That Kind of Woman (33 page)

“Better,” Reggie called out. But he kept moving out of reach, leading Andrew on a merry chase, tiring him out while he, himself, seemed to have boundless energy. Then he would step in and pop off two, three, even four blows before moving back out of range.

Andrew wasn’t completely falling down on the job. He’d manage to get in a few shots of his own, and Reggie’s pretty face was showing signs of wear, even if his fight wasn’t. It didn’t seem to bother him, though. That’s what galled Andrew! Jesus, God, his hands felt like he’d been punching one of the stone columns lining Danford’s front entrance. His face was on fire and his torso was spotted by a series of pains that radiated outward across his ribs and chest.

Reggie spun to avoid another punch, and Andrew gave him a shot to the kidney, satisfied to at least get a sharp grunt of pain out of the man. He moved in again, then swore as his foot sank into a slight dip in the ground. His body pitched forward; right into a fist that was already flying toward his face at lightning speed.

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the grass. His jaw felt like it had come completely off its hinge, and he tested it gingerly. He could open his mouth. It hurt like hell, but he could open it.

Reggie was sitting next to him, one leg outstretched, the other bent. One arm rested across his knee, and he was panting.

“
Now
you’re out of breath, you son of a bitch?” Andrew muttered between his teeth.

“It was a good bit of exercise,” Reggie replied. He looked down at his hand and flexed it cautiously. “I don’t think I broke anything. You?”

Andrew slowly pulled himself up to sitting and lightly touched his nose. “You broke my fucking nose.”

“Sorry ‘bout that, old boy, but what with my life at stake and all, it seemed the best strategy.”

“You’re too damned fast,” Andrew admitted bitterly. His head was swimming, and he wasn’t entirely sure he could continue with the fight. It felt like he’d be lucky to get to his feet. “Just give me another second.”

“To do what?”

“Catch my breath. Bloody decent of you. If I’d had you on the ground I’d have killed you.”

“Ah, yes, well, that’s because you want me dead. Fortunately for you, I don’t feel the same way, or you would be.”

Andrew drew a ragged breath and started to rise.

“Stay on the ground, Andy, or I really will ruin that nose. Just listen for a moment, and then I’ll ride out of here, and you and I will pretend we don’t even know each other.”

The threat meant nothing. He didn’t give a damn about his nose; it was the black spots swarming in front of his face. Andrew sat back down.

“I would have thought you would understand, somewhat.”

“
Understand?
”

“What it’s like to be in love—truly in love. So deeply, passionately in love that nothing and no one else mattered.”

“What do you know of love, Toller?”

“A damned sight more than you; that’s clear. What in the hell is Miranda Carrington doing in Stafford?”

“Do not speak to me of Miranda!”

“Why not? The only man alive who wouldn’t fall in love with a woman like her is a dead one. Or a man like me.”

“This is about you and my brother, not you and Miranda.”

“Very well, then. Let us talk about your brother and me. We loved each other. For thirty years, we loved each other. I’m not going to apologize for that.”

Andrew lunged to his feet and swayed unsteadily. Before he could so much as put up his guard, Reggie’s fist slammed into his nose and sent him staggering backward again, blood pouring over the hands he cupped over it. The black spots turned into a thick cloud, and he sank to his knees.

“The way I see it,” Reggie continued, as soon as Andrew stopped swearing, “you get only one go-around in this world. We made each other happy, George and I. Certainly we could have followed all the rules. We could have turned away from each other all those years ago. George could have married Miranda or some other woman and forced himself to play the dutiful husband. And what would he have had when he lay on that bed dying?”

Andrew pulled his hands away and spit more blood. “His honor!”

“Honor? Is that what soldiers think of when they die on the battlefield, Major Carrington? With their last breath, do they moan of their joy in their honor?” He paused, and Andrew closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the pain in his face rather than the visions that crowded his brain. “No? Perhaps they breathe the names of the women they love, or from time to time, the men. The night before he died, the last face George looked upon was mine, and that was what
he
wanted! Live your life as you wish, Andrew. Keep your sacred honor. If you ask me, it’s a very cold bedfellow!”

Although he could hear Reggie’s footsteps move toward his horse, heard the creak of the saddle as Reggie mounted up, Andrew made no move to go after him. It wasn’t merely the pain and the dizziness. Andrew just didn’t hate him anymore. He didn’t give a damn about Reginald Toller or what had happened between Reggie and George. He just felt so damned sad. Caroline, the baby, George, and more friends than he had any desire to count—there were just so very many losses.

If he were to die right here and now (and the way he was feeling, the idea didn’t seem too far-fetched) what name would he whisper with his last breath?

Miranda.

“Put that glass down, Henry!”

Henry winced at the shrill tone of Emma’s voice. “Just a little something to loosen up before the race, Em,” he said. Why was everyone always after him about his drinking? It wasn’t as if he went around completely foxed all the time. He was a man. Men drank. Especially when they had been forced to leave London early because certain members of the family, namely Andy, had tired of the city.

“No!” Emma replied. “Oh, no, you don’t! When you lose, you are
not
going to blame it on the brandy!”

Rather than argue, he set the glass down on the tea table and glanced in the drawing room mirror. “And who says I am going to lose?” The new riding clothes he had purchased just before leaving London fit like a glove, and he thought of several young ladies who might have appreciated his attire were their destination Hyde Park. Bloody waste!

“
I
say you’ll lose! Especially if you keep preening like a peacock!”

He glared at her. “I’ll have you know I can cut a fine figure
and
beat you in a race all at the same time!”

“Then let’s be about it! Remember, if you lose, you must dance attendance on Miss Lucy Kramer at the Throckmorton’s party tomorrow.”

Henry gave an exaggerated shudder. Miss Kramer was Lady Throckmorton’s niece, a dull-witted, humorless country girl who took far too much pride in her iron-clad chastity. Amelia Throckmorton, their neighbors’ fresh-faced daughter, with her hint of country unruliness, was more to his taste. Best of all, since she was but seventeen and hadn’t yet come out, he needn’t worry that she might compare him to a host of other young bucks from wealthy families.

“I shall pass the time at the Throckmorton’s party luring someone far more interesting into the garden,” he proclaimed. “You, however, will pay your wager by wearing that ghastly creation my mother bought you to the festivities.” Since it was an informal country affair, Emma would be allowed to attend.

“Never!” Emma shouted. Then she laughed and bolted for the front door.

Henry followed, and the pair teased and taunted each other the whole way to the stable. The race had been a good idea, especially the wager, and Henry was proud to have thought of it. Em had been awfully sad ever since Randa had left London. It had reached the point that he was actually missing his niece’s usual mischief.

Andy’s mood was even worse. He had returned from a morning ride a few weeks earlier having been thrown by Napoleon. He’d broken his nose and several ribs, and that had been the end of London.

Today was a perfect autumn day, the sort that made rustic life tolerable. The leaves of the trees had turned to scarlet and orange, and the early afternoon air was crisp. The stable was warm and smelled of fresh hay and horses. After he had won the race, Henry thought, Emma would have to join him in a cup of warm apple cider and cinnamon, and he would torment her mercilessly about the dress until he finally excused her from her end of the bargain. As if he could bear to be seen at the gala with a member of his family in a gown of noxious green trimmed in lavender bows!

He mounted up and waited while the groom assisted Emma into her saddle. He would never have said as much to her, but she was growing into a beautiful young woman. The blue riding habit brought out the perfection of her skin and the blue of her eyes. He had no doubt he would have his hands full watching out for her when she had her coming out.

They teased and taunted each other all the way to the road where they were to begin the race; then Emma put up her hand and became very serious. “So that the piteous Miss Kramer may enjoy at least one gala with a dashing swain, I declare it time to begin the race.”

Henry fought to keep a straight face and replied, “So that my poor mother’s taste in gowns may—
hey
!”

Emma’s laugh floated behind her as her horse’s hooves thundered against the hard-packed dirt.

“What about ‘on your mark, get set’?” he cried, snapping his crop to his horse’s flank.

Perfect! Even if the insolent chit had cheated, it was a perfect day for a ride. He leaned down low over his mount’s neck, his body moving with the beast, the thrill of the speed racing through his blood. Within a few minutes, he overtook Emma, looking back just long enough to laugh while she snapped her crop and urged her own horse on. She fell farther behind, though, and Henry glued his eyes to the dark, dead oak tree at the side of the road that they had designated the finish line.

Then Henry heard Emma shriek, her horse whinny shrilly, and a dog yelp. He reined up hard and looked over his shoulder. Emma lay in a heap on the dirt road, her horse galloping hell-bent in the opposite direction, back toward the stables. Some tenant’s farm dog limped away through the flaming autumn trees on the side of the road. The only sounds were Henry’s breathing and the fading rumble of Emma’s horse as it ran. For a moment, it all seemed unreal, like part of a dream.

“Emma!” he called, turning his horse around and riding toward her. “Emma, are you all right?”

She didn’t move, and it seemed to Henry that the once-crisp air had gone frigid. He reached her side and leapt from the saddle, kneeling next to her. The roses that had bloomed on her cheeks just minutes ago when he had passed her were gone. She was deathly white, her eyes were closed, and when he lifted her head, blood ran from somewhere above her hairline down over her temple and onto her cheek.

“Em?” He lifted her farther up and leaned her against his chest. He rested one hand lightly on her breast and felt the reassuring beat of her heart. When he shifted her weight, her head moved, and he saw that the blood she left behind had soaked his jacket in just the few seconds she had rested there. “Oh, God, Em, wake up! Oh, God!”

He wanted to cry, just hold her against him and burst into tears. “I wouldn’t have made you wear it, I swear,” he whispered against her hair.

The dark stain spread through the blond strands, and it hit Henry that if he did not get up and get both of them onto his horse, Emma could die.

He lifted her carefully, refusing to look at the dark red liquid that seeped downward and dripped onto the collar of her smart, expensive riding habit. First, he laid her facedown across the back of his horse, then he mounted up and pulled her to sitting in front of him, although she nearly slipped from his grasp several times in the process. Eventually, he had her placed in such a way that he could hold her up and ride at the same time. Throughout the whole precarious sequence, she never so much as moaned or winced. Again, he placed his hand over her heart, and nearly wept with relief to feel it beating.

He walked the horse at first, but it was too slow. A trot seemed to jolt Emma unmercifully. Finally, he settled on a canter, keeping a crushing grip across her shoulders, squeezing her to his chest, her head leaning back against his shoulder, his own heart pounding against her. Despite the pace, it seemed like hours before he saw the stables in the distance where two grooms tried to calm Emma’s horse and get a hold of its reins.

“Help!” he shouted. “Help!” They were closing the distance, but so slowly it seemed.

The grooms rushed out to meet him, and together they moved Emma carefully to the house while the head groom rode to fetch the nearest doctor. A stable boy was given a fast mount and sent to one of the outlying farms, where the earl had ridden to meet with the tenant.

Through the long wait by Emma’s bed, Henry pressed a cloth tightly to Emma’s wound. He kept his jaw clamped shut, opening his mouth only to provide the most cursory answers to his mother’s hysterical questions. Lettie had fallen to pieces the moment she had entered the room and seen all that blood.

Henry barely noticed her. In his mind he was chanting, over and over,
Please, God, don’t let her die; please, God, don’t let her die…

*

Andrew would have berated Eggers’ lad when he burst through the farmhouse door, but the boy’s face was ashen and he was gasping for breath.

“L-Lord Danford…it’s Miss Emma…she’s been injured!”

Andrew bolted from behind the kitchen table, where he had been accepting the tenants’ modest hospitality. The young husband and wife could only blink at each other in fretful surprise.

“What?” he demanded. “Where is she?”

“They brought her back to Danford. The doctor is being summoned.”

He was out the door, still talking, the boy on his heels. “What happened?”

“She took a fall from her horse.”

He mounted his own horse, nearly flying into the saddle. “How badly was she hurt?”

“She is unconscious, my lord. Your brother brought her home. He’s sure to know more.”

Tight-lipped, Andrew whipped his horse into a full run. It was several miles back to the manor. The doctor lived in the village and was sure to arrive before he did. Thank God for that. Still, it was the longest ride of his life. The moment he arrived at the stables, he flung himself to the ground and tossed the reins to the fretful stable boy.