowl of water and finished washing the rest of the blood off, making sure to be as rough as possible.

“Are you going with them?”

She'd found some gauze, and she was busy concentrating on wrapping it around his head. “You'll likely get blood poisoning or a fever and die a painful, miserable death,” she muttered.

“You can only hope. However, I think with such gentle nursing I'm bound to survive,” he said. He caught her hand, forcing her to look at him. “I'm…”

“Don't you dare say it. Don't even try,” she warned him in a fierce voice.

“I'm everything you've said I am. A worthless, pig-sucking bastard. You can go if you want. I wouldn't blame you.”

She stared at him in furious disbelief. “You stupid, fatheaded, pig-livered, mutton-larded pond scum. I didn't put up with all this for nothing. Do you love me?”

His pale eyes were like ice. “I love no one.”

She rolled her eyes. “You can be very tedious, you know that? Do you love me?”

“No.”

“You don't want to see me when I get really mad. Do you love me?”

He looked at her warily. “Yes, damn it.”

“A good thing,” she said. And she bent over to kiss him.

A moment later she was beneath him on the sofa, his bandaged head giving him no trouble whatsoever, as he kissed her, pressing her down into the cushions, and she could feel him growing hard against her.

“You can get an erection less than an hour after I've tried to kill you?” she said in disbelief. “Just how perverse are you?”

“Let me show you.”