Surrender to a Wicked Spy (29 page)

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, you're the Lion, who protects the Crown, blah, blah, blah." She poked him in the arm, hard. "Your lady is in danger and—"

Dane caught her hand—a grievous offense to be sure, to grab another lord's lady, but he didn't care.

"What do you know of the Lion?"

She tugged her hand back and folded her arms. "I'm the granddaughter of a previous Cobra, you big lout. I'll wager I know more about the Royal Four than you do!" She narrowed her snapping eyes and poked him again, harder. "And if you grab me again, I'll tell Nathaniel—and see if he won't dust the floor with your arse, Viking throwback or no!"

She turned and flounced furiously from the library.

In the doorway, Marcus moved adroitly from her path; then he entered the library with his head turned as he gazed after her. "What did you do to Reardon's lady?"

Viking throwback? Did all ladies see him as some sort of marauder? Dane flexed his bicep to ease the primary poking spot. "I disagreed with her," he said tightly.

Marcus nodded sagely. "Oh. She thought you should be combing the countryside for Olivia?"

Dane shot his friend a dark look. "Do not begin."

Marcus threw out his hands. "I have no issue with your decision… although when you think about it, she likely has some excellent intelligence information on the Chimera. It might be worth tracking her down for that alone."

"And it might be a ploy to drag me away from the Prince Regent again!"

Marcus blinked. "Again? Wasn't it you who dragged her away last night?"

"A night for which I will undoubtedly pay for the rest of my life," Dane said quietly. His anger wasn't dependable. That was the worst part. He kept slipping into pain and loss and missing her lopsided smile and her husky laugh and—

If he could only hold on to a solid foundation of anger, he could manage to think all this through.

But George was the worst.

"You're a fool. An idiot. A great fair-haired waste of meat! That rat of a valet has
kidnapped
your lady and you immediately decide that she has run off with the bugger!"

Dane took a breath. He must not kill the Prince Regent. He must not kill the Prince Regent. It would be very bad. "One of your own Guard said Olivia helped Sumner—"

"Oh, goat shite! What are you listening to him for? The bloody Guard are hired for brawn and bravery, not for brains!
I'm
telling you that she wouldn't leave you, not for money or love or a room of her own in the palace!"

"I don't
want
to find her!" Dane's bellow echoed in the vast room. "If I find her, I might be forced to hang her!"

George stared at him for a long moment. "Good God, you are even madder than you are stupid. All Four of you are as mad as hatters on Sunday." He scowled and waved his hand. "Get out, you great giant fool. I hope she did leave you. You don't deserve her."

So Dane got out. Marcus could keep watch over His Highness for a while. As Dane left the east wing, he spotted the little lady's maid, Petty. She bobbed the scarcest bow and shot him a scathing glance as she scurried by.

Finally, driven out of his own house by the joint disapproval of all, Dane rode out through Kirkall Wood, as was his habit when upset. The wood was quiet and dim this gray afternoon and entirely unoccupied, thank God.

«
^
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Olivia awoke again, this time facedown in the dry brown needles beneath the pines. She blinked back the constant pounding long enough to look over her shoulder.

The place where she'd originally fallen was out of sight. That meant she must be nearly halfway to the old path—mere moments of walking quickly but hours when moving at a dragging crawl. Uphill.

She took a breath and reached forward with her filthy hands to dig into the needles and chill earth. One leg wasn't working well—or at all—so she slid the other knee high. With a hoarse, nearly soundless cry, she hauled herself up eighteen more inches of hillside. Her damaged thigh sent a red haze of agony over her vision, but she clung to her position, waiting out the dizziness as she had fifty times before.

She lay there, panting, waiting for the pain to ease. If she'd had any voice left at all, she would have indulged in some therapeutic vulgarity, but she'd screamed it entirely away, calling for a man who wasn't going to come for her.

She'd screamed for him, cried for him, begged for him—yet never had she heard a single indication that anyone was searching the wood for her, not even to follow the tracks her horse must have left in the softened soil of the path. Some mighty hunter Dane was. No wonder he felt it necessary to shoot helpless birds.

She'd left the horse at the top of the path, tied to a branch. If it hadn't pulled free, she could—she hoped rather than believed—pull herself astride and ride back to Lord Gargoyle's perfect hall.

With any luck at all, she would bleed all over the creamy marble floor of the entrance hall before she died and the Gargoyle staff would never be able to get the stain out.

She took another deep breath. Reach. Dig.
Pull
.

Finally, she'd nearly crawled up the entire hill to the path. One more great heave and she should be able to see her horse.

She closed her eyes and hauled herself up the last foot and a half to drop her torso over onto the level ground. She nearly passed out again…

No. She would fall back down the ravine.
Hold on
. She fought it back. She was nearly safe now.

The haze passed and she blinked thankfully up the path where her horse was tied.

Nothing. A clear view down the path and the small patch of road visible there. She turned her head to search the other direction. Maybe she'd moved too far back—

There was nothing there. The horse was gone.

The soft earth under her belly crumbled. Olivia flung her arms wide to catch herself, to no avail. She slid off the level ground and several yards back down the slope.

After the first mad gallop had worn off the worst of his fury—or whatever that feeling was—Dane allowed Galahad to choose his own path. Dane sat back in the saddle and closed his eyes, letting the sway of the stallion's long-legged walk rock him into some kind of peace.

The wood was so quiet. Most of the birds had already left for warmer climes and the small furred creatures were on their way to their long winter sleep. There was only the bluster of the wind through the orange carpet of fallen leaves and the muted thud of Galahad's hooves on the damp earth of the path.

Galahad whickered gently. Dane opened his eyes to see that they were on the old path to the road.

Olivia's escape route.

Even as he had that thought, something bright caught his eye. Reining Galahad to a halt, Dane dismounted and plucked a trampled hair ribbon from the mud. She never could keep her hair ornaments in. Orange. The guard had said Olivia had been wearing the orange gown.

God, Dane hated that gown, despite the rewarding neckline. The color made her look sallow and sad—

He clenched his eyes shut and crumpled the ribbon in his fist. Her wardrobe was no longer his concern, unless one counted the rope necklace he dreaded to give her.

Keeping his bitterness high, right where he could find it when he needed it, Dane forced himself to twist the knife by following her route as she left him.

Walking his horse slowly down the path toward the road, Dane assured himself that he was not wallowing in grief. He was merely making sure he never forgot the lesson he had learned. He must never allow himself to forget who he was.

Perhaps he would have his siren mural repainted with treacherous moonlight eyes and honey golden hair…

Olivia had fought her way back within two yards of the path before she'd run dry of strength and will. Now it was all she could do to cling to what ground she'd won.

She looked up at the unreachable path with eyes fogged by what she was very much afraid was blood loss and fever.

Dane was there.

He'd come at last! In a moment, he would cast his gaze about—for surely he was searching for her—and he would see her, right here waiting for him!

He walked right on by, his gaze locked on the ground at his feet.

"
Dane! "
Her voice was a whisper, lost in the rustling of the breeze in the leaves. She pounded the earth, but it was lost under the thud of his white stallion's hooves on the ground.

She tried to crawl closer—surely Dane would hear her struggling; surely he would turn and look about himself, the great oblivious lout!

Her efforts cost her. The world spun and darkened. She reached—
please, help me
—

Her hand found a stone the size of her fist. She pulled it from the soft earth and flung it wildly at her stupid, idiot, self-absorbed husband.

"Ow!" Then, "Olivia!"

She lifted her head to pin his shocked eyes with a furious gaze. "
Bastard
," she hissed, then fainted dead away.

Dane burst through the front doors of Kirkall Hall with his filthy, bloody wife in his arms.

"Kinsworth, fetch that physician back immediately!"

A burly footman stepped forward to take Olivia from Dane, as if she were an oversize parcel. Dane held her close and strode past him. "Mrs. Huff, bring hot water and clean cloths! Petty! Damn it all, where is Petty!"

Petty appeared at the top of the stairs, then paled as she saw what he carried. "Is she dead? Is my lady dead?"

"Silly girl, of course not!" scolded Mrs. Huff. "His lordship has saved her!"

His lordship nearly killed her
, but Dane didn't waste breath correcting the woman. He ran up the stairs, snapping orders all the way. "Petty, you must help me bathe her and put her in a clean shift—"

Lady Reardon stepped into his path. "
I'll
help Petty. You've done quite enough."

"My lady," Dane growled. "Get out of my way."

She stepped back but followed him to the mistress's bedchamber. He gently deposited Olivia on the bed, then knelt beside her.

"Oh, dear God," Lady Reardon breathed. "She must have crawled a mile. She went after the traitor herself, didn't she?"

Dane closed his eyes. His insides burned with shame. He'd abandoned his breathtaking Olivia out there, bleeding and broken, to die like a carriage-struck dog.

Lady Reardon knelt on the other side of the bed to take one of Olivia's filthy, bleeding hands tenderly in hers. "Oh, you poor creature." She turned to look at Dane. "Is that a bullethole in her skirt?"

Dane nodded, his vision filled with what he'd found when he'd inspected her unconscious form in the wood. "The bullet is still—" Her thigh had been discolored and swollen, already beginning to flush with fever. He swallowed and took a breath. "It must be dug out."

Lady Reardon forced back her sympathy and began inspecting Olivia all over. "She has a head wound as well. Concussion. I'll check her out thoroughly in the bath. Do you think whoever it was—" She turned dark eyes to Dane. "Do you think they—"

He shook his head quickly. Not that, at least. Sumner had been in a great hurry to escape, he imagined.

Of course, when Lady Reardon undressed Olivia, she would see the marks that he himself had left on her last night. Not so bad, except for those places where his teeth scraped her breast…

Oh God. His Olivia was right. He was such a bastard. He started to rub his hands over his face, then stopped. He had her blood all over his shirt and weskit—

All over his hands.

He stripped off his coat and weskit, rubbing at the stains on his hands with the expensive superfine wool.

Only then did he touch her again. He picked up her poor, battered hand and held it over his heart.

Uncaring that Lady Reardon watched, he dropped his head to roll his brow on Olivia's shoulder. "Do not die, my lady," he whispered. "Who will laugh at me if you die?"

Petty rushed into the bedchamber, followed by an army of footmen carrying enough steaming water to bathe all of the elephants in the Royal Menagerie. Lady Reardon stood up and clapped her hands. "Men, out! Huff, Petty, to me!"

Dane watched as his loyal staff offered instant obedience to Reardon's little tyrant. Olivia ought to have taken charge like that, Dane thought dully. Instead, she had tried to win them over with her sweetness and caring, wanting his army of servants to be her new family.

He could have told her how it was done, if he'd cared to. He could have eased her way in so many avenues.

Instead, he'd plugged her into the slot designated "Lady Greenleigh" in the vast Greenleigh machine and left her there to fly or flounder, judging her performance more harshly with every passing day.

Lady Reardon put her hands on his chest and pushed, but nothing happened. He turned his gaze down at her. "I'm staying."

"Then you're staying out of the way." She pointed to the chair that had been pulled aside to make room for the copper bathing tub. He followed her direction, but he did not sit. Instead, he stayed where he could see everything over the heads of the women.

They held Olivia gently in the warm water and stroked the bloodstains away with soft sponges. Petty worked her fingers through Olivia's matted hair, removing the clotted blood and woody filth. "Do you think the physician will make us cut her hair? We mustn't cut her hair," he heard Petty whisper to Lady Reardon. "She says it is her only good feature."

Dane's eyes began to burn. So strong and lovely and generous, yet she thought only her hair was passable. He stared unblinking at the figured wallpaper until he had the engulfing remorse under control.

Bastard.

Finally, the three women had Olivia bathed. Dane stepped forward without a word to lift her from the tub, letting the now-brownish bathwater stream down his clothing without care.

Once Olivia was dried and clothed in a brief shift that would allow the physician to tend to her leg, Dane laid her on the clean bed linens, then tucked the bedclothes gently beneath her chin.

She murmured something and rolled her head. Dane pressed a hand to her forehead. "She's hot."