Some Enchanted Evening (17 page)

At the bloodcurdling shriek, the thieves lifted their heads in surprise, but when they realized only one man raced toward them, their alarm turned to bellows of laughter. Almost casually one of them lifted his pistol and pointed it at Hepburn.

Fear blossomed, clouding Clarice's vision with red anger. Screaming Hepburn's name, she urged Blaize into motion. She galloped down the slope, Blaize's hooves striking the ground like flint against tinder.

But Hepburn's horse gathered itself and made a smooth, long leap right at the gap-toothed reaver.

As the horse's hooves flew at his head, the thief screamed. He rolled. The pistol discharged, and when he staggered to his feet, Clarice expected to see blood. On him, on Hepburn.

But the shot had gone astray. Clarice pulled Blaize up, trying to decide what she should do to help Hepburn. Rush in and distract the thieves? Or stay out of the way?

Giving a roar of rage, the reaver threw his smoking, useless pistol aside.

His friend, broad-shouldered and big-bellied, abandoned the savaged crofter. Grabbing a stout staff from the woodpile, he made it whistle as he spun it over his bald head. He raced toward his horse.

But Hepburn wheeled around and cut him off. In a feat of riding that left Clarice breathless, he cantered between the villains' horses and the tree, freeing their reins as he went. He let loose another one of those shrieking, terror-inspiring war cries, and the villains' horses panicked, galloping away in a frenzy.

The thieves shrieked their fury — and their panic. Hepburn was mounted. They were not. He would ride them down. . . .

But he didn't.

He galloped in a circle around the bald man with the staff, making him twist and turn, then, while he was off balance, Hepburn charged him and snatched the staff from his hand.

The bald man slipped onto one knee. His curses rang through the valley.

Halfway down the slope, Clarice held Blaze still. Hepburn knew what he was doing. She didn't, and she didn't want to get in Hepburn's way.

She was
afraid
to get in Hepburn's way.

He hurled the staff like a spear at the first man, rode past the bald robber, and while the horse was in full canter threw himself from the saddle onto Baldy. They went tumbling, fists flying in a brutal physical battle that raised goose bumps on her flesh. She'd never seen, never heard, such a fight.

Hepburn was on the bottom, taking, giving, blow after blow.

Toothless drew a knife from his belt and charged toward the fray.

She shrieked, "Robert! A knife!" and started Blaize galloping once more.

At the sound of her voice, Hepburn lifted Baldy with his feet and fists and threw him at Toothless. The two villains sprawled in the grass.

Hepburn stood, pointed his finger at Clarice, and shouted, "Stay!"

As if she were a dog. As if she were his serf!

And, hands trembling, heart pounding, she obeyed him like a dog or a serf. She didn't dare not. She didn't recognize this man, this Hepburn. He was a savage, and she was more afraid of him than of the louts he fought.

The louts had grown afraid too. She could see it in the way they stood, slowly rising to their feet and mumbling to each other, trying to come up with a strategy to defeat the lunatic who stalked them with feral intent.

They let him come, then circled, one on each side of him.

Hepburn grinned. Clarice could see his glee. He gestured them in, closer and closer, and when Toothless charged him with the knife, Hepburn stepped aside, caught his wrist, and twisted.

When she heard the bones snap, Clarice's stomach turned.

Toothless went down screaming, writhing in agony.

Above the noise Clarice heard Hepburn saying, "You were on my estate last night, weren't you?"

No
. Clarice had seen the man on the estate. It wasn't one of these men.

"I dunna even know who ye are." Baldy backed away as Hepburn stalked forward.

"Liar." Hepburn flexed his fists. "You dared to spy on my home."

"I'm from Edinburgh. I dunna know who ye are, and I'm na' a spy. I'm an honest thief, I am." Hepburn's blow caught Baldy's ear so hard, his head snapped sideways.

Like a prizefighter, Baldy slipped under Hepburn's guard and landed him a blow on the chin.

Before Clarice could do more than choke off a gasp, Hepburn dodged the next hit, avoiding Baldy's hamlike hands, and placed two punches to Baldy's nose. Blood spurted, and Hepburn said steadily, "Blackguard. You were watching my house."

Baldy tried to smash him to the ground.

Hepburn weaved away and clipped Baldy's eye. "Who paid you to watch the house?"

Baldy staggered back. "Ye're a crazy whoreson, ye know that?"

"I know." Hepburn hit him again. "Who?"

"I ne'er been t' yer house." Wheeling, Baldy tried to run.

Hepburn's foot shot out. He tripped him. Waited until Baldy lurched to his feet. Tripped him again. Standing over him, Hepburn asked, "Were you going to rob me?"

Baldy's arm swept under Hepburn's knees.

Hepburn did a somersault and came back to his feet. Reaching down, he grabbed Baldy and dragged him up to stand on his feet. "What were you going to steal?" He clipped Baldy on the chin.

"Nothing. I vow. Nothing." Baldy was weaving, punching, trying to strike Hepburn.

Hepburn punched him in the chest, boxed his ear, smashed his nose.

Blinded by his own blood, Baldy fell to the ground and gasped. "Don't know ye."

Hepburn stood staring at the men on the ground, chest heaving, his expression demonic. To the writhing Baldy he said, "I'm the earl of Hepburn. These are my people that you killed, that you robbed."

Blubbering, Baldy promised, "Ne'er again."

"That's right. Never again." Leaning down, Hepburn pulled him up by his shirt and punched him again.

Clarice couldn't watch anymore. She rode to his side. "Lord Hepburn!" She slid from the saddle. "Lord Hepburn!" She caught his arm as he prepared to hit the now-unconscious man. "Lord Hepburn, stop. You have to stop!" The sour taste of bile coated her throat, and her voice quivered abominably.

Lifting his head, Hepburn stared at her as if he'd never seen her before. His hair stood on end. His sleeve had been slashed by the knife. Blood sheeted his arm. He looked as if the devil himself had taken possession of his soul, and she feared he would hit her too.

Then his chest rose in a long, slow breath. His face cleared. He dropped his arm. He dropped the body. In a voice that sounded frighteningly calm and normal, he instructed, "Your Highness, ride back to MacKenzie Manor and send someone for MacGee. I'll tend to him until they get back."

"But" — she indicated his wound — "my lord, you're hurt."

Glancing at his arm indifferently, he said, "I've had worse. MacGee hasn't, poor bastard." He whistled for Blaize and the stallion trotted over.

Hepburn lifted her into the saddle, and the touch made her shiver in terror. But not revulsion, God help her. Never revulsion.

"If we don't get MacGee help, he's going to die." Hepburn slapped Blaize's rump to start him off. "Hurry."

Chapter Fifteen

A princess performs needlework to create an object of beauty, and to display her beautiful hands and graceful gestures.

— The Dowager Queen of Beaumontagne

From the window of Hepburn's study, Clarice watched Robert ride in, bloody, bruised, and apparently unfazed. She marked his progress through the corridors by the female shrieks of horror and his low, reassuring murmur. She stood in the twilight shadows as he entered the room, and she heard him say, "I'm fine, Millicent. I don't need a surgeon to stitch up such a small scratch. I must look at the mail that arrived this afternoon, then I promise I'll rest. Go back to your guests. God knows they need you more than L" He shut and locked the door in his sister's anxious face and made his way toward his desk, where the mail was stacked on a silver salver.

Clarice took the moment to study him. He sported a slight puffmess around his eyes, a little bruising at his jaw, but all in all, for a man who had been in a vicious fight only a few hours before, he looked very good. Except for that slash on his arm — it needed tending.

Without lifting his head, he said, "Don't hover there. Your Highness, come out and care for me. That is what you intended, isn't it?"

He hadn't appeared to, but he had noticed the table she'd set up with her scissors, her sewing kit, and the basin of warm water. He had noticed her too, and as she stepped into the light, he looked directly at her.

His eyes were red-rimmed.

He was still in a rage.

Her heart speeded up. She wanted to run. She wanted to stay. She wanted to make sure he was all right. She didn't care. She had seen him at his worst, in an uncontrollable rage, a rage so deep and murderous he would have gladly killed. And she'd seen him at his best, for he'd been fighting for his people.

But the composure and compassion Grandmamma had taught her was deeply ingrained, and he ...

With great deliberation he looked away, putting a distance between them that had nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with rebuff.

So she managed to speak with serenity. "How is MacGee?"

"His wife's dead, but he'll live." With a sneer at the pile of mail, Hepburn moved toward her. "He's with the surgeon in town."

With much satisfaction she noted Hepburn wasn't going to deny his injuries to her.

"You've got blood on your hands from handling MacGee." She dipped Hepburn's hand into the basin of water. Red oozed off his knuckles — and oozed, and oozed. It was his blood, she realized, Hepburn's blood.

Of course. The way he'd battered those men had been fierce and brutal. How could he not have hurt his hands?

She said, "I'll wrap your fingers as soon as I stitch the slash on your arm. Remove your shirt."

He didn't move. He stood there as if he hadn't heard her, or as if she were speaking a foreign language.

She reached for his wrecked cravat, intending to help him, but so swiftly she never saw him move, he knocked her hands away. With his right hand he grabbed the gaping slash in his left sleeve, ripped the material off, and tossed it away. "There."

Modesty? From the man who only last night urged her toward his bed
? She picked up soft strips of cotton, dampened them, and gently wiped off the dried blood from his wound.
She didn't believe it
.

"Where did a princess learn to stitch a knife wound?" He stood with his head hanging. His chest rose and fell in hard breaths, and his voice was guttural. Yet the question was reasonable.

"Grandmamma isn't a woman who suffers fools lightly." Carefully Clarice touched the edges of the wound, trying to see how deep the knife had gashed. The muscle was mostly intact, but the skin curled back and would take more stitches than she'd realized, which made his indifference all the more incredible. He had to be in intense pain. Absentmindedly she continued. "Grandmamma taught all of us girls to sew, and when the revolution started, she told us that we might have to work among the wounded. She said it was our duty to our loyal soldiers. She said we would be the symbols that they were fighting for."

"And did you work among your loyal subjects?"

"No. Grandmamma said we should stay and die for our country. My father thought not. He sent us to England. Sometimes I wish we hadn't gone . . . but that's foolishness, I suppose. I suppose, if we had stayed, we would be dead too. As long as we're alive, there's hope that —" She caught herself. She didn't like to talk about hope. She didn't like to feel hope. It made an otherwise perilous life almost unbearable.

She especially didn't want Hepburn to know that in the deepest, darkest corner of her heart, a tiny flame of optimism never died, for she feared that somehow he would use that flame against her, just as he had used her affection for Blaize to ensnare her into the madness of his charade.

She urged him toward a chair beside the table. "Won't you sit while I place the stitches?"

"No." The muscle in his jaw flexed as he stared straight ahead. "I'll stand."

"As you wish." Ah, love was a burden almost past bearing, yet when Clarice looked at him standing there, wounded in body and soul, she experienced longings that stirred her heart more powerfully than any other emotion in her life.

Not that her feelings were love. She wasn't fool enough to think that. But she craved and hated him. When she was gone from this place, she would dream of him still, for he had invaded her soul with his touch and his kisses and his jewel-bright eyes.

Now she had to touch him. Heal him. And do it without alerting him to her affection, for he showed no such fondness to her. Indeed, he stood completely still, ignoring her as if she were a piece of the furniture . Threading her needle with the catgut, she tried a jest. "Shall I use a fancy cross-stitch?"

"Just sew it up." He watched his own fingers as he flexed them. "How many sisters do you have?"