Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) (3 page)

Chapter Three

Thank God
.

Jonathon’s gaze shot to the alley entrance. Two women stood huddled together, their expressions frozen in abject horror. Their boots scraped against the cobbled stone beneath their feet as they drew to an abrupt halt. It was a thin sound, but it seemed to echo through the alleyway.

He had a second, maybe two. That was all the distraction he could count on. Jonathon fixed his gaze just over the head of the knife-wielding assailant and allowed his lips to curl in a satisfied smile, hoping to give the impression that a group of his mates had just entered the alley, rather than two small, terrified women.

The ruse worked. The man holding the blade read triumph in Jonathon’s gaze. His knife wavered for a fraction of a second as he glanced over his shoulder to see who was standing behind him. The brutes who’d had his arms pinned back lessened their grip, perhaps thrown off guard by the presence of witnesses.

Jonathon broke free and lunged forward. He drove his shoulder into the knife-wielder’s chest, slamming him up against the brick wall of alleyway. The man’s breath rushed out in a satisfying
oof
as they wrestled for control of the blade. They were equally matched in size and strength, their bodies only inches apart. On another occasion, Jonathon was confident he could have taken him. But not then. Not with whatever drug he’d been given coursing through his veins.

His grip on the knife slackened. He was dimly aware of a brass bell ringing, like a church alarm, accompanied by frantic female shouts for help. He felt a moment’s irritation that the women didn’t have the sense enough to run, but he quickly pushed the distraction aside. His opponent was gaining the advantage. The brute edged the knife downward, the serrated edge of the blade a fraction of an inch away from Jonathon’s cheek.

The other two thieves surged closer. Jonathon’s back was exposed, while his assailant was pinned against the alley wall. Three against one. Very well. Jonathon drove his knee into the knife-wielder’s groin as hard as he could. A thoroughly disreputable move, but then, this was not a gentleman’s fisticuffs match at the local club. Rules and order be damned. He would have driven the man’s balls through his belly and out the other side if he’d been able. As it was, the man let out a deep groan and crumbled to the ground in a fetal position, clutching himself and groaning

Jonathon, now fully in control of the knife, spun around to face his remaining two assailants. The brutal impact of a fist against his jaw snapped his neck around, and slammed his temple against the brick wall. An explosion of light; stars danced before his eyes. A coppery taste filled his mouth. Blood. His head pounded and his vision blurred around the edges.

His legs abruptly gave out and he fell to his knees. He shook his head and gazed upward, only to find himself staring into the barrel of a pistol. One of the remaining brutes, his lips curled back in a grim smile, flexed his finger on the trigger.

In the split second that followed—a second that seemed to stretch into eternity— Jonathon understood that he’d lost. He’d fought hard, but he’d lost. His last thought was neither rage or defeat, but gallows humor. What a preposterous place for his life to end. Jonathon Hollinshed, Viscount Brooksbank, one of England’s wealthiest and most prominent men, shot like a dog in a dirty alley in Liverpool.

No sooner had that crossed his mind when everything seemed to happen at once. From the corner of his eye he caught a flurry of skirts, then the wild swing of a rough wooden board the instant before the gun discharged. The board made impact with the brute’s upper arm, knocking him off-balance as the shot rang out. White hot heat grazed Jonathon’s left shoulder.

A raised cry of voices followed. Heavy boot steps of men running toward them. More feminine shouts, and the ringing of that damned brass bell. His assailants fled, disappearing into the murky shadows of the night.

Jonathon understood, dimly, that the fight was over. Rather than running, one of the women had thrown herself into the melee and saved him. But why? Nothing about the event made sense. His mind spun and whirled in wild disorder. He couldn’t follow a single thought to its logical end.

A small, feminine face, framed by a ridiculously large white bonnet, swam before him. She looked vaguely familiar, and it took him a moment to recognize her as one of the missionaries who’d staged themselves on the corner.

Her dark eyes filled with concern. He watched her lips move, forming what appeared to be words. He couldn’t be sure, though, for he couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears.

Still. Such lovely lips. Full and soft, lush and inviting. He enjoyed watching them. He spied a neat row of white teeth tucked behind them, as well as a luscious pink tongue. Such a delectable mouth.

He pulled himself together and made a guess. She was asking if he was all right.

Fine, he thought. He was just fine. But as he was curiously unable to form the necessary words, he nodded his head to prove it. That slight motion sent the world spinning. To his horror and embarrassment, a rush of nausea surged through him and he suffered the shameful certainty he’d be sick. Instead, the alley tilted sideways and the ground careened upward to slap his cheek. Everything went mercifully black.

* * *

Sinful curiosity.
Sister Mary Louise should have added that to the long list of Brianna’s shortcomings.

But then, how could she not be curious when the man they had rescued in the alleyway was stretched out before her in bed, naked from the waist up? The physician who’d attended him had stitched the messy gash on his left shoulder, leaving him bare-chested in order for her to better attend his wound. She dipped a cloth in a bath of herb-infused water and pressed it to his flesh. No fever, she noted. Nor did his wound exhibit any signs of redness, swelling, or other symptoms of infection. All in all, he was healing nicely. The only thing that remained was for him to awaken.

Brianna settled into the chair beside his bed. A slight frown tugged at her lips as she studied his face. He was far too close to perfect for a mere mortal. His jaw was square, his cheekbones high, and his lips were smoothly sensual. An arrestingly handsome man. She wondered at the color of his eyes. Even the rough stubble on his cheeks and accompanying faint bloom of bruises (fading now, but still present), served to give him a dashing, rugged air.

She was ridiculously thrilled to find a flaw in him: his hair was too long. It brushed the edges of his collar and fell around his face in thick, golden waves. Waves that practically begged for a set of female fingers to smooth back those unruly locks and restore them to some kind of order. Brianna balled her fists and resisted the impulse.

She couldn’t, however, stop her gaze from moving lower, wantonly tracing the smoothly corded muscles of his arms and chest, admiring the rich coppery hue of his skin. His belly was flat and tight, his hips slim. His thighs, encased in a pair of lightweight cotton drawers, were lean and long. Beautiful. That was the first word that came to mind. His body was beautiful. And yet ruggedly male. Powerfully male. Even in repose his strength was evident.

Entirely unlike any man she’d seen before. Not that her experience had been vast, but still. What would it feel like, she wondered, to touch those muscles? To feel them flex like steel beneath her fingers? To feel her own soft curves yield to the hard, masculine lines of his body? A warm flush crept through her that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

Brianna gave herself a mental shake. Her musings were entirely improper. Although no one had come yet to claim him—Father Tim had alerted the constable, as well as several local hotels and boarding houses—surely the man had family somewhere. Friends who were looking for him. Perhaps even a wife and children. The thought sobered her considerably.

Best she keep her mind on her own worries. London. She’d fallen even further behind schedule. The odds that her employment would be waiting for her once she arrived grew slimmer with each day that passed. She would have to push on alone, she decided, despite Sister Mary Louise’s objections. She would purchase a ticket and leave with tomorrow’s mail coach. There was simply nothing else to be done.

That resolved, she returned her cloth to the scented water, wrung it out, then gently applied it to her patient’s skin.

Chapter Four

The tangy scent of lemons drifted in the air around Jonathon. It blended with another aroma he couldn’t quite name. Something floral. Softer than rose, and not nearly as gaudy. Lavender, perhaps? Whatever it was, he found it infinitely soothing.

He breathed in the scent as he drifted on the edge of drowsy contentment. He was near the edge of waking, but resisted it. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. He kept his breathing low and regular, concentrating on remaining perfectly still as his senses slowly returned.

The sound of soft humming echoed through the air. No words or tune that he recognized, just random notes that arced and dove and spun around him, aimlessly drifting, endlessly soothing. A lovely voice. The voice of an angel, he decided, satisfied to simply listen.

So he had died, after all. By some heavenly bureaucratic misstep, he’d died and been sent to the realm above, rather than the lower regions, where it was far more likely a sinner like him belonged. An old Irish pub toast drifted through his mind:
May you spend an hour in heaven before the devil knows you’re dead.

Fair enough. Jonathon took the warning to heart, sensing that if he moved, or otherwise betrayed an awareness of his surroundings, the angel’s tender ministrations would end. She would withdraw from him, and the mistake of allowing him entry into heaven would immediately be rectified.

So he lay perfectly still as she bathed him with a warm cloth. He heard a trickle of water as she withdrew and wrung the cloth into a basin. Thinking she was finished, he assumed she would turn away. Abandon him. But no. Her humming ceased, but even in silence he could feel her nearness. Sense her hesitation. Almost feel her gaze moving over his body, feel her intent perusal of his nearly naked form. Her curiosity was a palpable thing.

Holy hell. What kind of angel examined the body of a prostrate man?
His
kind of angel, that’s what kind of angel.

Her skirts (or perhaps downy wings?) rustled as she moved closer to his bed. She traced her damp cloth over his biceps, then across his chest. He battled a primitive desire to flex his muscles, impress her. She leaned over him, stretching across his body, her pert breasts brushing his chest, her slender weight balanced on top of him. As she moved, a loose strand of her hair fell softly across his chest, as light and provocative as a sweep of spun silk. The feminine scent of her skin engulfed him.

Jonathon bit back a groan as his cock stirred to life. The bulbous head swayed against his breeches like a nervous, dormant animal cautiously sniffing the air for signs it was safe to proceed. But it wouldn’t stop there. Oh, no. He knew this untrustworthy cock of his. It had a mind and life of its own. Within seconds all feigned acts of meekness would be discarded and his member would be rod stiff, a ravenous creature ready to thrust and invade. Aroused by an angel, no less. Wasn’t that a carnal sin? Probably. Hell, absolutely. But there was little he could do—

She pressed her cloth against his left collarbone. A punishing jolt of white-hot pain shot through him. Sweet Jesus, the devil had found him. Now he was going to blister his skin off his bones.

Jonathon’s eyes flew open. He sucked in a sharp breath and grabbed the angel’s slender wrist.

“Don’t.”

She gasped. Her eyes widened and she moved to draw back, but he wouldn’t release her.

“Hello, angel.”

“Let me go.”

“On one condition,” he rasped.

“What?”

“Don’t touch me.”

She surveyed him for a moment in silence, then a wry smile tugged at her lips. She arched a single dark brow and gazed pointedly at her current position. She stood with one dainty foot on the ground, the other in the air, as she leaned forward with her body trapped against his.

“I’m touching you now,” she said, in a tone of surprising reasonableness.

True. But
that
he liked. In fact, he was thoroughly enjoying the subtle weight of her body resting atop his. Her warm breath fanned his cheek. Her gloriously soft thighs rubbed against his own. The faint pucker of her nipples pressed against his chest. So. Not an angel, but an earthly creature after all.

As well as a woman possessed of an unusual beauty. Her skin had a warm caramel hue, utterly unlike the cool milky-white complexions cherished by the London set. Dark, luminous, eyes, tilted slightly at the corners and framed by thick lashes, dominated her face. Her nose was small, her cheekbones high and sleek, and her mouth wide and generous. Something about the shape of her chin hinted at stubbornness.

She’d tucked her hair into an untidy bun. It was dark, the color of a rich cup of coffee, but with an auburn sheen where the sun hit it. An impossible color. As tempting as an apple at midnight in the Garden of Eden. Jonathon battled a ridiculous impulse to remove the pins and run his fingers through it, to ascertain if it felt as silky as it looked.

He reluctantly released her wrist and transferred his gaze to the damp cloth she held. “I meant,” he said, “whatever ungodly potion you used to blister my skin off my bones.”

She looked surprised. “Does it sting?”

A bee stung. A prickly thorn stung. That fiendish concoction sent fiery spikes of agony shooting through his nerves. “A bit,” he replied.

“Well,” she said, giving a shrug that he deemed entirely too indifferent given his level of pain, “then it must be working to guard against infection.”

“Infection?”

“You were lucky. The bullet didn’t lodge beneath your skin. In fact, it barely grazed your shoulder.”

Bullet.
The word rocketed through his mind. His memory came flooding back in a series of raw, discordant images. The alleyway, the three men. The knife. The gun.

He wrenched himself into a sitting position. Piercing pain curved around the back of his skull and spiked through his eyes. His stomach roiled. He squeezed his eyes shut and released a low hiss from between his teeth.

“It’s the drugs,” she said.

He pried open one eyelid and stared at her. “Pardon?”

“The physician warned us the effects wouldn’t be pleasant when they wore off.” She appraised him curiously. “What were you taking, by the way? Opium, laudanum, or something else?”

Indignation temporarily replaced discomfort. “I didn’t take—” he began, then stopped short. The drink he’d had with Richard. The bitter taste. He’d been drugged.

He gazed down at himself. He was lying in bed, nearly naked and tucked between a set of linen sheets that were so old as to be nearly transparent from washing. The room spoke of nothing but bleak austerity: white walls, rough wooden floors. A single chair, crude pine sideboard, and small table with pitcher and water basin completed the furnishings. The room’s only element of décor was a primitive wooden crucifix, which hung from the wall opposite his bed.

“Where am I?”

“The basement of the Church of the Holy Redeemer. We didn’t know where else to bring you.”

“We?”

“Father Tim and the rest of us.”

The missionaries. Of course. The group that had been preaching on the street corner. How absurd. Then another thought occurred to him.

The woman. She’d looked familiar, but he hadn’t known why. The memory of her face, framed by that absurdly large white bonnet, suddenly came to him. She was the last thing he’d seen before he’d slipped into unconsciousness. “You were there,” he said. “In the alleyway.”

“Fortunately for you, Sister Mary Louise and I both were.” She turned away and dropped her cloth in the basin. “You’ll want water,” she said, passing him a pewter cup.

He took a sip, then drank greedily, suddenly aware how thirsty he was. For a moment the pain ebbed, receding like the tide and leaving exhaustion in its wake. Jonathon closed his eyes and leaned back, feeling ridiculously weak. He tried without success to put his predicament in some semblance of order, but his thoughts were cloudy and disjointed.

He wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Instead the woman bustled about with brisk efficiency. He heard the scrape of furniture as she leveraged a small table to his bedside. “Come. Let’s get you all the way up. You’ll feel better with something to settle your stomach.”

Before he could object she was there again. He felt her slight frame wedge beneath his shoulder, bolstering him up. He was far too heavy for her. Nonetheless, he felt her straining, tugging him into position. Although Jonathon didn’t want to move, he resigned himself to the imposition of her will. This woman—whoever she was—was nothing if not determined.

Once she’d succeeded in propping him up, she slid a tray onto his lap. He looked down to find a small loaf of dark bread, a hunk of cheese, a thinly sliced apple, and a shallow bowl of beef broth. Although he’d initially resisted the thought of food, Jonathon suddenly realized how famished he was. He finished every morsel, including a second helping of the broth, and felt remarkably restored afterward.

“You were lucky,” she said as she removed the tray. “The bullet didn’t lodge beneath your skin. It merely grazed your collarbone.”

He moved his left shoulder, testing it. Winced. “Yes, I feel fortunate.”

“You should.” She regarded him soberly. “You were so still after the revolver fired, and there was so much blood, Sister Mary Louise and I fear you were dead.”

Indeed.

Jonathon’s gaze cut to the unfamiliar gentleman’s coat hanging from a hook on the door. The sleeve of the coat was torn at the left shoulder, a dark brown stain seeping into the edges of the fabric. A wilting red carnation drooped from a buttonhole on the lapel. Resting beside it was a tall hat with a blazing crimson ribbon. Lucky Red. Had there been an innocent mix-up, or had Richard deliberately drugged and marked him?

His mind fought against it. It wasn’t possible. There must be some other explanation. But even as he searched for one, his memory kept returning to the dark satisfaction he’d read in the gaze of the brute who’d brandished the knife. His savage confidence.
He’s the one we want, all right
.

And then there was Richard himself. So angry:
The title and the funds just handed to you by birthright.
If my father had been the older brother…
So helpful:
I’ll let Lord and Lady Everly know you won’t be able to return to London with them tomorrow…

Very tidy. No alarm would be raised if he went missing.

“What day is it?” he asked.

“Saturday.”

Bloody hell
. Jonathon swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I have to leave.” Ignoring the pounding in his head, he reached for the pile of men’s clothing resting on the small table beside him. He lifted the first garment, then stopped. “These aren’t mine,” he said.

“I’m afraid your clothing was bloodied and torn beyond repair. But Sister Mary Louise was able to salvage some things for you from the church’s charity bin.”

Charity bin?
He instantly recoiled.
He was a
viscount
, for God’s sake. If he was in London—but he wasn’t in London. He was in Liverpool, with no money, no connections, and no clothing, apparently. A viscount with no choice but to accept what he was offered, he suddenly realized. He grit his teeth and shrugged on the offensive garments, the woman modestly turning her back as he did so.

No sooner had he finished dressing when a brief rap sounded at the door. Three people stepped into the room. The first two introduced themselves as Father Tim and Sister Mary Louise. The remaining man—a bit on the portly side, and sporting a heavy handlebar moustache and a navy wool suit—identified himself as Constable Williamson of the Liverpool Police Force.

A long and frustratingly circular conversation followed, during which Jonathon was informed that while Constable Williamson had been born and raised in Liverpool, and was familiar with every third-rate pub and gaming hell in town (including Sal’s), he had never once heard the name Sweet Henry, Sweet Harry, or any variation thereof.

The man simply didn’t exist.

Which meant Richard had invented him. Again,
why
? Why create such an elaborate ruse? Jonathon’s mind repeatedly circled back along the same dark path: his cousin had deliberately conspired to have him murdered.

Astounding… if it were true.

“Sir?” The constable’s voice intruded upon his thoughts. “Your name, sir? I’ll need that for my report, then I can be on my way.”

Jonathon looked up to find four pair of eyes studying him. Williamson tapped his pad with his pencil, his impatience evident. His manner was nothing like the fawning deference Jonathon was accustomed to receiving from civil servants and the like. It took him a shocked moment to understand why.

A viscount gunned down in the street was a matter of significance.

But an ordinary man tussling with thieves in an alleyway did not merit any particular notice. Judging by the constable’s demeanor, it was a commonplace enough occurrence. He must look like hell—bruised and battered, unshaven and unkempt, dressed in a poor man’s cast-offs. No wonder the constable had relegated him to the Lower Orders, categorizing him with all the other drunks, ruffians, transients, and assorted rabble who littered the city streets. Williamson would do his duty, file his report, and the matter would be quickly forgotten.