Jacquie ’Alessandro - Whirlwind Affair

A wave of heat scorched her… Heat that had nothing to do with the embarrassment she should have felt. But before she could react, he released her body, gripped her hand, and began leading her silently along. The splinter jabbed deeper into her heel, but she forced the discomfort from her mind. If a sore foot was the worst memento she garnered from this evening, she'd consider herself very fortunate indeed. Less than a minute later they reached a large wooden door.

Keeping her behind him, he cracked the door open. Allie nearly jumped out of her skin when the hinges growled with a noise resembling the cry of a wounded animal. Lord Robert's head and shoulders disappeared through the opening. Seconds later he leaned back.

"This leads to an alleyway," he reported in a low voice. "I'm not certain of our exact location, but I have a general idea. We need to get to a more crowded area, then we can hail a hack." He squeezed her hand in what was clearly meant to be a reassuring way. "Not to worry."

Worry? That was a lukewarm description of her feelings. She'd never been more frightened in her life. "I'm not worried. Do I look worried?"

"I don't know. It's too dark to tell. Just don't let go of my hand."

He slipped out the door and Allie gripped his hand ever tighter, needing no urging to follow him out of the dank warehouse. Let go of his hand? Not if her very life depended on it.

Unfortunately, she was terrified that it might.

*********

When they reached the end of the alley, Robert looked both ways. A glimmer of relief edged down his spine, even as dread coursed through him. Fortunately, he did indeed know where they were. Unfortunately, it was one of the worst sections of the city. Getting them home unaccosted would take a miracle. He gripped the hilt of his knife tighter. And prayed for a miracle.

Keeping to the deep shadows, he moved swiftly along, holding tight to Mrs. Brown's small hand. They zigzagged through trash-strewn, rat-infested back streets. The stench of filth and poverty and unwashed humanity mingled with nearby cries of women and harsh shouts of men. A series of deep grunts and moans emanated from a darkened doorway, and he quickened his pace. He expected her to falter, to squeal in dismay, to gasp in horror, to cry out, or to succumb to the vapors, but she kept pace with him, never uttering a sound. Indeed the only reason he even knew she remained behind him was the feel of her palm pressed firmly to his and the slight rustle of her petticoats.

They were close now… close to a place where they'd be able to hail a hack. Just two more turns and he'd get her to safety. He would not fail. Not like he had with Nate…

They rounded the second turn and a pent-up breath whooshed from his lungs. There, under the dim circle of light cast by a gas lamp, stood a hack. It was easily the most welcome sight Robert had ever seen.

Both driver and horse appeared to be dozing, but they roused as Robert and Mrs. Brown approached. He called out the direction of the Bradford town house to the sleepy-eyed driver as he helped Mrs. Brown into the carriage.

Settling himself on the seat opposite Mrs. Brown, Robert drew in what seemed like his first easy breath in hours. They were safe. On their way home. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut as a combination of relief, triumph, and exhaustion surged through him. He hadn't failed.

But by damn he wanted to know the whys and whats of how he and Mrs. Brown had ended up trussed like turkeys on a dockside warehouse floor. Setting his knife on the hard seat beside him, he raked his hands through his hair, wincing when his fingers encountered an egg-sized lump.

"Are you all right?" came her soft voice.

"Just a bump. How are…?"

His voice trailed off as they passed under the light of a gas lamp and he got his first good look at her. Her eyes were huge, her face chalk-white. She lifted a visibly trembling hand to brush away a tangled curl clinging to her pale cheek, and his heart seemed to stutter to a stop.

Her hand was covered with blood.

God, he hated the sight of blood. Always had. Even as a child. He vividly recalled cutting his foot on a sharp stone when he was six years old. He'd watched the blood ooze from the wound and had nearly passed out cold. The only thing that had kept him from doing so was the knowledge that Austin and William would have teased him unmercifully if he'd swooned like a girl.

One look at Mrs. Brown's hand and the crimson streak of blood now marring her pale cheek, and his stomach turned over. "You're hurt," he said. Damn it all, his voice sounded positively feeble. Why hadn't he felt the blood while he'd pulled her along? Had he caused her further injury? Hurt her? No, he realized. Her right hand was bleeding. He'd been holding her left hand.

Clearing his throat, he reached out and gently grasped her forearms. He eased her hands over, and his lips flattened into a grim line. Even in the dim light he could see that her wrists were rubbed raw. Numerous oozing nicks marred her palms and fingers, but it was the long cut running across her right hand that concerned him the most. A drop of blood dripped off her fingertip, and he swallowed hard. "These wounds need to be seen to. Immediately."

His mind raced. It would take at least thirty minutes to make their way through the labyrinth of streets back to the town house. His own rooms were farther away still. He couldn't stand the thought of her waiting, bleeding, for all that time. Dear God, the woman hadn't uttered a word of complaint and she had to have been in agony. Sympathy crowded him, and he barely resisted the urge to pull her onto his lap and cradle her like a broken child. For God help him, that's exactly what she looked like.

An idea popped into his mind, and he seized it like a starving dog pouncing upon a bone. He signaled the driver, then shouted out a different direction for him.

"A sovereign for you if you deliver us there within five minutes," he yelled. The hack surged forward, nearly tossing him off his seat.

"Where are we going?" Mrs. Brown asked, her eyes appearing even larger and more haunted than a moment ago.

His gaze riveted on the streak of blood staining her cheek. "A friend's home. He lives close by. These wounds need immediate attention." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his handkerchief, then gently dabbed at her palms. "I'm so sorry… these must hurt terribly."

When she didn't reply, his attention returned to her face, and his heart nearly broke when her bottom lip trembled. "To be perfectly honest," she whispered, "they don't hurt nearly as much as my feet."

"Your feet?" His gaze dropped to the floor, but he could see nothing but his boots and her black skirt.

"Yes. As I'd somehow lost a shoe, and it was difficult to run with only one, I removed it. I'm afraid my stockings provided little protection."

A muscle jerked in his jaw. "Good God. Let me see."

She hesitated for several seconds, then slowly raised one foot. He reached out and gently grasped her ankle through the wool of her skirt. She sucked in a sharp breath.

"Forgive me," he said. He slowly eased the material upward until her foot appeared. He barely stifled the moan that rose in his throat. Hell and damnation. Her stocking had torn completely away, its ragged ends dangling about her delicate ankle. Dirt and mud and God knows what else caked her bare foot. She groaned and his gaze shot to her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her lips pressed tightly together. There was no doubt she was in pain.

Sympathy and hot anger surged through him. "That fiend who absconded with you will pay for this. I give you my word."

She opened her eyes, and for the space of several heartbeats they silently regarded each other. It appeared she was about to say something, but before she could reply, the hack jerked to a halt. Robert looked outside and saw that they'd arrived at the correct place. "Don't move," he instructed her in a terse voice.

He opened the vehicle's door, then stepped down onto the cobblestone street. Withdrawing two gold coins from his pocket, he tossed them up to the hackney. "Do not depart until we're safely inside," he told the man, who nodded in reply, his eyes round as he stared at the amount of money in his hand. Robert then leaned into the hack and met Mrs. Brown's pain-filled, questioning gaze.

"I'm going to carry you," he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Yet she argued. "But I cannot go-"

"Yes, you can. Your injuries need attention, and I'll not risk further harm to you by allowing you to walk. This is the home of my friend, Michael Evers. He is knowledgeable in such matters and is discreet." He fixed her with a penetrating look. "I realize this is out of the ordinary, but so are our present circumstances."

She met his gaze steadily, and he wondered what was going through her mind. He hoped she wasn't going to allow a misplaced sense of propriety to rear its head now. Not after all they'd been through. Tied together… pressed against each other. An image of her flattened against him in the warehouse flashed through his mind and he firmly pushed it aside.

Finally she nodded. "All right."

Without further delay, he slipped one arm beneath her knees, the other across her back. "Wrap your arms about my neck," he instructed, and to his relief she did as he bid. He gently eased her from the hack, then walked swiftly up the stone steps leading to the modest residence. She felt small and soft and fragile in his arms. His heart skipped with a combination of fear and something else he couldn't define when a low groan pushed past her lips while her head lolled sideways, nestling against his neck. A hint of her flowery scent still clung to her underneath the overpowering smells of blood and dockside alleys.

"Hold on," he whispered against her forehead.

When they reached the oak door, Robert pounded upon it with his boot, praying Michael was home. Less than a minute later a palm-sized panel at eye level in the door slid open. "What the bloody hell?" growled a deep, familiar voice, laced with a hint of Irish brogue. "State your name and business, and it'd better be-"

"Michael, it's Robert Jamison. Please open the door."

The panel slid back into place and the door opened. "What the hell, Jamison-?"

Robert pushed his way into the small foyer. "She's hurt."

Michael's sharp eyes raked over the bloody hands, and the feet exposed under her gown. "How bad is it?"

"I'm not certain. She was abducted. Knocked out. Tied up. Her wrists and hands were cut by the ropes and possibly by my knife. Her feet were injured during our escape."

Michael's dark brows shot upward. "Our?"

"I'll explain later. Where can I put her?"

Jerking his head to the left, Michael indicated a short corridor. "Bring her into my study. First door on the right. A fire's already burning and you'll find plenty of brandy. Give her some. There's also a bowl and pitcher of water. I'll get bandages and supplies and join you in a moment."

Robert didn't hesitate. Entering the room, he made directly for the long leather sofa in front of the fireplace and gently laid her down. Then he leaned back, looked at her, and stilled.

He'd half-expected her eyes to be closed, but they were open, looking at him with a steady expression that somehow echoed both fear and strength. Dark hair surrounded her pale face in a matted tangle, with one curl stuck to her cheek by the streak of now dried blood. He reached out a hand that wasn't quite steady and brushed the tangled strand away. Her lower lip trembled, and he brushed his fingertips over her smooth cheek. Something flashed in her eyes. Pain? Fear? He wasn't certain, but he vowed to erase both.

Dropping to his knees beside her, he quickly shrugged out of his jacket, rolled it into a ball, then tucked it behind her head as a pillow. "How do you feel?"

"A bit undone, I'm afraid." She raised her injured hands. "Although I suspect these look worse than they really are. Even the smallest cut can sometimes bleed dreadfully." She stared at her hands for several more seconds, then lowered them once again to her lap. A rueful expression washed over her features. "I'm afraid I do not very much care for the sight of blood."

"Indeed? Doesn't bother me a bit." He cast a quick glance upward to see if he were about to be smote dead with a lightning bolt. "You're in good hands, I assure you. Now, I'm going to give you some brandy. It will help ease the pain. Then we'll get your feet and hands bandaged up." He offered her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "You'll be running about and will once again be an H.P.P. in no time."