Revenge Wears Rubies (31 page)

“I’m looking forward to walking out with you, Galen.”

He smiled, enjoying the lighthearted impulse and glad he hadn’t worried too much about how foolish it might make him look to request so simple a thing. “Then let’s walk for practice and see how it will feel.”

He climbed out first and then held her hand as she descended to the ground beside him. The moon was full, and the normal haze of the city had lifted to give the air a pleasant aspect. Shadows through the treelined lane added to the atmosphere, and Haley played along with his proposed fantasy, taking his arm as if they were indeed just out for a turn.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Hawke! What a gentleman you are!”

“Ah! Wouldn’t my father be pleased to hear you say such a thing!” Galen spoke easily, then realized he’d volunteered a topic that would generally have been forbidden. He had an apprehensive truce with his father, ever since the Earl of Stamford had learned that the youngest son he’d accused of being a wastrel had quietly been assisting his older brother, Trevor, with his businesses and investments. It had been Trevor’s idea to send him to India—and Galen had gone knowing that he was, in the grander scheme of things, the more expendable of the two. In his extended absence, his father had learned the truth of Trevor’s dependence on his brother and the reason behind Trevor’s “generosity” to his younger sibling; and so it had been his father who had met him on the dock when Galen made it back to England.

“Does your father not realize what a man of quality you are?” she asked, innocently mystified.

“Mine seems to have set his opinion on quite a few things several years ago, and he hasn’t considered the passage of time,” Galen said. “A common occurrence, I think. Some parents may see you when you’re at some awkward stage and then they never look again—most likely out of a fear of being further disappointed.”

“And your mother?”

“Long gone.” Galen squeezed her hand. “She died at the same time my younger brother caught ill and—”

“Hawke!”

Galen wheeled around instinctively, drawing Haley behind him to protect her, and in a single instant, recognized the very real threat of the man lunging at them from behind one of the elms, the dim gleam off of the wicked curve of a wide blade held in his fist.

The man hissed through his teeth, muttering something in Hindi as he closed the gap between them, and Galen recognized the word for
thief
and
bastard
before his world narrowed to the man’s eyes glittering with loathing in the pale light and the movement of his shoulders and hands. He didn’t focus on the knife, knowing full well that by the time he registered its movement, it would be too late to step out of its path. So instead, he absorbed the full figure’s intentions, and each telling shift of his weight, praying his instincts were right.

This was a punching blade, but Galen didn’t have time to be grateful that it hadn’t been designed for throwing. It would be almost impossible to escape injury, as the blade could catch him on a strike or a withdrawal, and deflecting it without a shield or weapon of his own . . .

His internal debate was on how to draw the assassin in close enough to disarm him without finding that razor-sharp edge buried in his rib cage. He was going to need a miracle.

Haley screamed for Bradley behind them, as she ran toward the house, and his assailant’s eyes darted away for a single second at the unexpected noise and movement. It wasn’t much, but Galen decided it was the only miracle he was going to get. He darted forward, at the same time pulling his evening coat over his left forearm to try to pad it for defense and using his right elbow to the man’s jaw to stun him. The blow managed to graze the man’s jaw, and Galen tried to grab his wrist.

The attacker was wiry and strong, so instead of attempting to stop the knife, Galen stepped sideways, like a matador, and redirected the blade past his vulnerable midsection, then twisted around to drive them both to the ground.

It was a brief wrestling match, as Galen felt the knife drive home off bone and into flesh. For a moment, there was no sound but the wind through the elms, and Galen stared into his would-be assassin’s face and watched him slowly register pain.

“Welcome to London,” Galen muttered in disgust, loosening his grip to climb off the man—only to watch in shock as the injured assassin scrambled away to his feet like a crab and ran off down the darkened street. The urge to chase him never fully materialized, and Galen stood slowly, brushing off his pants and coat, before remembering Haley.

Galen looked back to find her on his doorstep, her hand upraised as if to pound on the door, but she was frozen, her eyes wide looking back at him—no doubt having watched the exciting conclusion to Galen’s close encounter with death. “Well, that wasn’t the romantic moonlight stroll I had in mind!”

“G-Galen!” She came back down the steps and rushed into his arms. He could feel her damp, hot tears through his waistcoat as she laid her head on his shoulder.

“Muggers . . .” He sighed, deliberately keeping his tone light. “Though it wouldn’t be London without them.”

“H-he could have killed you!”

“No,” he lied easily. “Did you see how clumsy and fat he was? Why, I don’t think he could have scratched a tree trunk without injuring himself! No doubt he’s in a bar right now, deciding it would be safer to pick the pockets of a juniper bush next time.”

“Th-that makes no sense, Galen.” She hiccupped, her eyes losing a little of their shocked, disconnected look.

“Really?” he asked, in a pretense of astonishment. “I thought I was being perfectly reasonable.”

“What was that language he spoke?”

Galen shrugged, unready to tell her too much. “Welsh, I think.”

She started to smile, but then the light from a street-light shone onto him as they turned back toward the steps and her eyes widened in panic. “Galen, there’s blood! You’re injured!”

Galen glanced down and realized his shirtfront had taken the worst of it. “No! I’m fine!” He deliberately closed his coat and then kept his tone calm and level, pulling her closer. “It’s not my blood, Haley. I think he must have cut his hand in the struggle and was rude enough to ruin my favorite shirt.”

“You’re sure? You’re not injured?”

“Let me see,” he said, then leaned over to kiss her, a distracting maneuver for them both. By instinct, he glided his lips over hers, the softest caress he could manage, evoking every tender thread in his psyche, wanting nothing more than to reassure her and reaffirm that he was truly alive. This was a gentle dance, and he kissed her slowly and patiently until at last, she sighed and melded against him. He lifted his head, wishing all his problems could be so delightfully resolved. “No, not a single scratch.”

“He knew your name, Galen. This was no random act! We should contact the authorities!”

“He could have overheard it from the coachman when he let us out at the corner, or even from you when we spoke. Not one of my best ideas, but somehow a short walk in the trees in the moonlight didn’t seem like a death-defying proposition earlier. And as for what we should do now, let’s get into the house and see if we can’t get cleaned up before getting you home safely.”

He guided her inside, but as they crossed the threshold, she seemed to weaken, tearful hiccups overcoming her, and Galen scooped her up and cradled her against his chest. “There, there now . . . you’re safe, and all is well, for I have you now.”

Bradley stepped forward, openly concerned. “Sir! Is everything all right? I thought I heard—”

“Yes. Just see to it there’s hot water in the pipes upstairs. Miss Moreland will be taking a bath, and we’re not to be disturbed.” Galen began to carry her upstairs, instantly more focused on Haley than Bradley’s mad scramble to race on the ground floor to relight the water furnace. She was so astute, but he wasn’t going to share his fears that she was right about the attack being planned.

He knew he would have to let Michael know, but there would be time to send word later. For now, he was far more interested in Haley’s well-being.

He reached his master bath and closed the door firmly behind them with the back of his heel, determined to shut out the jarring chaos a would-be assassin had introduced into his life. Kneeling, he lowered her onto a soft chair in the corner, reassessing her condition.

Galen was relieved to see that she looked more embarrassed than anything else, the spark of wit in her eyes returning in force. “I’m . . . fine! It’s not as if I . . . was going to faint.”

“Of course! You never faint, remember?”

“The theatre doesn’t count.” A last trailing hiccup undermined her show of strength. “There was a rat!”

“Oh!” He tried to keep a straight face, looking at her as if this new information about a rodent changed his entire perception of his place in the universe.

She hit him playfully on the arm before her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. “I don’t know what I would have done . . . if anything had happened to you . . .”

“But nothing has!” He took out his handkerchief and wiped away her tears as best he could, staggered by his own reaction to her genuine fear for him. He reached up to hold her face in his hands, cradling her as tenderly as he could to reassure her, looking into her eyes still shining with unshed tears. “Nor will it so long as I have you.”

Galen knew that he would rather have taken a bullet than have seen her harmed in any way. Michael had been warning them about nebulous threats for so long that Galen hadn’t really paid attention recently. Instead, he’d been caught in the web of his own making—unable to confess to Miss Moreland, unable to retreat and leave her exposed, and most of all, wondering whether even if he’d decided to let the ghosts of the past go, they were willing to leave.

He left her in the chair for just a moment and went over to turn on the hot water and see about filling up the tub. He knew Bradley hadn’t had time to make too much progress, but at this point, anything above freezing would do. He just wanted to go through the ritual, and in his experience, nothing soothed like a simple bath.

His fingertips confirmed that it was warm, but only a few degrees above tepid, so he wasn’t complaining. He poured in a little oil, then set the bottle aside along with towels and his bathing tray so that everything would be within reach.

“There! We’re almost ready for you,” he said, kneeling at her feet to begin untying her shoes.

“Are you playing valet now?”

He smiled, gently taking off her slippers. “I suppose I have to. You weren’t impressed with my skills as a ladies’ maid.”

“You kept trying to take my clothes off when I needed them back on, Galen.” Haley’s voice sounded stronger and more like her usual self, and Galen silently offered up a grateful prayer.

His hands slid up to untie her stockings, pulling the ribbons. “And here I am again . . .”

“I don’t wish to bathe alone.”

He relaxed his shoulders and pulled off his evening coat, dropping it casually over another chair in the corner. “I don’t wish you to, either.”

He helped her to her feet and began unbuttoning the jet buttons of her mantle. “Ah, the mysteries of women’s fashion . . .” He pulled it from her shoulders, treating it more carefully than he had his jacket, aware that even passion might not forgive a ruined ladies’ ensemble. He gently turned her around to address the lacings down the back of her green evening dress. “You wore this dress to that music concert, and I remember thinking that you looked like a jewel in it.”

“Is that what you were thinking?” she teased, and he knew she was remembering how he’d deliberately made love to her with his gaze that night.

He smiled, caught in the lie. “Well, that’s not
entirely
the bulk of my thoughts that evening, but I’m sure at some point I likened you to a jewel.” He finished loosening the dress and pushed it forward off of her shoulders. “Why do women wear so many layers?”

“Men wear almost as many, although you have the advantage of foregoing petticoats,” she noted dryly.

“Thank God.” He lowered his lips to her bare shoulder as he pulled her arms from the half sleeves of her gown. “Besides, it all looks far better on you.”

His tongue darted out to make a light trail of moisture, deliberately letting his breath set off a shiver down her spine as her skin pebbled. She turned to face him and smiled up at him as her fingers loosened his cravat and began to tug at the buttons of his shirt until his chest was bared for her.

She kissed his chest, lingering over his heartbeat, and then dropped down to lightly suck the brown points of his chest, nipping at the hard, warm planes and making him gasp at the innocent audacity of her explorations.

He wanted to touch all of her, smoothing and soothing the outlines of her frame, slowly trailing his fingertips down her arms and then back up to tease her through the barrier of her underclothes.

She caught one of his hands in hers and turned his palm upward to trace the lines in his hands. “Teach me.”

“Teach you what?”

“To read your hands, as you read mine. I want to see if
you
have known a great love.”

“But the trick doesn’t work. Remember? It failed to show your great love, didn’t it?”

She turned to him. “Have you known love before me, Galen?”

“I don’t want to talk about the past anymore, Haley. Not tonight.”

He turned his attention to the silk and lace confections of her underclothes, biting the inside of his cheek in concentration as he carefully untied her stays. Her figure certainly didn’t require a corset, but he was wiser than to voice his opinion. No lady of quality would ever abandon the contraption, and he was just grateful that Haley’s practical nature had kept her from contorting her natural beauty. Without rushing, Galen removed each layer in turn, enjoying the process that would bare her for him and setting aside her camisole, petticoats, silk chemise, and finally, her stockings.