Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (8 page)

That was the direction they were
headed now, if things didn't move along. Heels bit into his ribs, and Alexandra
dragged herself half into his lap.

An air current shifted, pulling
back into the bed chamber and softly rattling the parlor window.

Olivia
.

Giving silent thanks, he ran a hand
along Alexandra's calf, praying they were nearly done.

*          *          *

Olivia exhaled when the bedroom
door sprang open under a breeze, smacking her with stale air. Rather than
annoyance, she felt a wave of sympathy for Ty. It would take a great deal of
persuasion and probably some coin to convince her even to lie near such a
smell, let alone touch it. She quickened her pace.

A door between the bedroom and
antechamber stood wide open, making her privy to Ty's exchanges with Alexandra.
It also would make her visible to them.
This was going to take some doing.
Dropping to her knees, she shuffled to the edge of the bed, lifted the yellow
satin dust ruffle and peered underneath. Nothing.

She tugged each white porcelain
handle of the bedside table drawers, rifling inside. It was filled with the
usual pocket tailings: perfume, handkerchiefs, and a few coins. Folded papers,
but she doubted anything valuable would be so close at hand. Stuffing them into
her jacket, she crawled the length of a pink and blue Persian rug, stopping at
the foot of the bed.

“No, no.” Ty's voice rose above a
murmur. “Stay here. Mm, just so.”

A pink silk slipper sailed in
through the door, bounced off of the foot board and nearly caught her in the
face; a warning from Ty.

Alexandra screeched. “Not my knees,
monsieur!”

Olivia crouched, still until she
caught a rustle and a sigh. She continued around the bed, pausing to lean
forward, getting a look out into the parlor.

Alexandra's head lolled against the
back of a gaudy floral sofa. Ty leaned over her, one hand grasping its back,
one knee on the cushion. He looked comically huge compared to the tiny bit of
furniture. A hand clutched Alexandra's naked thigh to his hip. With his mouth
he was doing something near her neck which resembled a pig rooting for
truffles, desperate to inhale against a permeating odor.

Catching sight of her, his eyes
widened to desperate circles. His lips worked without sound:
Help me.

Hands grabbed at his collar and
coat sleeves, pinched his waistband. If she didn't hurry up, Alexandra would
have Ty peeled and skewered whether he wished it or not.

Olivia held up two fingers for his
benefit, darting past the doorway. Against the far wall, positioned between a
window and a small cherry writing desk, was a shoulder high cabinet. Painted
white and trimmed in gold gilt, the box was an abomination of carmine roses,
pastel green leaves, and strutting peacocks. Fishing in her bodice, she grasped
the iron skeleton key she'd cast a week earlier and stood, testing it in the
lock. A mechanism clicked and one door shuddered, wafting a hint of cedar to
her nose over the stink of Alexandra's room.

So many compartments
. Small
ones, for letters, a narrow slot for travel papers and a bankbook, square
drawers for a collection of jewel boxes. She grabbed every envelope in sight,
then tugged free a writing case, a pale blue wooden box painted with black
scrolls and had a fleur-de-lis embossed prominently atop the lid. Flicking up
its latch, she opened the case and smiled. She didn't need to read the names,
the addresses. Years of examining, sometimes forging Talleyrand's handwriting
told her she'd found her prize.

Tucking the thin box under her arm,
she darted back across the room, pausing just long enough to signal Ty, whose
shirt was creased and half off. His eyes rolled over silent lips: 'Thank God.'

Back to the door, through the guest
chamber the way she'd come in. Instead of being discreet this time, Olivia
thudded her way down the steps, yanking free a portrait on the landing. “Oh
dear. How clumsy.” She kicked it along ahead of her, insuring it tumbled down
the steps, garnering maximum attention, Osipova’s included. It was her means of
creating a distraction and paroling Ty. Voices rose from farther back in the
house, echoing up the kitchen stairs.

In the entryway, she swept a hand
across the surface of a half-moon table, toppling candlesticks and breaking a
vase. With a sound kick, she drove the table to the marble, sending it bouncing
and clattering further into the house.

Olivia ran just until she gained
the steps, taking her time from there and joining a stream of passersby coming
and going along the walk out front. Blubbering reached her ears from the open
window above, Alexandra shrieking something about a jealous lover – Talleyrand.

Ty's voice reached her, brimming
with fabricated indignation. “By God, I'll have his neck for barging in here!”

“No, no monsieur!”

“I'll avenge you, madame. Wait here
and lock your door. If anything...”

She was too far away, laughing too
hard to pick out anything else over the bustling crowd. Olivia dashed for the
carriage where a coachman helped her in. She settled just in time to see a
disheveled Ty barrel out into the street yelling like a lunatic. Smiling, she
leaned, tapping at her driver. “Around to the alley, if you please. Stop when
you see the madman.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Olivia smacked a letter against the
table top. “Stop complaining!”

An arm draped over his eyes, Ty wrestled
deeper onto the couch, getting as much boot heel as possible up onto its arm.
“It sodding hurts, Olivia!”

It did, she had no doubt. But Ty
had been intractable all evening, testing her patience, bellyaching at every
opportunity. She examined another letter, dropping it onto one of their lower
priority stacks, and turned back to him. “Who impales themselves on a table
leg?”

His arm came up, revealing a glare
hot enough to boil water. “Who
throws
a table in a fleeing man's way?”

Waving a hand, she shook her head
to conceal a poorly timed giggle. “Just...stop complaining. If you're not going
to let anyone look at it, then hush.”

“I am sorry that my discomfort is a
burden,
madam
. It seemed unwise, revealing my
table leg
shaped
injury to any local physician.”

“Well...” He had her there. If
Osipova went to Talleyrand or the authorities, people would be watching for a
potential culprit. But still, he was being stubborn. She drained her tea cup
and clanked it against the saucer. “Well, I could have helped you, but you
didn't ask.”
So there
.

“You didn't
offer
,” he
drawled, succumbing at last to the gin.

“Well, I'm offering now. Mostly so
you'll stop moaning.” She felt terrible for having injured him, and had his
accusations not bordered on theatrics, she would have apologized hours earlier.
Probably. “Sit up and let me fix you, or go to bed.”

“Fine,” he bit back.

“Fine. Excellent.
Sublime
.”
She checked the urge to poke out her tongue.

Ty's laugh surprised her. His hand
flew up, clutching his torn flank, but he went right on laughing. “Dimples, if
you were a man, we might have come to blows by now.”

Tension unlaced, and she slid
deeper into her chair, smiling. “We still may.”

One hand flew up. “Wait until I'm
patched up. Give a man a fighting chance.”

“I accept your terms. Now come on,
up with you. Let's go have a look at your scratch.”

Not that she was looking forward to
it. Cutting a man open was, for no rational reason, less stomach-churning than
putting him back together. Killing a man was a simple matter, but fixing one?

She stood and held out a hand,
waiting until Ty wrangled and maneuvered himself into a sitting position, all
the while clutching a bandage beneath his shirt. With one foot braced on the
rug, the other on the sofa, she hauled him up.

He searched her face with a narrow
gaze. “Where are we going?”

“Whoo!” Fanning away his breath,
she pretended to cough. “Upstairs. There's some gut twine and needles in a kit
under the bed.”

His brow arched. “How do you know
that?”

“Because I put them there, in the event
I finally succumb and sew your mouth shut.”

He pointed a finger, pressing the
end of her nose. “
You
are going to stitch me up?”

“Mmhmm.”

Leaning past her with a groan, he
snatched the bottle of gin from her table and held it aloft. “Very well. Let's go.”

She snatched for the bottle,
impressed by how quickly he lifted it out of reach. Sighing, she pointed to the
door. “Forward march, soldier. Up you go. And no more down your gullet till I
know you can make it up the stairs.”

That earned her a jaunty little
salute, and he shuffled past out into the hall.

*          *          *

The safe house was certainly not
palatial, and in some ways functional at best. As she lit the lamp, however,
Olivia was reminded that the place was
cozy
. The décor was plain: white
walls, wood plank floors. Their room was small, as bed chambers went. You could
lie in bed and nearly stick a hand inside the firebox – an observation that
reminded her to double check the quilt before turning in. Worn planks were
covered by a thick but unattractive Persian rug whose scratchy pile warmed her
feet while she lit the candles. A lone table stood between the bed and the
fireplace, a strange piece of roughly- made furniture resurrected from
something once much grander. Ty occupied its nicked surface with his gin, and
occupied the high narrow bed with his backside. “I don't enjoy it when Miss
Foster patches me up. Don't be offended.”

“Me, offended by you? Amusing.” she
sniffed. “Besides, if you have complaints about my skill, you are welcome to
address them with my superior.”

“Hah. Grayfield always takes your
side.”

Ignoring him, and the potential
truth of his accusation, she got down on all fours beside the bed, peering into
the dim light and sweeping a hand beneath for her case. It took a moment to
register that something was brushing her hair, and it wasn't the dust ruffle.
That something was fingers.
Ty’s
fingers.

She sat up. “What are you doing?”

His owl eyes blinked. “Touching
your hair.”

“Why?”

“It was there. I'm sitting here
waiting.” He formed his words with the careful deliberation of someone nearly
foxed, planting a fist on his hip. “You've never touched someone's hair
before?”

Well, no
,
not out of
boredom
. Olivia didn't admit it aloud. She was not about to engage in such
a conversation with Ty just now. He was a tad too drunk, and she was too sober
for anything deeper.

Staring a moment longer at his
serious if unfocused expression, she ducked back under the bed and continued
searching. “Here it is!”

“I was beginning to hope you
wouldn't find it,” he grumbled.

Fighting a laugh, she sat back up
and pointed to the gin. “As I said, you're welcome to go to bed if you believe
my talents are less than adequate.”

He tried crossing his arms,
betraying the gesture by wincing. “No, no. Continue.”

Nodding in triumph, she stood and
set the brick-sized wooden box on the coverlet. “Stand up. Let's get a look at
how badly you've abused yourself.”

“
Me
? I would say –” His
mouth snapped shut.

Nothing
. He would say
nothing, because he was wise enough not to argue with a woman who was about to
pierce his flesh. Feeling smug, she stepped close and grasped the tail of his
shirt.

He startled nimbly considering his
injury and the gin. “Now what are you doing?”

“Shirt has to come off.”

“I can take it off,” he protested,
cheeks tinting a deeper shade of red. There was no rhyme or reason to his sense
of modesty.

“As can I. Here we go.” She brought
the tail over his head, ran fingers up his biceps along raised arms, chasing
the sleeves until it dropped to the floor. She stifled the pleasure of
smoothing hands over his bare skin, the thrill of stripping even a single
article of clothing.

Ty stared down at her, close enough
that each breath was warm across her face. Avoiding his eyes, she wondered if
their minds followed a similar path.

She glanced to her bare third
finger, still absent a ring.
John
. Why had his name taken so long to
penetrate her thoughts? Maybe because they were not truly engaged. They were
just two people who enjoyed dancing together and did
not
enjoy eating
Sunday dinner alone.

That wasn't fair
, she
sighed. John was dependable. Distant, but he didn't sleep through the opera and
enjoyed discussing the papers. Her uncle liked him well enough. Why was that no
longer satisfying? She glanced down again and realized her fingers rested at
Ty's wrist.

In her haste to step back, she
knocked her head against the mantle. Ty doubled over with laughter, and rubbing
her bump, she joined him. “Perhaps I'm not the one who should be tending you,
after all.”

He wagged an unsteady finger. “I've
made my devil's deal. No going back.”

“Remember you said so, later.” She
pulled the lid off of her case and patted the mattress. “Have a seat and let's
see if we can muddle through.”

Grunting, he palmed the gin,
falling to the bed with enough force that the frame groaned. He swigged deep
from the bottle, eyes widening over the rim as she threaded her needle. She
frowned at her work, tossing him a glance. “You know you will regret every drop
come morning.”

“No, I will not.” Handsome features
screwed up into the frown of a petulant child, and then he grinned. “I will not
be awake in the
morning
.”

She nodded at the truth of his
words. Gin rendered him useless till early afternoon. “No arguing there.” She
poked the needle into her bodice and patted his knee. “Open up.”

He leaned back, bracing one hand on
the mattress and spreading his knees so that she could kneel between them.
Inhaling a steadying breath, she drank in a scent that was uniquely Ty. Seville
oranges and the clean bite of Castile soap. Saddle leather and something earthy
like pipe smoke. Masculine, expensive taste charmed her as a woman and appealed
to a trace of aristocrat inside.

She ran a finger over a ragged pink
line just below his heart in a bid to ignore the smell, the intimate proximity
of their bodies. It was an old scar, its thickness hinting at severity. “More
serious than a table leg.”

His eyes closed and he nodded. “Mm.
Would have killed me. Webb shot the bastard in the head and caused the ball hit
low. Kept my guts from spilling out.”

General Webb was the only person
from home that Ty mentioned regularly and fondly. Olivia wondered absently how
they managed a friendship. She had certainly never been able to. Kate was
rarely mentioned, and Olivia suspected she knew why.

There were more scars. Smooth,
narrow saber lines, fat cords of healed tissue left by a bayonet. She was
staring; she realized it when Ty cleared his throat. “The attention is
appreciated, but the
anticipation
is killing me.”

“What? Oh, oh. I'm...of course.”
She shook her head and picked the knot from a strip of linen around his ribs.
It was doing a less than satisfactory job of holding down his bandage. Why had
they used it in the first place? She pried at the damp wad, crimson almost to
its edges. Fibers had crusted to his skin with dried blood, and Olivia did her
best to pull the fabric without disturbing the wound. This would take some
time.

“Rip it.”

“What?” She'd heard him, but she
couldn't believe it.

“Trust me, it's kinder if you get
the thing over with. Grab it.”

Sucking a deep breath in unison
with Ty, she pinched the bandage and jerked.

“Huh!” Ty's fingers bit her
shoulders and he doubled over, resting his forehead against her crown. After a
moment, his chest stopped heaving and he sat up.

Of all things, he smiled. “Thank
you.”

Her trembling arms relaxed. This
was not her area of expertise. “We'll see if you feel the same tomorrow.
Ready?”

“All that I can be.”

Pressing her finger along the gash,
Olivia worked to get a sense of what was wound and what was blood. Once she
felt certain, she pinched both sides of the crescent together with one hand and
retrieved her needle with the other. Digging teeth into her lip, she pierced
Ty's flesh bracing for a groan, a wince. He was still. She glanced up at his
face, expecting to find discomfort. His expression was flat, fixed on the
mantle but far away.

Looping the needle, she pulled the
amber gut through tissue, daring three more stitches before she looked up
again. Now he faced her, neck craned to observe her progress. “You have lovely
fingers.”

Outwardly ignoring the remark,
preening inside, she waved the needle. “Doesn't this hurt?”

He half shrugged. “It smarts at
first. After a pass or two, there's numbness and it all tends to feel the same.
Also, gin.” His grin was crooked.

“How could I forget?” Anxious to be
finished, she pulled the last two stitches through. “That's good. Even better,
I'm done.” Relaxing her shoulders, Olivia surveyed her handiwork and plucked a
small pair of steel shears from her case. She knotted the twine and snipped off
its tail, taking her time to avoid his eyes.

Ty craned his head left and right,
examining the result. “Not half bad, Dimples. Perhaps I'll keep you around
after all.”

She glanced up, ready with a sharp
retort, and stopped. His gaze stole her words, warm and steady. She could rest
fingers at his throat, run them over his chest, the flat plane of his
stomach...

And be dismissed for it. Shamed
for it
. The voice doused her in shame and common sense. Throwing the shears
back into the box harder than intended, she rolled back onto her heels and got
up. “In my opinion, you'll live.”

“I agree with you
now
.” He
shook the decanter, then placed it back on the side table. “In a few hours,
however, I will undoubtedly feel otherwise.” He rolled back onto the bed with
masculine grace, stretching slowly out along the quilt. “Coming to bed?”

His question tugged at something in
her chest, but she swatted it away. “Soon enough. Let me set the work room to
rights and then I'll be up.” Truthfully, she had every intention of sleeping on
the parlor sofa. It would afford her space, a night to think, and would settle
her mind. Lying side-by-side with Ty would do nothing for her clarity, but he
didn't need to know that. And he wouldn't; gin would work its magic and he
would never be the wiser.

“Olivia.” She was nearly through
the door when his voice stopped her, turning her back. “Thank you.”

She smiled, reaching for the knob.
“You're of no use to me dead.”

*          *          *

He was dying, that was the only
explanation. Joints throbbed, his side felt raw and swollen. A tearing pain
between his temples would split his head any moment now. Ty wasn't opposed to
it. He just wished it would hurry up and happen.