Jaded Moon (Ransomed Jewels Book 2) (12 page)

Josie leaned down and kissed Lady Clythebrook on the cheek, then walked from the room.

Yes, let the game begin. Thirty days made four weeks. Eight matches at two hours each equaled a total of sixteen hours. She smiled. She’d put in longer days at the orphanage and survived. Surely she could survive this with no trouble.

…

Ross leaned against a boulder and watched the waves roll to shore. The moon was full and bright and the water was calm now, the waves lapping against the rocks with a soft, gentle slapping sound that soothed him deep down to his soul. Below him were dozens of caves but from his earlier investigations, only one or two of them were large enough for the smugglers to store shipments of opium. And he was standing directly over their entrances.

He crossed his arms over his chest and thought about his conversation with Lady Clythebrook and Josephine Foley earlier. The evening had gone much better than he’d anticipated. He’d hoped to convince the local landowners his plan would benefit them. Just as he hoped that Lady Clythebrook would see the advantages of joining with him in the venture. But never had he anticipated that having to spend two days a week with Miss Foley would be part of the bargain. Especially when the agreement included that he educate her in how to protect herself against men exactly like himself.

He’d nearly laughed out loud when Lady Clythebrook had first announced what she wanted him to do. At the time it had seemed like a lark. An enjoyable lark, but a lark nonetheless. Now he wasn’t so sure. The thought of spending even one hour with Josephine Foley in the moonlight caused his body to react with a fiery heat that reached to the marrow of his bones. He didn’t want to think what might happen the first time he pulled her in his arms to practice the waltz. Or the next time he couldn’t stop himself from kissing her.

Ross stepped closer to the edge of the cliff and stared out onto the water. Thirty days made four weeks. Eight visits at two hours each equaled a total of sixteen hours. Ross swiped his hand across his jaw in frustration.
Sixteen bloody hours.
His enjoyable lark could turn into a torture unlike anything he’d ever imagined.

He shook his head then turned around to go back. A twig snapped to his right and he stopped short. He wasn’t sure how he knew he was in danger, but the warning came through with vivid clarity. He darted in the direction of the boulder, but a sharp burning pain knifed through him before he reached it. He clutched his side and stumbled forward but a second shot took him to his knees. His shoulder burned like someone had stuck a blazing poker through his flesh and he dropped to the ground.

Escape was impossible. His chest heaved with each breath he took. He crawled behind the boulder and pressed his back against the hard rock. A heavy sheen of perspiration dotted his forehead and he swiped at the wetness with the back of his hand. He reached for the pistol he’d tucked into his jacket pocket and raised himself up, then fired two quick shots in the direction he thought the assassin was hiding. His shots weren’t returned.

Wave after wave of nauseating pain slashed through him and he sank back against the rock until the earth stopped spinning around him. Another stabbing pain sliced through him and he clutched his fingers around the flesh at his upper left arm. His hand came away sticky and wet.

The full moon was to his advantage, large and bright, lighting up the area all around him. He prayed it held another miracle. The air was turning colder by the second but the pain seemed more tolerable now. He hardly felt any of the sharp stabs that had buckled his legs beneath him.

He put his hand to his side and pressed hard, praying the warm, sticky liquid would stop oozing through his fingers. Then he prayed that whoever had shot him would make a move before he lost consciousness.

Neither happened.

Ross concentrated on the sounds around him. Everything was quiet. Even the birds and animals were burrowed deep in their hiding places or they’d been frightened away by the gunshots. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.

Ross closed his eyes. In his hazy, pain-filled darkness, he realized that whoever had shot him had left him to die.

He tried to picture a bright-eyed little boy with dark hair the color of his own, but couldn’t. Even the moon which had been so full and bright only moments ago now seemed to show only its dark side. And as darkness consumed him, he thought of Josephine Foley and said a silent prayer that somehow she’d find it in her heart to take care of his son so he wouldn’t grow up alone and unloved.

He pictured how she’d looked earlier that night. And he was lost to the darkness.

Damn him!

Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

Josie stormed down the back pathway that led away from Clythebrook Manor, then marched past the vegetable garden and through the orchard next to the stables. She looked up at the damnably full, “magical” moon and made her way across an open meadow, calling the Marquess of Rainforth every black and diabolical name she could come up with. This was all his fault. And the worst was yet to come.

Somehow he’d managed to convince Lady Clythebrook that if she went along with his venture, Clythebrook Estate and the children at the orphanage would never go without again. And Josie only had this one last shipment and she and the children would be at his mercy. A nobleman. A man who couldn’t be counted on to provide for the children any more than her mother had been able to count on the nobleman who’d fathered her.

Damn him
! Why couldn’t he have left well enough alone? It wasn’t that St. Stephen’s Hollow needed this new venture to survive. Why couldn’t he have continued to ignore his estate as he’d done his whole life?

Oh, how she wished he’d never have come. How she wished he’d never kissed her. Or held her. Or looked at her with eyes so warmly silver she thought she was drowning when she looked into them. Oh, how she wished he hadn’t stirred the traitorous emotions that betrayed her right now. Emotions she knew she could never allow to surface.

She marched through the dewy meadow and approached the cliffs where the marquess intended to graze his cattle. She swore that when she got her hands on him she’d make him suffer for the trouble he’d caused her. If he thought she was going to meekly submit to Lady Clythebrook’s plan to educate her in the nefarious schemes of the nobility to ruin innocent ladies, he was sadly mistaken. The next four weeks were going to be the longest weeks of his life. And the most frustrating.

An animal snorted close by and Josie stopped. The sound was out of place. She wasn’t anywhere near the few livestock the closest tenants kept. But a horse, still saddled, stood ahead of her, contentedly munching on tender shoots of grass.

She recognized the horse instantly, but its owner was nowhere to be seen. The fact that it was loose this close to the caves only raised her fury.

Damn him
! Couldn’t the man give her the thirty days she’d been promised? Did he have to come before daybreak on the very night he’d won Lady Clythebrook over to his side? Was he that impatient to make more calculations about how to best utilize the land that he had to traipse the grounds in the pre-dawn dark? What if this were the night the shipment had been scheduled to come in? He’d have seen everything!

Josie stepped to where the horse chomped on the tall grass and grabbed its reins. She’d been given thirty days and that’s what she’d demand from him. If he didn’t like it, he could forfeit the whole venture.

By the time Josie had convinced the big bay to follow her, her temper was as close to exploding as it had ever been. She marched across the meadow toward the cliffs where she knew he’d be—but stopped short when she saw his crumpled body lying in the tall grass.

She dropped the reins and raced toward him, saying a prayer she desperately wanted God to hear.

“Lord Rainforth, can you hear me?”

He was deathly pale, or maybe it was just the silver glow of the moon shining on his face, but Josie didn’t think so. She knelt beside him, hoping he’d just fallen from his horse and had the air knocked out of him. She knew the minute she pressed her hand against his forehead and felt his cold, clammy flesh he hadn’t.

“My lord?”

She put her hand beneath his head and examined his scalp. When she could find no bump, she focused her attention elsewhere. With trembling hands she unbuttoned his jacket and spread the material wide. The light from the moon illuminated the large dark spot that covered the left side of his shirt at his waist.

Josie ripped at her petticoat, tearing huge strips of material and haphazardly folding them into large squares. Next, she gently lifted his shirt away from the wound. The minute she touched him, he moaned and tried to pull away.

“Lie still,” she said, pressing one hand against the wound and the other against his shoulder to keep him steady.

He turned his head and looked at her through pain-filled eyes.

“Miss…Foley?”

“Don’t talk. There’s a cottage not far from here. You’ll be better once I can see how badly you’re hurt.”

“Not bad,” he moaned, but from the amount of blood soaking the cloth at his side, she wasn’t so sure.

“I’m sure you’re right, but I won’t know until I check. Put your arm around my shoulder and I’ll help you up.”

“I’m too heavy. Go for…help.”

“And leave you here? I hardly think so.”

Josie didn’t give him a chance to argue further, but eased his arm around her shoulder and helped him sit. Even though she didn’t think the bullet was still in him, she had to get the wound cleaned and sewed and the bleeding stopped.

She fought the painful lump that knotted in the pit of her stomach. His skin was already cold and clammy, and there was always the threat of fever. But he was young and healthy. That was to his advantage. If she could stop the bleeding soon enough.

She helped him sit, then raised him up. He was heavy but at least he was conscious and could help her.

“I brought your horse. Can you mount?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

Josie held out the leather stirrup and guided his foot into the strap. With an agonizing moan, he pulled himself up.

His breathing was labored now, every gasp heavy and jagged. The color of his face seemed paler and he dropped his head back to breathe in a heavy sigh while and clutched the saddle with both hands.

“Hold on,” she said, leading the horse toward Granny Farland’s cottage. “I don’t want you to fall off.”

“I … won’t.”

Josie led the horse across the meadow, then the short way into the wood. Twice she had to call out to him when he slipped to the side. With a muffled moan he righted himself. The concentration she saw on his face was heart-wrenching and she pushed the horse to move faster.

“We’re almost there,” she said, making their way across the meadow. She could see the cottage just ahead and quickened her steps.

“Granny Farland’s not here right now because Matilda—her daughter—is expecting her fourth babe and she’s gone to help.”

“Will she mind…”

“If she does, you can always turn on your charm. That seems to work quite well for you.”

“It hasn’t seemed to work on you.”

She reached up to help him dismount and he placed his hands on her shoulders. “I’m immune. Now, let’s get you down before you fall.”

He took a deep breath and slid to the ground.

His torso fell against her and she staggered under his weight. But she stayed steady on her feet.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him close. He was weaker that he’d been earlier and a sharp stab of concern raced through her. She placed his arm across her shoulders and helped him through the gate that led to the house.

The door to Granny’s cottage was unlatched and she propped him against the wall while she went in to light a lamp. When the room was bright, she brought him into the cottage and sat him on a chair beside the bed.

“Did you see who shot you?”

“No.”

She took off his boots and removed his jacket and waistcoat, then lifted his shirt over his head and looked at his wounds. The one at his upper arm wasn’t as bad as she’d first thought, only a graze, but the one at his waist was worse.

“Hold this against your side,” she ordered, pressing a cloth against his ribs. “This will need to be stitched.”

He attempted a smile. “How are you at needlework?”

“Passable.” She started a fire and put some water on to boil. “I haven’t sewn any pant legs together in more than a week now.”

“I’m glad to hear that because—”

His words died when another wave of pain gripped him. Josie rushed to check Granny’s cupboards for a bottle of whiskey. When she found one, she filled a glass nearly full and handed it to him. “Drink this,” she said, then retrieved a needle and thread from the sewing basket by the hearth. “All of it.”

When he drank what was in the glass, she filled it again and handed it back.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Is it working?”

He drained the glass. “Afraid not. I’m a hardened drinker, you know. All rakes are.”

“I should have known that.”

She smiled at his slurred words then eased him over to the bed. “The bullet went all the way through. You’re lucky whoever shot you wasn’t terribly good.”

“They were good enough,” he whispered, then sucked in a harsh breath when she dabbed at his flesh with a damp cloth.

“What on earth were you doing out there in the middle of the night?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Next time, try counting sheep. It’s safer.”

“I’ll remember that.”

She helped him lie on his side and lifted the whiskey bottle over the wound to cleanse it. “This is going to sting,” she said, placing her hand on his shoulder to hold him steady. “Try not to move.”

She heard him take a shuddering breath as she poured the whiskey.

He was braver than Josie thought it was possible for anyone to be. He gripped the wood frame of Granny Farland’s bed until his knuckles turned white while she poured a generous amount over his wounds. Huge beads of perspiration dotted his forehead, then ran in heavy rivulets onto the pillow. Josie ignored the blue words he uttered beneath his breath. She didn’t know what most of them meant, but thought they must be very bad indeed. They sounded even worse than the words Banks used the time he slammed his fingers in the front door.

When she was sure the wound was clean, she picked up the needle and thread and moved to his side. His fingers clamped around her wrist, his grip evidencing a strength she didn’t think he had.

“If something happens and I don’t—”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“I know. But just in case.”

The look in his eyes held a desperation she couldn’t ignore. “What do you need?”

“There’s a trust set up for the boy. It’s in Mrs. Gardner’s name. See that he gets it.”

She nodded.

“Then contact my cousin…Major Samuel Bennett. Take the boy to him. I don’t want Charlie to grow up…thinking no one wanted him.”

Josie swallowed hard.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Thank you. Now, let’s get this … over with. I know how much … you’re going to enjoy this.”

With a heavy sigh, he dropped his head against the pillow and closed his eyes. Josie blinked back the blurred wetness in her eyes and deftly sewed the gaping flesh at his side.

She was glad when she finished, as much for his sake as her own. This was far from the first time she’d had to stitch someone’s flesh together, but never had it been someone whose touch caused her breath to stop. Never before had it been someone whose nearness caused her heart to ache with a longing she didn’t understand.

When she looked up, his eyes were closed and his breathing had slowed.

“I didn’t enjoy it at all,” she whispered, pulling the covers over his shoulders.

She pushed an errant lock of mahogany hair from his forehead and sat in a chair beside the bed to keep watch for a fever she prayed wouldn’t come.

…

Josie sat in the chair where she’d been the last several hours and sipped the last of the tea she’d brewed earlier. He still slept, thankfully more peacefully than he had during the night.

Josie studied the strong features of his face, the high cheekbones and sharp angles of his jaw. They were ruggedly handsome features, as magnificently hewn as if patterned after perfection. But it wasn’t only what she saw on the outside that drew her to him. His inner strength also served as a magnet, pulling her constantly toward him. Giving her one small glimpse after another of what it might be like if she would, for just one small second, give in to him. If she would, just one time, give over her worries and responsibilities for him to carry. But of course she would not.

She
could
not.

He was a member of the nobility and could never be trusted. Her mother had made that mistake as had countless other women whose children had been raised in the orphanage. Women who’d given in to a man’s handsome features and sweet words had been left with a babe growing in their bellies and a future that promised nothing but heartache and disgrace. Josie’s own life had been a living example of how cruelly a man could use a woman. And how easily a man—especially a member of the nobility—could abandon the child he’d created. And yet…

The Marquess of Rainforth’s last thought before he succumbed to the pain was for his child. There was a trust fund already in place for him and if the marquess didn’t survive, he’d made her promise to take Charlie to his cousin, Major Samuel Bennett. If Rainforth didn’t care about his son, why would he have gone to such lengths to provide for him?