Danger Wears White (2 page)

He sucked a harsh breath between his teeth, but bade her, “Don’t mind me. Keep going.”

She did as he said because she had no choice. Only a tight bandage would work.

When she’d finished, she ripped the end of the makeshift bandage down to make two ties and fastened it off with an efficient knot.

Only then did she realize her calves were screaming at her to move. They ached with a deep, agonizing cramp. Trying not to whimper, she sat back, ignoring the damp ground under her backside. With little consideration to modesty, she lifted her skirts and rubbed her calves.

He glanced at her, and to her amazement, a smile flicked at the corners of his full mouth. A strained one to be sure, but it was there. “When you’ve recovered, would you mind taking a look at my head? Then I’ll be on my way.”

She could hardly believe he’d said that. “Where will you go?”

“I may still have my purse. Did you not look?”

“I was too busy saving your life.”

He chuckled low in his throat before he groaned again.

Her legs tingling with pins and needles, Imogen strove to move. Despite the blood and dirt smears on his face, his powerful attraction pierced her awareness.

He was tall, or at the moment, long. When she spread her hands over his head to feel for any wounds or blows, she found nothing life-threatening, as far as she could tell. Touching him like this felt far too intimate.

He glanced up at her without moving his head. “Do you feel anything?”

Yes, a man. She’d never expected to get this close to a man, having long given up the prospect of marriage.

Better to give up the idea entirely than lose her land. But now, with her hands on this man’s head, she realized exactly what she was giving up.

Intimacy.
She would never be close to anyone. She had been an only child with an undemonstrative mother. Only her body servants would touch her. In any case, she took care of most of her personal needs herself, so that would be rarely. No man, and never in the act of love.

Her thoughts came to a halt. “You have a lump as big as a pigeon’s egg.” She gentled her touch.

“Anything else?”

Wasn’t that enough? “A cut. Not a deep one.” At least, it wouldn’t be when the bump had subsided. The wound had begun to clot, and soon it would have a substantial scab. His only problem would be dirt. But she couldn’t wash either of his wounds or any she hadn’t yet discovered because there was no pond or stream close by. The rain had helped, but he needed proper care.

“I’ll do. Help me up, and I’ll leave you in peace.”

“You’re mad,” she said before she could control her thoughts. Come back to my house and I’ll make sure you’re well. I’ll even lend you a horse.”

He tilted his head. “What’s your name?”

“Immie.” Her childhood name.

“Emmy. Very nice. My name’s Tony.”

So he’d heard wrong. It didn’t matter. His head must be buzzing after receiving a bump like that. “Where do you live?”

“In a big house about a mile away.” Better if he didn’t know she was the mistress of the house. After all, she was a property owner, if not a great one, and if he was, despite appearances, a ruffian, he might attempt to abduct her or hold her to ransom. It happened a great deal in society, and while she wasn’t a prime target, she could prove a convenient one for a man in need of money.

He clapped his uninjured hand to his side. “As I thought. My purse has gone.”

“You think they were thieves?”

“What else could they be?”

He stared at her and she caught her breath. He had beautiful eyes, expressive and well-shaped with sweeping black lashes. They’d appear even better if they weren’t bloodshot, but that was to be expected after an experience like his.

Nothing more. Except they were a shade of heavenly blue she’d rarely seen before. When their eyes met, an emotion stirred deep inside, one she didn’t immediately understand. She recognized it with astonishment. Desire.

That didn’t happen to her. She identified it by instinct alone, not experience. And with a man who was half-dead and filthy to boot? Oh yes. She wouldn’t deny the inconvenient heat swamping her body. However she would conceal it, being a civilized woman.

He held up his relatively uninjured arm. “Would you help me up? I hate to ask you, but I don’t think I can do it on my own.”

He was right. He had to stand if she was to help him. She spread her feet on the floor, bent her knees, and gripped his arm with both hands. It was a strain, but once he was sitting, he planted his feet on the ground and pushed himself up.

He released her hand to prop his arm on the wall nearest him. It swayed alarmingly, creaking loudly. He sprang upright with a curse, and the movement dislodged something from what remained of his coat.

A bunch of white satin ribbon formed into a shape Imogen knew well. A white cockade, the symbol of the Jacobites.

* * * *

Tony let the cockade fall to the ground. Emmy paled, and immediately he felt sorry for his subterfuge. She’d done everything she could to help him. “I’ll accept your kind offer, thank you.” His head swam alarmingly, and he would give a great deal for a soft bed and a glass of brandy.

He’d suffered injuries before, and seen worse. In his profession, he could hardly avoid it. His
old
profession.

Recollecting his usual life helped to keep the dizziness at bay. The only big house this close was the one he’d headed for with a particular aim in mind, so although he hadn’t banked for someone shooting at him, he had achieved his objective of getting inside the house. Even worse that he’d enter it as a guest, when he’d planned to enter it as a thief. He tried to smile, but feared it turned into a grimace. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re a Jacobite,” she whispered, dread in her tones.

Tony fixed all his attention on her face. She’d gone white, and she was staring wide-eyed at him. He couldn’t tell if she was appalled or awed. Which? Was she a loyalist to the Crown or a rebel? He wouldn’t agree to or deny her statement. Since he’d hoped the cockade would get him into the house via the servants’ entrance, he couldn’t be sorry she had seen it. “Does that give you a problem?”

“The magistrates will hang you if they find you with one of those things.” She nudged the piece of white ribbon with her foot.

“You’ve seen a lot of these hereabouts, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

At least she didn’t deny it. Jacobites riddled this part of Lancashire. Most of them were licking their wounds after the defeat of the ’Forty-five. Others considered it a setback and carried on with their plotting.

By inserting himself in their midst, Tony anticipated discovering more about the plot that threatened his family, irritatingly known as the Emperors of London. His own name explained the reason for the sobriquet. Antoninus. Damn stupid name. His brother, Nicephorus, was another example of their mother’s warped sense of humor.

For the first time in months, Tony felt alive. The edge of danger in this self-imposed assignment gave him a thrill he thought he’d left behind.

Not to mention a pretty servant girl.

But Emmy was more than pretty. She was stunningly beautiful. An appropriate description, considering the circumstances. He didn’t know if she was aware of the effect of her exquisitely pointed chin and her liquid brown eyes. If anything, the cloud of dark hair at present untidily straggling down in tails and curls only acted as a frame. And he wasn’t being partial, even though when he’d first opened his eyes to see her he’d wondered if angels had brown eyes. If he’d said it, she’d probably have left him, and he didn’t fool himself. He’d come close with this one.

He glared at the blood he’d left on the floor. Weakness filled his bones. He could use a good night’s sleep before he got to work.

Emmy took his elbow, and he felt the same jolt of awareness that he had when she’d touched his head. That had come as a profound shock. Women had a place in his world, but here and now, he didn’t have time for that. Unless he’d found an ally.

Hurting someone who’d done nothing but help him went against the grain. From the way she was dressed, in a drab riding habit that had seen better days, and her attitude, with no maidenly modesty, he’d guessed she was a servant at the house.

Tiredness swept over him in a swamping wave. He still couldn’t believe he’d nearly ended here, in the English countryside instead of one of the battlefields of Europe. The vagaries of fate never failed to amaze him.

When he moved, he staggered, and he decided against picking up the cockade. Instead, he scuffed it into the ground with the toe of his boot. His valet would probably faint dead away if he saw what Tony was doing with the boots meant to grace Hyde Park. Well, they were good boots, and they deserved a better fate than prancing around town.

“In truth, I don’t think I could go much farther today,” he said, passing a hand over his forehead. The dramatic gesture wasn’t altogether undeserved. Heat washed over him and he knew from experience that was part of his condition. A soak in a bathtub to get all the dirt out of his wounds and a good night’s sleep would see him right. If he was fortunate, he’d get one of those.

He was damned lucky not to have suffered a broken bone. That bullet had come out of nowhere and he’d only had time to jerk to one side before it struck. The retort and the pain weren’t that far apart, so his attacker must have been close. A footpad? Maybe, but he hadn’t been robbed, and the ruffian had every opportunity to do so. He’d lost the contents of his saddlebags, but only because the horse had bolted.

No, someone had shot him for a different reason. The devil was, he didn’t know which one. Either because he was a Jacobite, or because he wasn’t. At the last inn, he’d ensured the landlord had seen the cockade when he’d asked for directions, so maybe the innkeepers weren’t pleased to see him. Certainly, the nag he’d allowed the landlord to fob him off with wasn’t the sprightly mount the landlord had promised. A lively mount, but only when a bullet zipped past its ear.

A mile wasn’t too far. Not when he’d been lying in that run-down hut for the best part of a day, blood seeping out of him. He’d been unconscious for half of it, and when he’d woken, one movement had told him his head was broken and he’d swum in and out of consciousness.

He had to get to shelter, whatever that was. Now he pushed away from the wall that threatened to collapse under his weight and took a step toward Emmy. “Shall we go?”

Unfortunately, he’d lost his practiced manner. He stumbled, and his words came out as a definite drawl. Like he’d been drinking French brandy all night. His head felt the same, full of heavy syrup.

Cursing to himself, he let her lead him out into the sunshine.

When had it stopped raining? During his ordeal, part of him had welcomed the rain as a way to irrigate the wound, but it had turned chilly, and he feared he might shiver himself to death. A horse stood outside, calmly cropping the grass. It had good bones but signs of age. Black with a white blaze on its forehead that vaguely resembled a white cockade. Appropriate. It was probably called Charles or James.

“I think you should ride the mile to the house,” she said.

“Dear lady, I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of your gallant steed.”

She turned to face him, studying him with a frankness that in other circumstances he’d enjoy. “I fear that if you don’t use the horse, you will fall over. I can’t pick you up. You are far too heavy for me.”

Yes, he was, and she was right. But she’d patched him up, so he wasn’t in danger of bleeding to death. A mile, she’d said. Hardly any distance at all.

But every step felt like he was lifting a ton of weight.

She walked toward a tree stump at the corner of the field. “You can mount here.”

“I don’t need a tree stump.” At times in his life, he’d lived on horses. Slept on them too. He could mount an average-sized docile gelding. Besides, the walk seemed too far. Grabbing the reins, he put his foot in the stirrup and prepared to swing his other leg over the saddle.

Except when he pushed up, something happened to his head, and while he gave his free leg the order to lift, it didn’t want to obey him.

The dizziness overwhelmed him, the grass becoming even greener, spinning, as if the horse had taken off and was cantering in circles. Just a rest, and then he’d complete the action.

Black edges at the corners of his eyes warned him what would happen next. With a silent prayer that he wouldn’t be unconscious for long, he fell forward, slumping over the saddle.

“Miss Imogen, your lady mother will be expecting you. Shall I take the…” Young George’s voice trailed off when he saw the burden Blackie was bearing.

Silently, Imogen opened her hand to reveal the scuffed, filthy white cockade. “I found him in that run-down hut near the highway. He’s been shot, George.” She wasn’t above using the loyalty of the Georges, young and old, especially now. She’d waited until the stable lad had run from the yard, probably, considering the hour, in search of his dinner, before she’d led Blackie around the corner and into Young George’s view. “Quick, George, help me get him out of sight.”

Young George touched his forelock. “Yes’m.’”

Not for the first time, Imogen had cause to be glad of Young George’s towering height and overpowering strength. Over six feet with a huge frame, he nevertheless could be quick when the occasion demanded it.

She knew exactly where she would take her captive, and she headed for a corner of her house, key in hand. Unlocking the small door, she waited impatiently for her servant to catch up.

Young George lifted Tony off the horse as if he weighed no more than a lamb. Tony flopped over Young George’s shoulder. All the way home, Imogen had paused to check the pulse in Tony’s wrist, terrified that utter collapse meant he would never wake.

He might be a Jacobite, but she meant him no harm, and if she’d left him there or informed someone in authority, they’d have locked him up. He’d have taken prison fever in a week. She couldn’t have lived with herself if that happened.

Imogen opened the door and waited for Young George to step through before she relocked it and dropped the key in her pocket. She followed him up the narrow wooden staircase that led to the highest room in the house, the Long Gallery that stretched across the front of the main building.