Just One Touch (2 page)

“I’m coming out.”

She edged out from beneath the coach. Strong male fingers closed around her arm and nearly sent her back into terror. But no, he was just helping her to her feet. He released her the instant she had her balance.

“Are you injured?” He swept her tangled dark hair out of her face, then immediately dropped his hand to his side and searched her expression for a clue to her state. His eyes looked dark in the moonlight, but she knew they were gray. Storm-cloud gray.

“No…no, they didn’t hurt me.”

“Are you certain?” He cast a quick glance down her body, and she suddenly realized that she was standing in front of him in nothing more than her chemise—and that he had taken great care to look only at her face until this moment. “If they hurt you—in
any
way—-” he began, his expression darkening.

“No.” Face flooding with heat, she averted her gaze. “They were just…well, it doesn’t matter. Denton needs help.”

His mouth tightened. “It matters.”

He peeled off the cloak wrapped around his arm and shook it out. As he settled it around her shoulders, she realized it was still warm from his body.

“Now we shall see to your man.”

Clutching the cloak closed with clenched fingers, she nodded.

They made their way to Denton. Rogan dropped to his knees and tore open the man’s bloody clothing. The bullet had ripped a hole near his heart, and blood oozed from the wound.

“How bad is it?” she whispered, bile rising in her throat.

“Bad enough.” He leaned his ear close to Denton’s lips and gave a short nod. “’Tis a miracle he didn’t die of it. Help me carry him to the coach.”

He rose and went to the coachman’s head, and Caroline moved to his feet. Rogan slid his hands beneath Denton’s arms and lifted. The injured man groaned, and Rogan sent her a devastating grin that made her heart splutter even under such grim circumstances. “Still alive to complain about it, isn’t he? Take his feet now and help me.”

At her rescuer’s instruction, Caroline curled her arms around Denton’s legs as if he were an armful of firewood. The cloak slid off her shoulders, but she ignored it. Denton’s life was at stake. This was no time for modesty.

Together they shuffled toward the coach.

The woman tempted him beyond all reason.

Rogan looked down at the bloody chest of the man he carried so as to keep his mind off his companion. He could have easily carried the smaller man by himself. He had only asked for Caroline’s help to keep her attention focused on something besides her ordeal. His strategy seemed to be
working; she hadn’t succumbed to vapors and had set her mind to the task at hand.

But had he known the strain her scantily clad presence would put on his willpower, he would have wrapped her up in his cloak and tucked her into the coach from the first. Lady Caroline in her shift was a vision that would keep a man warm and smiling on a winter’s night. How many times had he fantasized about her looking this way?

She stumbled, and Denton lurched in his arms. He stopped. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She met his gaze, and though he saw fear in her lovely dark eyes, she wasn’t giving in to it. She shifted her grip on Denton’s legs, pulling them more tightly against her body and inadvertently plumping her small, firm breasts in a tantalizing display. “I’m ready.”

He swallowed hard and looked away. “Let’s move along then.”

Together they managed to get Denton to the coach. Rogan frowned at the narrow doorway.

“Perhaps I could go in through the other side,” she suggested. “I could pull him in, and you can push him from this side.”

“Good idea.”

She set down the coachman’s feet and scurried to the other side of the coach. The equipage creaked as she climbed inside. Then she was there in the doorway, pressing against his back as she reached around him to grab Denton’s shoulders. Rogan eased to the side, wrapping his arms around the injured man and pushing as she
pulled until the coachman’s head and shoulders rested inside the coach.

“Do you have him? I need to get his legs.”

She nodded, breathing hard as she strained to keep her hold on a man twice her size. Rogan shifted his grip to Denton’s legs and shoved, sending Caroline tumbling backward with the coachman on top of her. But he was in.

Rogan squeezed into the coach and rolled Denton aside; with a hand on her arm, he helped Caroline to slide out from under the dead weight. “We need to get him on the seat.”

She nodded and moved to Denton’s feet. Rogan crouched and took the upper body. With a great heave, they hauled the man onto the seat. The task complete, Caroline fell back onto the opposite bench with a sigh of relief. Rogan bent over Denton and checked his wound. “He’s begun to bleed again.”

“What do we do?”

He glanced at her and began to untie his neck cloth. “You’re going to have to keep pressure on the wound while I drive us to the village.”

“All right.”

He yanked the cravat from around his neck and folded it several times, then laid it over Denton’s wound. “Come here and hold this. I’m afraid you’ll have to sit on the floor.”

“That’s all right.” She came to kneel beside him. “Just show me what to do.”

“Keep the pressure on. Like this.” He took her hand and pressed her palm against the makeshift
bandage. A red stain crept across the snowy material. “Blast it, he’s bleeding too much. We’ll need another bandage.”

“My dress is outside,” she said, her gaze focused on the sweat beading Denton’s upper lip. “He tore it to pieces, so it’s only useful for bandages now.”

“I’ll get it.” He hopped from the coach and glanced back at her. “You’ve been very brave tonight, Lady Caroline.”

“We survived, Mr. Hunt,” she said quietly, startling him with the use of his name. “And if we hurry, Denton might survive as well.”

He nodded and went to finish what must be done.

E
verything seemed almost normal.

A bizarre peace had settled over her, a quiet numbness that silenced the panic. The steady clop of the horses’ hooves, the creaking of the coach as they rushed toward the village—why, it could have been just another day when she went about her charitable works.

Except, of course, for the fact that she wore only her chemise and her cloak, and that Denton’s life bled out from beneath the torn piece of her dress that she pressed against his wound.

Rogan had fetched her cloak for her when he’d brought back the dress. He’d handed the garment to her without a word and as she’d hurried to cover herself, he’d proceeded to tear her favorite yellow muslin into bandages. Halfway into the journey she’d already gone through several strips
of material, removing the old, blood-soaked pads every few minutes and replacing them with clean ones. Her coachman still breathed—though not steadily—and she worried about the paleness of his flesh and the fever that misted his face with sweat.

Rogan would get them to Dr. Raines before it was too late. She was sure of it. She dared not think otherwise.

Tossing aside a bloodied bandage, she folded another strip into a neat square and pressed it with her palm against Denton’s wound. She didn’t want to think about what might have happened to them had Rogan not found them. Denton would certainly have died, while she…

She swallowed hard, pushed back the painful memories. Best not to dwell on that. Denton needed her.

Deliberately she turned her thoughts to Rogan Hunt. She had formally made his acquaintance weeks before, when he’d come to offer to buy a mare from her father.
Her
mare, Destiny. But she had watched him before that, every time she’d seen him in the village. She’d nearly fainted the day he’d first visited Belvingham to offer to buy Destiny. Her father had refused that offer and the next two, but she had seen the determination in Rogan’s face and knew he wouldn’t give up.

Of course she knew why he wanted the mare. Destiny had been bred and raised by Rogan’s family. By Rogan himself, in fact. And everyone
knew the Hunts were the best horse breeders in England. Well, at least they had been.

Even cloistered away in the country as she was, she’d heard the gossip. Rogan’s father and brother, both wastrels from the sound of it, had sold off all the valuable stock while Rogan had been away fighting Napoleon on the Peninsula. Not that he could have stopped the sale anyway, being the second son, but he had loved those horses, had made them his life. Everyone had thought he would pick up the hell-raising lifestyle of his prewar days and drown his sorrows in the bottle when he found out what his family had done.

But Rogan had surprised everyone by electing not to pick up the life of depravity he had once embraced. Instead he had shut himself away from people, causing even more talk with his brooding solitude. Eventually she learned that he planned to start his own stables, using a small estate he had inherited from his late aunt. And he wanted Destiny to be the foundation of his new breeding program.

Deep inside, she applauded his determination. It made her admire him even more. But, darn it, Destiny was
her
horse now.

The coach slowed, and she rose up on her knees as they swept past the shadowed outlines of the familiar village buildings. Most were dark, though down at the end of the street she could hear music and laughter coming from the tap
room at the inn. Rogan drove on, passing the inn, and then turned, pulling up quietly behind the physician’s house.

The coach lurched as he climbed down from the driver’s seat. Then the door opened, and he stood there, a tall shadowy figure whose face she could barely make out with the moonlight behind him. “How is he?” he asked softly.

“Still bleeding,” she whispered back.

He murmured what might have been a curse, then climbed into the coach. Keeping pressure on the bandage, she shuffled aside as he knelt by the coachman’s head and checked his pulse with two fingers at the side of Denton’s neck. “Not good.”

He swung away to descend from the coach. She laid her free hand on his arm. “Mr. Hunt.”

He froze, whipped his head around to stare at her, even as she realized what she had done. She was touching him. She never touched anyone, except her father. Her fingers began to tremble, but she left them resting on his coat sleeve. “Thank you.”

He said nothing, and she couldn’t make out his expression in the dark, so she stammered on. “I…once Dr. Raines sees me here, we won’t be alone anymore, so I just wanted to express my gratitude now. You saved me from…well, you saved both of us, and I thank you.”

Silence stretched between them, though her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Then he slowly lifted her hand from his sleeve and brought her fingers to his mouth. His lips were soft, his breath
warm, and the kiss a mere brushing of his mouth against her knuckles. But the gentle squeeze of his hand around hers before he released her spoke volumes.

“I’ll be fetching the doctor,” he said, his voice rough and the faint Irish accent more pronounced than before. “I’m certain Mrs. Raines has a dress you can borrow.”

“Yes.” She lowered her hand to her side, cleared her throat. “I’m certain she does.”

“Stay in the coach until I come for you.” He climbed out and shut the door, then hurried toward the doctor’s house.

In the darkness of the coach, Caroline flexed her tingling fingers. Then she closed her hand into a fist, holding on to the moment.

Rogan was never so grateful for the darkness as he strode up to the doctor’s door and pounded on it. With one small touch, the girl had ripped his carefully maintained control to shreds.

Ever since the first day he’d seen her at her father’s estate, he’d been drawn to Lady Caroline. He knew her history; everyone knew. Her kidnapping and rescue at the age of fifteen had fueled the gossips for weeks.

The ordeal had resulted in a young woman who’d tried to continue a normal life. A debutante who’d collapsed of the vapors at her come-out ball. A girl who sequestered herself away from society on her father’s estate—an estate patrolled by guards and dogs.

The day he’d first seen her, her delicate looks had stopped his heart. She was so petite and slender, her heart-shaped face dominated by large brown eyes that made a man want to protect her. Shadows lurked in those eyes, horrible memories. He wanted to fold her into his arms, make that somber mouth smile, drive the fear away. But the same fragility that drew him to her was also the reason he had to keep his distance.

Lady Caroline was a dream he could never have, even if their difference in station had not forbidden the match.

He heard someone stir inside the house. Breathing deeply, he reined in his churning emotions. He hadn’t been touched so gently, so tenderly, in a very long time. It had shattered him, had smashed down the walls he had so painstakingly constructed to hold back the beast in him.

He clenched his fist and pounded again, taking grim satisfaction in the thud of his hand against the wood. He’d managed to thwart the highwaymen with cold deliberation rather than insane fury, and yet five minutes in Lady Caroline’s company had his carefully erected barriers crumbling. He had to forget about her; he knew what he was, and he didn’t deserve such sweetness.

He glanced back at the carriage just as someone opened the door to the house. Light spilled out into the night, illuminating the well-sprung conveyance, glittering off the ducal crest mounted on the door.

A reminder of what could never be.

He turned back to see young Dr. Raines standing in the doorway, his brown hair mussed and spectacles hanging off his nose as he haphazardly shoved his shirttails into the waist of his trousers. “Yes, what is it?”

“I’m Rogan Hunt. A man’s been shot.”

“Rogan…Hunt?” The physician cleared his throat, clearly recognizing Rogan’s name and the reputation that went with it, then nervously pushed the spectacles up with his finger and stepped outside. “Shot, you say? You didn’t…?” He shut his mouth with an audible click. “Where is he?”

Unfazed by the man’s distrust, Rogan turned to indicate the carriage. “In there. It’s a chest wound.”

Immediately the doctor’s uncertainty vanished, and he strode purposefully toward the coach. “Let’s get him inside then.” He reached for the carriage door. Rogan stayed his hand.

“I want to warn you that there’s a lady in there as well,” he said in a low voice. “She’s been through an ordeal tonight.”

“A lady?” The doctor glanced at the coat of arms on the door of the conveyance and blanched. “Good God, Lady Caroline!” He jerked open the door. “Lady Caroline, are you all right?”

Caroline knelt right where he’d left her, keeping pressure on Denton’s wound. She’d pulled her cloak more snugly around her, and her long hair hung in tangles around her shoulders, giving her more the look of a madwoman than a duke’s
daughter. Yet she gave the physician a welcoming smile as if she were serving tea and not staunching the blood from a chest wound. “Good evening, Dr. Raines. I’m afraid my coachman has been shot by highwaymen.”

“Are
you
injured?” The physician hopped into the carriage beside her, taking in her shocking state of undress. He glanced back at Rogan, suspicion flickering across his face.

“No, Mr. Hunt came along in the nick of time.” Her eyes met Rogan’s in an instant of warm communication before she sent a concerned glance at her coachman. “But I fear for Denton.”

The doctor bent over the man and lifted the bloody bandages. “How long ago was he shot?”

“Less than half an hour.” Rogan stepped forward. “I can help you carry him.”

“Absolutely. We must get him inside at once. Lady Caroline, if I may—” The doctor pushed past her to take Denton’s feet as Rogan squeezed his broad-shouldered frame into the doorway to grab his arms. Caroline sat back in the opposite seat and tried to make herself as small as possible so the two men had room to move.

“One…two…
three
!” The physician gave a soft grunt as they lifted the coachman and maneuvered him out of the coach. Caroline climbed out and hastened after them.

“To your left,” Dr. Raines directed as they entered his home. “Now lie him on the table. And if you would please remove his clothing, Mr. Hunt?”

Caroline peered into the doctor’s examining room. Rogan had begun to strip off Denton’s garments, and Dr. Raines stood at a basin, scrubbing his hands. The sound of footsteps drew her attention as Mrs. Raines hurried down the stairs.

“Wesley, do you need me?” the pretty blond called. She had thrown on a serviceable gray dress and was tying her long hair back with a ribbon as she hurried toward the examining room. Her gaze fell on Caroline, and she stopped short in the hallway.

Dr. Raines appeared in the doorway, drying his hands off with a towel. “Amanda, please see to Lady Caroline. Her coach was attacked by highwaymen.”

“Good heavens!” The doctor’s wife came forward, taking one of Caroline’s hands in both of hers. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” She fingered her cloak, suddenly embarrassed. “Though if you have something I could wear…”

“Of course. Come upstairs with me.”

As Caroline followed Mrs. Raines, Rogan stepped out of the examining room, fastening his cloak. “I’ve got one of the highwaymen tied to my horse outside,” he said over his shoulder to the doctor. “I’ll take him to the magistrate. Will you see to it that Lady Caroline gets home safely?”

A murmur of assent came from the examining room.

He was leaving? Caroline halted with one foot on the first step. “Mr. Hunt.”

Rogan looked up, clearly startled to see her there. “Yes, Lady Caroline?”

She turned away from the stairs and walked over to him. He watched her warily, not moving a muscle as she stopped before him. She wanted to touch him again, to calm the tension she felt coming off him, but they weren’t alone now. “I would appreciate it if you would return,” Caroline said softly. “I would feel safer if you accompanied me home.”

A muscle tightened in his jaw. “If you wish.”

“I do wish it, and I’m certain my father will want to thank you.”

He gave a jerky nod, then turned away with a swirl of his cloak and stalked from the house.

The Duke of Belvingham was being murdered.

Some would say he imagined it. Others might speculate that recent events had driven him to see enemies behind every bush and tree. But he knew it was the truth, even as his cold-blooded killer sat miles away in Somerset, smiling and drinking with his cronies, acting completely oblivious to the slow, inexorable demise of his victim.

Alone in his private library, the duke shook off the lassitude brought on by the late-night darkness. He hefted himself out of the chair where he awaited his daughter’s return and shuffled to the window. His joints ached with the exertion, his heart screaming in protest as his lungs worked to suck in air. Clutching the window frame, he looked out at the night, at the fields and shadows
of his estate, and wondered how long he had left to live.

“Bastard.” The word wheezed through parched lips, an epithet spat at his distant, clever killer. At Randall Althorpe, his own flesh and blood, whose greed for the Belvingham title had driven him to murder—now, and eight years before.

His knees weakened at the memory, at the horror of discovering Randall’s perfidy only weeks ago in the deathbed confession of one of the villain’s former colleagues. Gripping the windowsill with shaking fingers, he somehow managed to remain on his feet, even as the face of his son flashed through his mind.

Stephen, drowned eight years ago in the estate pond in what had seemed to be a tragic turn of youthful folly.

But now he knew the truth, knew that Randall, a distant cousin who had stood second in the line of succession, had taken drastic measures to assure that he would move into position as Belvingham’s only heir.

He shouldn’t have confronted him. The duke’s mouth twisted in a grimace at his own stupidity. Only sheer shock had driven him to visit Randall and challenge him with the truth. He’d seen the change in Randall’s demeanor, how the amiable light had faded from his eyes, to be replaced by a sinister gleam. The agreeable boy he had always known had disappeared, to be replaced by a sneering, cocky weasel of a man who not only admitted to Stephen’s murder but bragged about
it as well. Because there was no evidence. There was nothing the duke could do to punish him. Heartsick, Belvingham had left in disgust.