The Worldly Widow (8 page)

She heard the soft cry before one of the shadows fell back, then sank to his knees. Annabelle was on her feet.
Which one
?
her mind screamed.

Horrified, she watched as the other man closed in for the kill. In that moment she knew that Dalmar, stringer to her though he was, would never kill a wounded adversary. The man who was poised to administer the
coup de grace
had to be the Frenchman.

She did not think of consequences. With an anguished cry, she hurtled down the stairs. Upon her sudden appearance, Livry
'
s startled eyes were diverted from his target. It was all that Dalmar needed. With superhuman strength, he parried
the Frenchman
'
s blade and thrust.

A look of pained surprise flickered in the Frenchman
'
s eyes. He staggered, holding his chest. His back hit the wall, and he sank to his heels. The sword fell from his inert fingers.

Annabelle rushed to Dalmar.

"Stubborn woman,
"
he growled at her. "Can
'
t you ever do what you
'
re told?
"

At that moment, he could have cursed her up and down Britain from Land
'
s End to John o
'
Groats and Annabelle would have thanked him for it. That he was not mortally wounded was more than she had hoped for. That he had the temper to take her to task in such uncompromising tones filled her with an overwhelming relief. Tears started to her eyes. She hiccuped.

Dalmar, correctly assessing the fragile thread which held her together, roughly interposed, "For God
'
s sake, give me your arm. If anyone else comes through that door, we
'
re done for. Now move!
"

The harsh imperative acted on Annabelle exactly as Dalmar intended it to. She kneeled before him and said in a voice that was almost normal, "You
'
re bleeding like a pig. I
'
ll bind your arm with your neckcloth,
"
and suiting action to words, she quickly untied his linen cravat and stemmed the flow of blood which seeped from the wound near his shoulder. With his good arm around her, she supported him till they had gained the stairs.

"What the devil is in that hatbox?
"
asked Dalmar, diverting her attention as they brushed by the prone figure of the Prussian.

Without thinking, Annabelle answered, "Papers.
"

Their progress up two flights of stairs was slow enough to fill Annabelle with renewed alarm, for sounds of what gave every evidence of becoming a slaughter seemed to echo through the dark corridors of the building. It was only as Dalmar locked the door to his rooms behind them and shot home the bolt that she allowed herself to sag against him.

"Ransome!
"
he roared.

The summons was answered immediately by a giant of a man who cursed softly under his breath as he took in at a glance the
torn and tattered dishabille of the woman who supported the injured man whose features were etched in
l
ines of pain.

"What the devil?
"
he exclaimed, coming forward.

"Prussians and the hot-headed
garde du corps,
"
said Dalmar by way of explanation, and transferred his weight from Annabelle
'
s slender shoulders to the more cap
able arms of the gentleman who w
aited on him.

With legs that were perilously close to buckling beneath her, Annabelle followed them down a long, dark corridor and into what was evidently a gentleman
'
s bedchamber. As Dalmar was led to the great tester bed, s
he sank gratefully into an old-
fashioned overstuffed armchair. The word
impropriety
never once entered her head. She had no notion that her breasts were practically bared to the waist, and was scarcely aware of the giant as he solicitously covered her with a blanket. For the last hour, she had been living on her nerves. Now that the threat to life and limb was removed, she was fast sinking into a state of shock.

A large glass of brandy materialized from nowhere. A voice, soft and kind, said some words to her. Obedient to the command, Annabelle choked down the fiery liquid.

The glass was miraculously replenished. Again Annabelle obediently drained it to the dregs. A shudder passed over her, and she became conscious that the soft-spoken giant was addressing her.

"The colonel asks if you would mind waiting in the dressing room. I
'
ve taken the liberty of setting things out for you.
"

From the depths of the bed came Dalmar
'
s laconic drawl. "Annabelle, go and tidy yourself. For God
'
s sake, woman, you
'
re half naked, and the rags that are covering you look as if they
'
ve been baptized in blood.
"
On
a more gentle note, he added, "
There
'
s a good girl. I
'
ll send for you when we
'
re done here.
"

She rallied somewhat and allowed herself to be led to an adjoining door. For a moment, she could not recollect the purpose for her being in the small room. The sight of the washstand with its basin and pitcher and the commode
conveniently located behind a screen brought her out of her lethargy.

Absently, she accepted the garments that the man called Ransome draped over her arm.

"You
'
ll be more comfortable in these in the interim," he said, and shut the door softly behind her.

The garments he had given her were a man
'
s shirt and dressing gown. She laid them over the back of a chair and took stock of herself in a long
cheval mirror. With her blood-
spattered and torn gown and pelisse and wildly disheveled hair, she might have been taken for one of the witches in "Macbeth.
"
Her bonnet was gone. She had no recollection of losing it. Miraculously, the gold locket which Dalmar had given her still nestled between her breasts. Though there wasn
'
t a scratch on her, blood was everywhere. As memory flooded her mind, she quickly stripped out of her clothes and resolved to consign them to the fire at the earliest opportunity. The blood on them could not possibly have come only from Dalmar
'
s wound.
Dead men's blood,
she thought, and was shaken by a shudder of revulsion.

When she was called back into the bedchamber, she found Dalmar propped up against pillows. Both right shoulder and forearm were bandaged. His face was drawn, his eyes closed. Against the starkly white sheets, his naked chest and shoulders glistened like copper.

Her eyes flew to Ransome, asking a question.

"He
'
ll survive,
"
he said. "He
'
s lost some blood, but it
'
s nothing to worry about. I
'
ve dosed him with laudanum to ease the pain. He
'
ll sleep like a baby for the next hour or so.
"

"And a physician?
"

"That
'
s the least of our worries. Look, I must leave you here. I have to go out, and I can
'
t leave him unattended.
"
As he spoke, he removed a brace of pistols from a cabinet. "You
'
ll be safe enough as long as you keep the door locked and bolted after me. I
'
ve left the bottle of laudanum on the mantelpiece. If he gets restless, you can give him a couple of drops.
"

"Where are you going?
"

"To get reinforcements. Colonel
'
s orders.
"

He took her by the elbow and walked her to the front door. "I don
'
t suppose you know how to use one of these?
"
he said, extending one of the wicked-looking pistols.

Annabelle drew back. "No. I
'
ve never had occasion to.
"

He nodded. "Then it
'
s best not to leave it with you. When I go through that door, I want you to lock it and bolt it behind me, and don
'
t open it for anyone until I return.
"

As soon as the door closed behind him, Annabelle turned the key and shot home the bolt. She returned to the bedchamber and moved about nervously, her eyes coming to rest frequently on the still figure on the bed. From below, the sounds of rampage and carnage gave no evidence of lessening. After a time, she curled up in an armchair and brooded in silence.

She must have dozed. Her head suddenly jerked, and she was startled into wakefulness. Every muscle in her body ached with weariness and tension.

The man in the bed was stirring restlessly. She rose and went to check on him. There was no sign of fever, she decided, as she touched her fingers to his forehead. He opened his eyes and stared up at her.

"How do you feel?
"
she asked softly.

She had to strain to hear him.

"Water
…
please.
"

She held his head as she carefully offered the glass to his lips. His eyes never left hers.

After a few swallows, he turned his head away, but before she could draw back, his left hand came up to capture her wrist. "Stay
…
please,
"
he whispered hoarsely.

"I won
'
t leave you,
"
she said, and offered him a reassuring smile.

His eyes fluttered closed. "Promise?
"

She hesitated, sensing in the simple question more than she understood. His fingers tightened on her wrist. "I promise,
"
she said.

By degrees, his fingers relaxed. "To the victor go the spoils,
"
he murmured, and smiled to himself.

Annabelle
'
s quelling frown came too late. He had already succumbed to sleep. For a long interval, she sat unmoving on
the edge of the bed, drinking in every detail of the face and form of the man who had somehow contrived to slip under her guard. In repose, his hard-chiseled features were softened, lending him a less formidable, almost boyish aspect. The man was wounded. Drugged. Helpless. It was hard to imagine that in the last several hours she had considered that he posed any kind of threat to her person.

Daringly, she pursed her lips and fanned his cheek with a puff of breath. His nose twitched. He was, she thought, like a sedated lion from which claws and fangs had been surreptitiously drawn. At the unholy thought, her lips turned up at the corners. Very gently, with her index finger, she prodded him on his good shoulder. Nothing. The lion was at her mercy. A wave of feminine power surged through Annabelle.

With increasing confidence, she touched her fingers to his dark head. His hair was just as she had imagined—crisp, thick, healthy. Very tentatively, she tested the hard, corded muscles of his left arm. Under her exploration they rippled, and she pulled back her hand in alarm. A full minute elapsed before her breathing returned to normal.

With the pads of her fingers, lightly, cautiously, she stroked the dark mat of hair which covered his naked torso. Soft and silky, she decided, and as sleek as an otter
'
s pelt. The sleeping man betrayed not a flicker of consciousness as her fingers skimmed over him.

In the secure knowledge that the object of her interest was drugged into oblivion, she became bolder. She began to play with him, feathering light kisses along every part of his exposed anatomy. She felt deliciously decadent—and utterly beyond his power. His masculine scent, a combination of sweat, soap, and something indeterminate, assailed her nostrils. She buried her nose against his chest and inhaled. Though his scent was not unpleasant, it was unequivocally disturbing. She drew back, letting the thought revolve in her mind.

Becoming more relaxed by the minute, she slipped under the quilted coverlet and stretched out, full length, beside him. Steadfastly she gazed into his sleep-softened features. She
blinked once; she blinked twice. A slow, drugging lethargy began to steal over her. She decided to give
in to it, but only for a moment. Her head floated down to the soft, inviting pillow.

"
A
nnabelle.
"