A Rake's Midnight Kiss (38 page)

As he reached out, she caught his swiftly concealed wince. “Richard, what is it?”

Fear banished fragile optimism. Her gorge rose as she recalled the gunshot. Trembling, she lifted the candle. In the uncertain light, a patch shimmered wet on his black sleeve.

Nausea tightened her throat. When her lungs began to ache, she realized she’d drawn a breath and never released it. It hurt to exhale. “Dear God, you’re bleeding.”

“Greengrass holds a grudge.” His drawn face contradicted his casual tone.

“For heaven’s sake, why didn’t you say something?” Anguished concern sharpened her question. Her hand shook so violently that the candle flared wildly, sending shadows hopping over the walls.

“I was being heroic.”

His humor fell flat. “Idiotic, more like.” On legs that threatened to collapse, she stepped closer. She reined in her futile need to rage at him. “Take your coat off.”

He sawed at the rope muzzle. “Let me see to Sirius first.”

“Men!” she snarled, snatching the knife and kneeling on the steps. The twine was thick, but eventually Sirius was free. He whined again and huddled into his master. Candlelight revealed blood caked around his mouth.

“Poor boy,” she murmured, stroking his brindle back. He butted her with his head. “Poor old fellow.”

Fortifying courage with anger, she turned to Richard. “I’d like to slap you,” she said conversationally, placing the candle on a higher step to illuminate his wound.

“You can’t hit an injured man.”

“Which doesn’t stop me wanting to.” Still, her hands shook and sweaty palms threatened her grip on the knife. She firmed her hold and stretched his coat sleeve tight. She stuck the knife into the sodden material. “Don’t move.”

“What in Hades are you doing?” He jerked away, then hissed as the movement jarred his wound.

“I need to see how badly you’re injured.”

“I could take it off.”

“Won’t that hurt?”

“I can bear it.”

“I’m not sure I can.” She gritted her teeth. The wool parted under the blade. Sirius, bored with the lack of attention, wandered into the darkness.

“You must meet my tailor.” Richard’s sangfroid was unconvincing.

She hardly listened. Her jaw ached with clenching and the rusty stench of blood made her feel sick. “Why?”

“By the time you’re finished, I won’t have a decent coat left. He’ll be in work for decades.”

She didn’t bother pointing out the odds against Richard escaping to need new clothes. “You were always overdressed for the country.”

“By Gad, I wasn’t!” He sounded mortally offended. “I always look
comme il faut.”

“In Belgravia, maybe.” A hard tug ripped the sleeve away. His stifled groan resounded in her bones.

“Genevieve?” he asked with no hint of teasing. “Genevieve, speak to me.”

She made herself glance up from the saturated mess of his shirtsleeve. While all she saw was blood, blood everywhere.

“Take a deep breath and listen. It’s only a nick.”

Vaguely she was aware that she should reassure him, not the other way around. “How can you tell?” she asked thickly, her vision flooded with red. She struggled to focus on his face.

“It’s not as bad as it looks. The bullet didn’t stay in the wound.”

She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry.

She cried.

“Darling—” He stretched out his good arm and curled her against his chest. For one weak moment, she rested there. Beneath her cheek, his heart beat with ineffable life, welcome proof that he wasn’t at death’s door.

She sniffed and without success, tried to sit up. “I have to clean your wound. Stitch it.”

“To Hades with that idea. My social credit would never survive a pregnant elephant etched into my hide.”

Laughter bubbled up, uncertain, unsteady, but restoring as a day at the seaside. His embrace was strong and sure. When he held her, she couldn’t believe that they’d die without seeing the sun again.

She hid her face against him and struggled for composure. There was a miraculous hollow between his chin and shoulder perfectly shaped for her. “I’ve told you a thousand times, it’s a peony.”

Steeling herself, she straightened and shifted to his wounded side. This time, she handled his arm without swooning. Ruthlessly she tore his shirtsleeve off.

“Oh.” She swallowed the bile stinging her throat.

“Is it that bad?” He watched her with an unquestioning trust that she didn’t deserve.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Like the devil.” Her jostling, necessary as it was, left him ashen.

“If you faint, I’ll kill you,” she said grimly. She eased away the tattered remnants of coat and shirt.

His lips, white with pain, stretched in a travesty of his usual grin. “Warning noted.”

Using his shirt, she cleaned the wound. What she’d give for a bowl of warm water and some soap. What she’d give to be back in her parlor, battling to keep Richard Harmsworth
from guessing that he attracted her like a magnet attracted iron filings.

“Will I live?” he asked after a long silence.

Would either of them live? Right now it seemed unlikely. But she took a lesson from him and answered with fabricated confidence. Not about his wound—he was right, and lucky; the bullet had merely grazed him. Despite the copious blood loss, she found no major damage. “You’ll be dazzling the debutantes in no time.”

This time his smile was a little more convincing, although she couldn’t deceive herself about his discomfort. “My days of dazzling debutantes are over.”

Ignoring his banter, she bent to inspect the wound. Now she’d cleaned the injury, she saw a long gash along the outside of his upper arm. At least it had stopped bleeding. She cast away the filthy shirt. “A new coat or two and you’ll be your irritating self again.”

She ripped the dirty hem from her petticoat and discarded it. She tore off a cleaner strip and wrapped it securely around Richard’s arm.

“I’ll owe you some new undergarments,” he mumbled. He’d been stoic through the agonizing process, but the thready note in his voice indicated that his endurance faded.

She made herself smile. “More than one set.”

“Brazen wench.”

“That’s me,” she said lightly, even as apprehension gripped her. Given the blood he’d lost, she was surprised he’d stayed so chipper for so long. Now exhaustion shadowed his features. Suffering pared him down, made him much more like a regular mortal.

She tied the bandage as firmly as she could. “There’s a comfortable tomb waiting. If you promise not to snore, I’m prepared to offer my shoulder as a pillow.”

“I’d be honored.” For once, he didn’t sound like he joked. Another sign of failing stamina.

She rose and gently helped him up. For one frightening moment, he staggered. Then he found his feet and covered the short distance. He couldn’t hide his weariness when he slumped to the ground, leaning heavily against the carved tomb.

Oh, Richard.
Compassion squeezed her heart as she slid down beside him. She’d give anything to relieve his pain. But there was nothing she could do.

Except perhaps one thing.

Carefully she drew his ruffled head to her breast. Tearful gratitude thickened her throat when within minutes he sank into sleep.

“What the devil—”

Richard stirred in thick darkness. He was cold and sore and his arm throbbed like a drum. Yet well-being outweighed every other sensation.

“It’s all right,” a beloved voice murmured and he remembered. The clash with Fairbrother. The gunshot. Being trapped in this pit with Genevieve.

Genevieve who embraced him with a tenderness that banished the chill.

“Did the candle burn out?” He wasn’t a fanciful man, but the air in this crypt oozed wretchedness. The prospect of perishing here with no glimmer of light was grim.

“No. But I only have two. Better to save them.” She shifted. Even that slight movement jogged his wound. He bit back a groan. Nonetheless she must have heard because she stilled. “How are you feeling?”

Reluctantly he straightened away from her and rested against the stone behind him. “Not as bad as I thought I
would.” It was true. His arm was bearable and sleep restored his wits. “Your touch has healing powers.”

“If only my touch had altar-shifting powers,” she said bleakly.

“Where’s Sirius?”

“He left about twenty minutes ago, I suppose. Should we look for him?”

“He’s too smart to get lost.”

Candlelight flared. “I should check the stone.”

“It can wait. Cam will find us.” Richard didn’t say what they both understood—that she was unlikely to locate a convenient lever or button. Lord Neville might be a knave, but he was a deuced clever knave. He’d ensure that their prison was secure.

Richard grabbed her trembling hand. “I need to touch you.”

Her frown melted into the smile he adored. “Yes, so romantic here among the decaying monks. Is that sound the rattling of bones or my beating heart?”

He laughed softly. Oh, she was brave. She was brave and beautiful and far too good for him, which didn’t mean he wouldn’t fight to keep her.

“Anywhere with you is romantic, darling.” He raised her grimy hand and kissed her knuckles.

She shot him a skeptical glance. “I’m sure.”

His courage failed at confessing that he meant it. “It sticks in my craw that Fairbrother got the jewel.”

“Yes.” One word, yet her detached tone pricked his instincts.

“You’re taking the loss very calmly. It’s incredibly valuable.”

She shrugged. “What use is gold here?”

His gaze sharpened. He didn’t trust her neutral expression. “What’s going on, Genevieve?”

“Nothing.” The corners of her lips deepened, bolstering his suspicion.

“Tell me.”

She pulled free. “Lord Neville didn’t get what he bargained for.”

Richard frowned. “You gave him the jewel.”

Amusement warmed her voice. “Do you remember I said that my article would establish my academic reputation?”

It seemed a non sequitur. “Of course.” He remembered every word she’d said.

“My discovery was quite a coup. The Harmsworth Jewel is so famous. Not to mention very beautiful.”

“And precious.”

“And precious.” Her smile intensified. “And a forgery.”

He stared at her in shocked silence. Then he started to laugh.

Genevieve hadn’t been sure how he’d respond to learning that he’d been mistaken about his heirloom. A lesser man—someone like Lord Neville—would be livid. Disappointment or dismay would be perfectly understandable. But when Richard Harmsworth discovered that he’d pursued a chimera, he reacted with an unfettered enjoyment that set her heart singing.

He laughed so hard that he bent over his raised knees. He ran out of breath and still whooped. She should make him stop. Surely this explosive mirth must damage his arm. But she couldn’t bear to.

From the bottom of her soul, words she’d sworn never to say bubbled up, unstoppable as a flood. “Oh, Richard, how I do love you.”

The moment the declaration left her lips, she was frantic to snatch it back. Humiliation closed her throat. Women
from Land’s End to John O’Groats must declare their devotion to Richard Harmsworth. She hated that she was just one more silly female head over heels with him.

Abruptly his laughter stopped and he stared at her with an expression she couldn’t interpret. After his hilarity, the echoing silence seemed bottomless.

Furious with herself, she rose on shaky legs and stepped out of the light. Her fists clenched so hard at her sides that the nails scored her palms.

“You love me.”

She’d never heard that tone before. Perhaps he offered her a chance to save her dignity. But having made the admission, she balked at denial. “Yes.”

She stifled the urge to excuse or qualify. Rigid with humiliation, she braced for his response. If he was kind out of pity, she’d vomit.

A slow smile curled his lips. He looked happy. In fact, he looked completely elated. The silence extended until she wanted to scream. Still he smiled as though she was a magical treasure created solely for his delight.

“You love me.”

For heaven’s sake, hadn’t they been through this? “Yes,” she snapped.

He wasn’t usually slow of understanding. Unless he was being deliberately cruel, she couldn’t see why he belabored the point. He relaxed back and stretched his long legs toward her, every line of his body expressing satisfaction. “Well, I think that’s altogether a fine thing.”

“Do you now?” she asked on a dangerous note. She’d imagined nothing could be worse than pity. This strange, sardonic pleasure made her seethe.

He bent his good arm behind his head and regarded her with a lazy amusement that she couldn’t like. How could she
possibly love this ruffian? He should be hanged at the crossroads. “By Jove, I do.”

“Well, good for you,” she said bitterly.