Stand and Deliver Your Love (7 page)

  Chapter Seven

“I told you not to stay here with that black'ard! Why did you untie him?”

Byron cringed at the sound of Bert's voice.
So that is who hit me.

“I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, besides I had the situation well under control.”

He laughed inwardly at Sarah's claim.
Far from the truth. The whole situation is most definitely out of control.

Bert snorted. “Yeah, sure you did. Did not look like it to me.”

At least that was something they could both agree on. Byron made to touch his throbbing head and hush the loud voices that caused even more discomfort, but his hand stopped half way to his head. He tried unsuccessfully to lift it further. Groaning he slowly opened his eyes.

Sarah stood defiantly glaring at the older man. “I had the gun in case you failed to notice.”

“No doubt the libertine would have taken it, and had his way with you.” Bert shook his head, his disbelief plain to see.

Byron looked up and realized his arm was tied to the bedpost. How long had he been out? He glared at Bert as realization of the man’s words dawned on him. “I would not! What do you take me for?” He turned his glare to Sarah.

She scowled at him, but backed up a step nonetheless. “You would expect me to believe you would do me no harm, yet you attacked a defenseless little boy?”

Byron’s voice rose with his mounting anger at her unjustness. “I did not attack the little wretch!” His head throbbed even harder. Closing his eyes for a brief
second he struggled to regain control of his temper. Perhaps it was best to change his tactic. “I am sorry I frightened you. I believed the boy stole my watch.”

Sarah glared at him. “You were shaking him.”

“I was not. I was trying to get my watch back and the boy bit me.” He gestured with his head to the vivid set of teeth marks on his arm. “See?”

Sarah glanced at his arm, and then crossed hers across her chest. “Well, you must have deserved it.”
 

Byron rolled his eyes. “About as much as I have deserved
being knocked unconscious, not once, but twice by that big brute of yours.” He cast Bert a vicious look that was returned with the same malice. He sighed. “I just wanted my pocket watch back. Now can you please untie my arm?”

“If the woman unties you I’ll not be held accountable for my actions,” Bert grumbled from the other side of the room.

Sarah turned to the boy who was still sniffling in the corner. “Dickie, did you take his lordship’s watch?”

The boy glanced
at Byron as a few tears slipped from his red eyes and ran down

his tear-
stained cheeks. After a moment he nodded and hiccupped. Byron gave Sarah a vindicated grin which she ignored.

She sighed. “Why did you take the watch, Dickie?”

The boy looked down at the floor. “I wanted to see the pretty watch. I jus' wanted to practice telling time so you could see I was learning my studies good. I was gonna give it back.”

“It is ‘learning your studies well,’ not good,” Sarah corrected. She crossed the room to where the little boy stood and gave him a hug. “Next time when yo
u see something you would like to borrow, you must ask the owner of the object’s permission, all right sweetheart?”

The little boy nodded, giving her a watery smile.

She smiled. “Now, would you please apologize to the marquis?”

The litt
le boy looked at Byron his eyes wide with fear. Swallowing, he pulled himself up straight then put his hands behind his back. “I'm so very sorry, sir, um, my lord. It'll not happen again.”

Byron managed a scant smile through his headache. “You are forgiven, Dickie.” When the boy didn’t look at all convinced of the fact, Byron added, “You may borrow the wa
tch anytime you wish to practice telling time.” He was rewarded with a tentative smile. Bert placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Come on, Dickie. Help me bed the horses down for the night.” He headed for the door, pausing to give Byron a look that could wither even the sturdiest of vegetation. The boy followed him solemnly and the door slammed shut behind the two.

Byron cleared his throat. “Could you untie me now?”

Sarah eyed him warily.

He beseeched her with his most charming smile. “Please? I already explained I did not intend to harm the boy.”

“You never said you did not intend to harm me,” she snipped.

Byron sighed. “If I wanted to harm you, mistress, I would have done so long ago. My head is pounding and I would like a glass of something strong to drink. Have Bert saddle my horse, then point me in the direction of London, and I will be on my way.”

She crossed her arms over her chest again. “I cannot do that.”

Exasperated, he clenched his jaw and ground out his query. “Why not?”

Tilting her head she regarded him with obvious annoyance. “You would tell the king about me as soon as you reached London.”

He gave her his most trustworthy look. “If I give you my word as a gentleman, would you let me go?”

Sarah crossed to the bedside with a thoughtful expression as if trying to decide if he was sincere or not. “What if I were to tell you I found documents in your overturned carriage exposing you as a thief.”

Byron narrowed his eyes and pondered her carefully for a moment. The only way she could have known about those documents was if she had indeed found them. However if she
read them carefully she would have realized the documents couldn't be used against him personally, only his family name. Maybe he should tell her what the documents really contained.

Better yet, should he pretend to give into her blackmail and see just how far she would go? How much she would give to protect her beloved orphans? Would she give him what he had wanted since he had first seen her gloriously naked in the old tin tub? A tension began to build in his loins and he shifted lest she see the noticeable twitch under the bedclothes.

“What is it you want?”

 
“I want you to swear to me you will never breathe a word about me or my activities as long as you have breath in your body,” she said firmly, without looking him in the eye.

“I already pledged to do so. Is that all?”

“No. I need three hundred pounds to pay the rents for the next year. I am sure that is nothing more than a small wager for you at your club,” she said, with a disgusted look.

“All right, agreed. Now will you kindly untie me before that salty old bodyguar
d comes back in here and decides to shoot a helpless man?”

“Helpless! You were not exactly helpless earl
ier when you tried to attack me.” Despite her crass reply she bent and untied his hand.

“Nearly so, and I did not attack you. I was defending myself.”

Putting her hands on her hips, she gave him a wounded look which made him want to pull her down and kiss her haughty lips. “Defending yourself from what exactly?”

He chuckled before he pointed out the folly of her words. “Need I remind you, it was you and not I, who had the gun?” Sarah’s lovely mouth snapped shut and she turned away, busying herself preparing a pot of hot tea.

  Byron sat up and felt his head. Already a large goose egg was forming.
Damn that old sea dog!

“I brought you some of your clothes.”

“It will certainly be nice not to have to make my way to the privy in a sheet,” he drawled, hoping she caught his sarcastic intent.

When he received no response he contented himself by studying the provocative sway of her hips as she moved back and forth, from the hearth to the shelf and her medicine bag. All he had been able to think about this afternoon, despite the gun pointed at his chest, was how much he wanted to taste her lips and explore every region of her shapely body with his own. He memorized her soft curves curled close to his the night before, and had lain there trying to still his desire to make her his own.

He shook his head, his own what—mistress? He didn't expect her to be open to that scandalous idea and he certainly didn't want o
r need a wife. He groaned.
Have I taken complete leave of my senses? How hard did the old man hit me anyway? Obviously hard enough to knock all reason from my mind! I love Clarissa.
He tried to picture her, but for some unfathomable reason he couldn't conjure her face in his mind.
Is it possible I am suffering from some sort of memory loss due to the recent blow to my head?

“Does your head hurt?”

“Of course it does,” Byron snapped. Did his head hurt? At least the woman had a grasp of the obvious. What didn’t hurt at this point, he thought grimly. He scowled at her. Her gaze was remorseful and because of that, he took care to temper the rest of his reply. “Last time I had a headache this bad was the night my father left and I overindulged in port.”

“Your father left? Why?”

“It is a long story.”

“It seems to me we have a lot of time.”

Byron didn't know why, but he was suddenly compelled to share the pain in his life with her even though he never had the urge to do so with any other. He began to talk without really knowing what he was saying, or caring what she thought of him, or his tale. “Three years ago, I met Clarissa at a ball. At my father’s insistence, I began courting her. She was sweet and innocent—I guess I lost my heart to her right away. My father pressured me to propose to her because she had a sizable dowry. He felt he could satisfy his creditors with it until his investments bore fruit. He was heavily in debt you see, and his cousin who repeatedly lent him money in the past refused to bail him out any further.”

Byron paused to accept the cup of willow bark tea Sarah handed him. He took a slow sip and continued. “Not long after our engagement ball, a balloonist came to Vauxhall Gardens. Clarissa begged me to take her up in the balloon. Everyone assured us it was perfectly safe. A sudden violent storm sprang up and a bolt of lightning hit the balloon while we were aboard. It caught on fire and we crashed to the ground. I escaped with a broken leg
—Lady Clarissa ended up unable to walk. When the physician told her she would be crippled for life and unable to have children, she killed herself.”

“I am terribly sorry. That must have been horrible.”

Byron took a couple more sips of the tea and set the cup on the floor by the cot. “My father disappeared shortly after, leaving me with a mountain of debt and some very angry creditors.” He began to cough.

Sarah sat
on the edge of the cot and peeled back the cold mustard plaster. “I will make you a fresh one to help ease your breathing.”

Byron reached out covering her hand as the coughing fit subsided. “Thank you.”

She smiled at him and removed her hand from his. He watched as she stood and hurried to make a new compress. It took her but minutes and she was back perching carefully on the edge of the cot spreading the horrible smelling concoction across his chest. Leaning back he relaxed, enjoying her touch as her fingers rubbed the warm paste back and forth along his lung region.

“For what it is worth, I suppose your reasons for stealing are not so different from my own,”
she commented.

Byron was intrigued. “How is that?”

Sarah looked him in the eye and gave him a lopsided grin. “I was not always as poor as a church mouse.”

“You steal from the rich. How poor can you be unless of course you are not very good at it?” he drawled.

“Apparently I am not very adept at robbing coaches. Lady Willbrook’s was my first attempt and, well, we both know how that turned out.” She sighed. “I do not intend to keep the money for myself. I would give all I take to the orphans. You see, I grew up in a wealthy home, but just after my coming-out ball my parents were killed in a carriage accident. A distant cousin was all the family I had left, so I went to live with her. It was not long before I discovered she spent most of my inheritance buying herself a wealthy husband. Shortly afterward I became sick.

“
She had been putting small amounts of poison in my food. When she could not kill me fast enough, she placed me in a small convent. When I recovered, the money for my care stopped coming, so I had to go to a workhouse. There were mostly children in the workhouse. Instead of being able to help them I ended up more or less as one of them.” A single tear slid from her eye and trickled down her face.

Byron reached up and gently wiped it away with his thumb. “That must have been truly terrible for you to endure.”

She turned her face away, trying to hide her hurt, but he could still hear it tainting her words. “Not for me, the work did not bother me. What was terrible was how those poor children suffered. Imagine never having a hot meal, a bath or someone to hug and kiss you good night. Many had just a cold, filthy gutter to sleep in and an empty stomach. I wanted to do something to help them. I tried to plead the children’s plight to the better off in society who all treated me like a leper. They did not care about anyone or anything besides themselves. I attempted to find honest employment, but without references or skills no one would hire me.”