Danger Wears White (29 page)

He had no preparation to make, as he was travelling in his night clothes. Not that he was wearing any at the moment.

When Imogen let the curtain fall, he got out of bed and crossed the room to the washstand. She’d carried the pail of hot water inside herself, laughing at his consternation that she should carry anything that heavy. “Baby calves weigh more,” she assured him, as she poured the water into the basin for her morning ablutions. She couldn’t believe how happy she was for someone facing yet another dangerous trial. But very soon she would put all this behind her. She felt as if she were leaving everything behind, including her unhappy childhood, and setting out for a new world, a new happiness with the man she loved with all her heart. And who loved her.

His muscles flexed as he raised his arm to pick up a clean washcloth and rinse it out. They’d agreed he wouldn’t shave, to aid the deception, but he swabbed his body with the soapy cloth. She watched his unconscious movements greedily. The smoothness of his actions belied the presence of the bandage on his upper arm, and the injury under it was, as he’d claimed, negligible, but he’d had the presence of mind to stay down when the initial impact had spun him around and knocked him off balance. He was tall and lean, his firm buttocks adding sensual curves to a back that was only the more powerful because of it. His arms bulged with muscle—arms that had held her through the night, arms she’d woken up with wrapped around her. His hair had grown a little since she first met him. She liked it—long enough for her to run her fingers through when he had her under him and he was driving deep inside her.

He turned around, catching her watching him. “Come here.”

She was getting to know that throaty tone well, but she couldn’t resist it any more than she could the first time she’d heard it. She went forward and felt, yet again, his arms close around her. Resting her head against his chest, she murmured, “I love you. I don’t know what I would have done if you’d died.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Which is why I have no intention of doing anything of the kind in the near future. Do you think I’ll make a good country gentleman?”

“Country earl.” For the most astonishing thing was the speed with which the king had prosecuted the creation of the title. Fearing for Tony’s death, he’d had the papers rushed through, and now, but for the formal ratification, they were the Earl and Countess of Hollinhead.

“Indeed. Passing strange, that. A few years ago that might have created division between my brother and me. Now he just laughed and congratulated me. I wonder if he’ll find his own princess?”

Her face troubled, she lifted her head. “Don’t say that. I’m not a princess. I’m the daughter of a disgraced member of the royal family and his mistress. That’s all.”

“You’re my princess. You always will be.” He bent his head and kissed her, his mouth moving over hers in a familiar way, the way she loved best. He licked her lips, and then her tongue when she touched him with it. His cock rose to press against her stomach insistently, and they were in strong danger of missing their appointment with the carriage upstairs.

Tony lifted his head when someone knocked on the door, a gentle rap but a powerful reminder of what they must do. “Come, my love. Tonight we will at least be one step further on in our attempt to put this behind us.”

That sounded good. “Perhaps in a few days we can be at home, at Thane Hall.” If their plan worked.

He eased away from her and picked up a towel, scrubbing his body vigorously. “If I’m to be confined to a bedroom while we smoke out whoever is trying to kill me, I will need a deal of exercise. I’m not used to being in one place for too long.” He winked at her. “After all, it’s how we got into this to start with.” His gaze softened. “I’d do everything again, just for that.”

“Without the bullet.”

Laughing, he turned to pick up the clean nightshirt that she’d laid out ready for him. “Without that we wouldn’t have anything.”

She studied the scar from the bullet hole, where it had left his body, still red and puckered, but he never gave any indication of it bothering him. The hole was smaller the other side, where it had entered. “It will be a clean scar.” She had seen far worse in accidents with farm implements, but although she told herself that often, it didn’t do much good. She still quailed when she thought how close she’d come to losing the most precious thing in her life, before she even knew she had it.

He had other scars, too, even another bullet wound, this one on his thigh, high up, too close to a major blood vessel for her to laugh when he’d joked about it.

“I didn’t even know I had it until I dismounted. The damn horse fell under me. The bullet had hit us both, but we made a speedy recovery, man and horse both. I don’t know which the army was more pleased about, because we were undergoing a shortage of horses at the time.”

She hadn’t joined in his laughter, but traced the puckered white scar with one finger and sworn to live the quietest life imaginable. No more scars, no more bullet wounds.

He covered his body, the white linen falling over his powerful muscles, shrouding them. Shuddering at the thought, Imogen turned away and found his robe, handing it to him silently. He’d chosen a dark blue one after she’d rejected the scarlet one Julius had offered. Too much like blood, too powerful a target. If they were right, someone was waiting outside somewhere with a weapon.

A knock sounded on the door. “Are you ready, my lady?” One of the servants.

“In a moment!”

Tony crossed the room and leaped back into bed, dragging the covers up to tuck under his chin.

“Come!”

The men came in, followed by Julius. “You can trust these two,” he said. “They’ll be acting as outriders. But they won’t be carrying a lump like you around unless they have to. One will carry you downstairs, the other will make sure the first doesn’t drop you. The servants will be watching.” Which meant after their departure, the domestics would gleefully carry the news to the next house, and the next, and so on.

Tony cracked an eye open and grinned. Flinging back the covers, he approached the servant, arms wide. “Take me to my fate.”

The servant grinned back, but swept Tony off his feet like a groom lifting his wife on their wedding night. He carried Tony downstairs with tender care, and Tony did his part, lying limply in the man’s arms, occasionally groaning, but not overdoing it.

In the hall, he climbed on to the litter, which was nothing more than a piece of canvas strung between two rods. Julius shook out the blanket and tenderly tucked Tony in while Imogen stood by, handkerchief in hand. She’d had the foresight to sprinkle it with water, just enough to dampen it. She didn’t take her eyes off her husband, which was hardly a trial.

Out of sight of the servants, he winked at her. She could have killed him. Couldn’t he take this seriously? Since they’d made their plans last night he’d been in high spirits. She had to admit she felt a little lighter, and now, going out of the front door to the carriage, she knew why. At last, they were doing something, taking the initiative and moving forward. Planning their own fate instead of haplessly following in another’s wake.

They loaded him into the carriage, and Julius handed Imogen up.

Inside there wasn’t a great deal of room. The blinds were lowered over the windows in the half of the coach nearest the driver, in deference to the patient, but also to conceal the presence of two of Tony’s cousins, Lord Valentinian Shaw, son of the Marquess of Strenshall, and Ivan Rowley, son of the Earl of Leverton.

Ivan’s dark good looks reflected the emperor, or tsar, he was named after. Valentinian had chestnut hair and hazel eyes. Val flashed a smile, from his uncomfortable position squatting on the seat, and made room for Imogen to perch on the edge opposite Tony. He had a gun under the blankets of the stretcher. Four unsheathed swords lay on the floor, one an army saber. Tony let one arm fall over the side of the seat his stretcher laid on and seized the sword hilt.

Ivan handed Imogen a pistol. “Welcome to the family.”

Imogen returned his friendly smile without looking at him directly, somewhat bemused by the rank of their bodyguard. She’d met them briefly at society gatherings, but neither had appeared so dangerous. If she tasted the air, the flavor would be reckless. She didn’t have much room, which was why she’d chosen not to wear a hoop but a riding habit, a garment women frequently used for travelling. This one was much grander than her old one at home, but it had the same familiar feel, the jacket hugging her body and the skirt draped over her legs, rather than the cage she wore in town.

The coachman called out and the vehicle jolted into movement. Val and Ivan could see rather more than people might suppose, even if they knew the men were there, because small mirrors were mounted outside the coach, hidden as part of the trappings. They could see behind them and in front. Imogen watched the houses they passed, and the coachmen and outriders were monitoring the rest.

Yet Tony was still in clear view. He stirred, moving so he could see, too, but kept his eyes half-closed. This was the part Imogen was dreading.

Would they strike here, or would they, as Julius had posited, wait until the coach reached Hampstead Heath, where highwaymen and footpads lurked, waiting for the unwary? Or would they strike at all?

Ivan owned a small house just outside London, and they were ostensibly heading for that. “I sent word,” Ivan murmured, “but I haven’t used it for years. If they don’t attack, we’ll have to spend at least one night there.”

“Imogen and I only need one bed,” Tony murmured without moving his lips.

Imogen had no idea how he did that, but she’d get that secret out of him. Despite the tension gripping her, turning her breakfast over in her stomach, the skill intrigued her.

Tony and she had come the closest to a serious argument when she’d insisted on travelling with him. But as she’d pointed out, whoever wanted him also wanted her alive. She was the pawn, and dead, she was useless. When Julius agreed with her, Tony was forced to concede, but he hadn’t done it happily.

“Alex will be livid to miss this,” Ivan, the brother of Alex, Lord Ripley, said with a grin.

“Ah yes, he owes the Dankworths a favor,” Val murmured, his gaze speculatively surveying the view. As usual, people thronged the streets, people of all classes, but now they’d left the street, nobody took special notice of them. Not yet, at any rate.

Imogen had heard how Alex’s wife, the lovely Connie who’d spoken to her so kindly on her wedding day, had spent time in one of the most notorious brothels in London, courtesy of a Dankworth. Not the same one, but as a clan they were a menace. At least now they knew why. That damned woman, Maria Rubiero. Imogen’s birth mother.

Now dead, with all her secrets, except the ones turning London into a battleground.

Next to her, Ivan slowly eased into a seat, lowering his legs by fractions until he gave a deep sigh. “I couldn’t hold it any longer. But we’re not about to open the doors until we have to, are we?”

On the other side of her, Val did the same. “I never realized how painful that position could be.” They took care to keep their bodies well back against the seats, and they’d drawn the blinds on their side, so they were still hidden. The coach took another corner. They were nearly into the City now, and they’d turn on to the Great North Road to give the attackers a chance. The outriders would drop back on some excuse, to tempt them into the open.

“I am growing distinctly bored,” Val said. “Is anything about to happen?”

Tony gave a short laugh. “Try being a soldier. You can spend hours sitting around, waiting for something to happen. It does, and you pray for the boredom to return.”

“Humph.”

Ivan studied the mirrors. “Sharp corner ahead.”

Tony glanced at her, reminding her tacitly of her promise. If matters came to a head, she was to drop to the floor of the coach and cover her head. Julius’s travel coach had metal-covered lower doors, for protection against ordinary footpads. It would help to protect her if she needed it now.

A sharp sound rang out, and then another. Recently Imogen had heard enough shots to know one from the crack of a whip or someone dropping something heavy. That was a shot. It zinged off the side of the coach, and another shot followed on the heels of the first.

Tony rolled on to his stomach, his gun at the ready. Val and Ivan jumped to the floor, covering Imogen, protecting her. Imogen cocked her weapon and pointed it high, above the head of Ivan, sure the shot had come from that direction.

Hooves thundered outside as the outriders went into action, fulfilling their true purpose.

They were still in a busy part of London, approaching Covent Garden, on the fringes of the notorious rookery of Seven Dials. As the coachmen dragged the horses to a halt, commotion reigned. People didn’t usually fire shots in this area. Too dangerous, too uncertain.

Shouts from outside maddened Imogen. Here she was, surrounded by men more intent on caring for her. “You shouldn’t have shown yourself so soon! Let them come!”

“I saw him,” Ivan said grimly. “So did the outriders. He won’t get away.”

He didn’t. The clopping of hooves on cobbles announced the return of the outriders, slower than they’d left. Ivan stepped back as the door to the coach opened and Tony kicked the stretcher to the floor and moved over.

They’d already secured the assailant’s arms, tied behind his back at elbows and wrists. He kicked out as he sat, catching Ivan who swore and kicked back. The man yelped.

He wore a dark green cloth coat and plain waistcoat, with a cocked hat that he’d pulled over his eyes. He scowled at Imogen when she peered at him, and then his face cleared and astonishment took its place. “Your highness!” He’d have dropped to his knees if Tony had allowed him, but Tony had busied himself with a length of rope, securing the man’s ankles.

“Back to my house,” he ordered the outrider who waited outside the open door. “We’ll continue matters there.”

The man kept his mouth clamped shut during the twenty minute journey to the house in the uncomfortably cramped coach. Imogen changed places with their prisoner so she was sitting next to Tony, who held her hand, because they both needed it.