Kitabı oku: «Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress»
Excerpt
‘I do not wish you to enter into an arrangement that is distasteful to you.’
Distasteful? It ought to be distasteful, given all it would mean. She ought to be snatching up the papers and running for her life. And yet something in his eyes froze her in place. Raw hunger swirled in the dark brown depths. Not the heat of desire, although that was there too, but a bleak, deep-seated loneliness as he waited to bid her farewell.
Her foolish heart ached to ease his hurt. A wild desire to dispel that look from his eyes pulled at her soul. She’d made a bargain.
‘Go,’ he said.
The harshness in his voice said if she accepted his generous offer she would never see him again. Torn in two, she stared at the documents.
Go now, the voice of sanity whispered. She didn’t want to go.
Reckless Ellie, always too impulsive by half, crossed the room behind him and laid a hand on his arm. ‘My lord, I would not have suggested it if I did not wish it.’
He lowered his gaze to meet hers, then he pulled her close and brushed her lips with his—a hesitant, questioning kiss, as if he doubted her words.
A rush of pleasure heated her body. Two days ago had been the first time she had felt a man’s body, hard and strong against her own. And she’d liked it. She’d had no idea, until then, that kisses created such internal conflagrations. And now she wanted more.
Author Note
The moonlight meeting between Eleanor, a lady highwayman, and the brooding Marquess of Beauworth played out in my mind like the opening scene of a movie one quiet summer evening. Why would a woman take to the High Toby? And why did Garrick so obviously hate the idea of going home? These were puzzles I had to solve. By the early nineteenth century highwaymen were a rarity. And it was a time when a man’s home was his castle.
I hope you enjoy unravelling the answers and learning their story as much as I did. If you would like to know more about my writing and my books visit my website at www.annlethbridge.com. I always love to hear from readers, and can be reached at ann@annlethbridge.com
Ann Lethbridge has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet, or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.
Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.
Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.
A previous novel by this author:
THE RAKE’S INHERITED COURTESAN
Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress
Ann Lethbridge
MILLS & BOON®
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I would like to dedicate this book to my husband, Keith, and my wonderful critique partners, Molly, Maureen, Mary, Sinead, Teresa and Jude. My special thanks go to my editor Joanne Grant, whose skill and patience is gratefully acknowledged.
Chapter One
Sussex, England—May 1811
The anger burning in the Marquess of Beauworth’s throat tasted of bile and bitter regret. While the horses thundered through shadows and moonlit tracts of rolling Sussex landscape, Garrick fought the urge to turn back for London.
He swallowed his ire and the carriage raced on. Home to Beauworth. The place he hated most in the world.
Not even the person closest to him, Duncan Le Clere, understood his hatred of the place. Sometimes he didn’t understand it himself, but lack of knowledge didn’t lessen the tension in his shoulders or the foreboding.
The pain of bruised tendon and bone reminded him of the reason for his return. One by one, he unclenched his fingers, forcibly relaxing his hands in his lap, breathing deeply and slowly, regaining control. He lounged deeper in the corner, stretching his legs along the gap between the seats, a picture of insouciance. After all, the Marquess of Beauworth, idle rake, reckless gambler and bored dandy, had a reputation to uphold.
The carriage swayed violently. He grabbed for the strap beside his head. The vehicle slowed, then stopped.
‘Mon Dieu! What now?’ He let down the window and stuck his head out.
The carriage horses tossed their heads uneasily, their shapes indistinct in the shadow of the high hedges lining the road. The sound of their hard breathing and jingling harnesses cut through the warm stillness. Garrick narrowed his eyes, staring ahead into the dark. ‘What do you see, Johnson?’ Probably a puddle. The poor old fellow should have retired years ago.
Something white gleamed eerily in the shadows ahead. A white horse walking in the centre of the road, moonlight slipping luminescent over a dappled coat. At first he saw only the horse. Then another dark shape, a slight figure clutching the bridle. A woman in a black riding habit. Walking alone? Bloody hell. She must be in trouble.
He wrenched open the carriage door, leapt down and started forwards with an offer of help on his lips. The sight of a pair of long-barrelled pistols in her hands, one aimed at his forehead and the other at his servants, stopped him short.
Cold moonlight revealed a black mask covering all but her mouth, while a point-edge cocked hat adorned a curled and powdered peruke. Black lace frothed at her wrists and throat.
‘Good God.’ The exclamation exploded from his lips as recognition struck. Lady Moonlight, the daring cavalier’s lady from Cromwell’s time, forced to take to the High Toby to feed her family. Her exploits were legendary in this part of Sussex as were the sightings of her spirit after she’d hanged.
‘Stand and deliver!’ Her husky voice, tinged with the accent of the dregs of London, echoed off the overarching trees. The grey minced sideways and she checked it with a low murmur.
No ghost this. Merely a common criminal.
Garrick glanced up at the box where Johnson and Dan sat wide-eyed and motionless, apparently taken in by the clever ruse.
‘Hand over yer valuables or the boy is dead meat,’ she called out.
There was a desperate edge to the coarse voice he didn’t like, but the pistols remained steady enough and both were cocked and ready. Damnation, but he wasn’t in the mood for this tonight. A rush of anger roared through his veins, a red haze blurring his vision, his fingers curling into fists.
He inhaled long and slowly.
Control. Anything else and someone less innocent than he would die. Behind her mask her eyes glittered. Courage or fear? Would she shoot an unarmed man?
Dan, fear bleaching his cheeks, rose in his seat. One pistol tracked his movement.
‘Curse it, lad,’ the thief said. ‘Yer want to die?’
Nom d’un nom. Garrick might be prepared to take a chance with his own life, but he would not risk the boy. He, more than anyone, deserved better. ‘Sit down, Dan,’ he ordered.
Scared eyes found Garrick’s face. He nodded encouragement. The boy subsided on to his seat beside the rigid Johnson. Garrick shook his head. ‘Be still, both of you.’
Clearly realising Garrick’s dilemma, the little witch kept one pistol fixed on Dan as she slipped the other into a saddle-holster beside a cunningly wrought sword sling. The intricate hilt protruding from the scabbard fitted her costume well enough. His lip curled. He’d like to see her try to best him with a sword.
She tossed her hat on the ground near his feet. ‘Throw yer trinkets in there.’
A shimmer of light surrounded her face and body as she moved. A ghostly light. Was he going mad? Then he saw the sequins. They covered her mask and reflected moonlight from her coat and waistcoat. The little wretch looked like a reveller at a masquerade, and for such a deadly purpose.
An elegant twist of wrist and flutter of black lace drew his attention to the upturned hat. ‘I ain’t got all day.’
Garrick bowed with a flourish, acknowledging her impatience with charm and grace. ‘Your wish is my command, milady.’
As he straightened, her full lips curved in a quick smile. She bobbed a curtsy. ‘Yer too gracious, sir.’
‘Ah, a polite Lady Moonlight.’ He raised a brow. ‘I’m waiting, chérie.’
Her smile fled and oddly he found himself regretting its loss. ‘For what?’ she asked. ‘A bullet in yer brain?’
‘For my kiss. Lady Moonlight always kisses the men she robs if she thinks them handsome.’
‘Just put yer valuables in the ‘at, milord.’ A hint of laughter coloured her nasal voice.
Aware of the astonished gazes of those on the box, he spread his arms in a mock gesture of appeal. ‘Are you saying you find me lacking? How cutting. You break my heart.’
She chuckled, soft and low and very feminine, but the pistol steadied in the region of his chest. ‘Now, milord.’
He put a hand to his pocket as if seeking his watch and cursed silently. He had left his travelling pistol in the coat lying on the carriage seat. Perhaps it was as well. He had no wish to harm the wench. He kept his voice calm and soft. ‘This is dangerous work for a woman. If you get caught you’ll hang, whereas I could offer you gainful employment.’
‘Hah. I know yer sort’s idea of work. Enough gabbing or you’ll be joining yer ancestors.’ Underneath the bravado, her voice shook with the tremor of tightly stretched nerves.
Much as he didn’t care if he joined his ancestors, he didn’t want her nervous and threatening the servants again. He pulled out his fob and dangled his watch between them. Slowly, he twisted the gold links in his fingers. The diamond-encrusted case winked and glittered like moonbeams on water.
The pistol trembled. She wouldn’t use it. He was certain.
She reached for the prize, her head no higher than his shoulder as she snatched at the watch with her leather-gloved hand. Garrick caught her fine-boned wrist in one hand and restrained her pistol arm tight against her side with the other. He crushed her slender body hard against him, encircling her waist.
Her exhale of shock was warm, sweet and moist on his neck. Soft breasts compressed against his ribs. She smelled of vanilla with undertones of leather and horses. An oddly heady combination. He lowered his head and planted his lips firmly against her mouth, pleased when her lips drifted open in surprise.
The air around him warmed and swirled, sending his blood pounding and his senses alert to her response. Her delicate lithe body, at first inflexible, softened just enough to let him know she was not unwilling. Indeed, her body moulded most deliciously to his. He ran his hand down her slender back and savoured the soft curves of her buttocks.
Somewhere in this exchange, his earlier fury had softened to the heat of desire. Another passion requiring control. And control it he would. He deepened the kiss and inched his fingers towards her hand, feeling for the pistol.
The little hellion broke free and leapt back, breathing hard, her eyes in the slits in the mask sparkling with reflected sequins or some deeper, hotter fire. Chest rising and falling in quick succession, she levelled the barrel at his chest. A point-blank shot. ‘Stay back.’ Her glance darted to the servants. ‘All of ye.’
Laughing, he reached for her. ‘Surely we can find a more amenable way for you to earn a living? One we would both enjoy.’
She stilled, those rosy just-kissed lips curving in a saucy grin. She curtsied, full and deep. ‘I think not.’
‘Look out, my lord,’ Johnson called.
Garrick caught a blur of movement at the corner of his eye. With a curse, he whirled around. A large masked man, a pistol clutched in his fist, raised his arm high. Garrick dodged. The blow hammered against the side of his head. A blinding light flashed. He fought descending darkness. The ground hit his knees as he fell into black.
Blood rushed in Lady Eleanor Hadley’s ears. Her head swam. Her heart raced. At any moment she would measure her length beside the man at her feet.
She took a deep breath, crouched at her victim’s side and found a strong steady pulse in his wrist. She stood upright, glaring at Martin. ‘Did you have to hit him so hard?’ she muttered.
‘What the devil are ye doing, letting him get so near?’ Martin’s deep, low mutter rang harsh with anger. He levelled his pistol at the men on the box.
Panting, she stared at the inert body on the ground. What had she been thinking? That he was tall and impossibly handsome under the soft light of the moon? That the easy smile on his lean, dark face held no danger? If not for Martin, she might have fallen into his trap like a wasp in a jam pot. He had to be cocksure of his abilities as a lover if he thought to overpower her with a kiss. A laugh bubbled up. Hysterical, born of nerves and the strange sensations he’d sparked in her body. Never had she felt so horridly wonderfully weak, as if her bones were liquid and her mind was mush. Not her normal self at all.
If it wasn’t for his grab for the pistol, he might have swept her off her feet.
‘Where were you, Martin?’ she muttered. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be covering the driver?’
‘I never saw you start forrard. The plan was for me to give the signal.’
Even in the dim light, she saw his skin darken. Poor Martin. The best man to lead a charge, according to her father, but he made a terrible highwayman. She’d tried to send him away after their first foray. He’d refused point blank. Dear loyal Martin.
‘Never mind.’ She pointed to her victim and raised her voice. ‘See wot ’e’s got on ’im before ’e wakes.’
As Martin bent to do her bidding, the coachman fumbled under his seat. Oh God, this could get out of hand very quickly. She jerked her pistol in his direction. ‘Don’t try it.’
He straightened and raised his hands again. The angelic-looking boy beside him sat rigid, his shoulders shaking, his teeth biting down on his bottom lip. No heroics there, thank heavens.
Martin rolled the man on the ground on to his back. He moaned, his head lolling against his shoulder, his brow furrowed as if, even unconscious, he was aware of pain. The strong column of neck disappeared into a crisp, elegantly tied neckloth and merged with powerful shoulders encased in a snug-fitting dark coat. Dark hair and olive skin gave his strong features a foreign cast.
Her heart pounded a little too hard. He was beautiful. Not an adjective she normally used about a man. They were usually either rough, or gentlemanly, or they were simply men she saw every day and gave no thought to at all. This one was beautiful in the way of a bronze sculpture: a perfectly moulded jaw, smooth plane of cheek, straight dark brows above a noble nose. Her fingers itched to trace his features, to feel the texture of bone and skin, much like one might run a hand over a fine statue. The line of his full bottom lip echoed the feel of his mouth on hers, warm and unbelievably exciting. And his voice, with its faint French accent, had brushed across her nape like the touch of velvet.
Madness.
He moaned again. She jumped back. To her relief, he did not open his eyes. Martin had struck him hard. She swallowed. Hopefully not a fateful blow. She didn’t want him badly hurt, for all he’d seemed so careless with his life. Nor did she want to face him again. ‘Time to go. Into the coach with him. You,’ she said, pointing at the coachman, ‘get down and lend a ’and. And no tricks.’
The coachman heaved his portly frame over the side.
Martin went to his head. ‘Pick up his feet,’ he ordered the coachman, who bent with a grunt and grasped the man under the knees above black Hessians polished to an impossibly glossy shine.
‘Hold,’ she said.
‘What now?’ Martin said in a growl.
‘Take his boots.’
Stiff with anger, he dropped the man to the ground. He pushed the coachman aside with a grunt of disapproval and heaved off the tight-fitting footwear. He returned to his post at the man’s head.
Eleanor opened the door of the carriage and stood back. The two men hoisted their burden on to the floor of the coach. Martin slammed the door.
‘Be off with you,’ she said to the panting coachman. ‘As fast as you can before I change me mind.’
The coachman wasted no time in climbing up and a moment later the carriage sped down the road. Its swaying lamp disappeared around the corner.
Martin bent and cupped his hands and boosted her on to Mist, her steady little gelding, who had waited so patiently all this time.
Eleanor struggled awkwardly with her skirts as she settled into the saddle. ‘Next time I’ll wear William’s breeches.’
‘There ain’t going to be no next time.’ Martin stuffed their booty into his saddlebags and climbed aboard the chestnut. ‘Mark my words, you’ll end up like her, my lady. On Tyburn tree.’
Eleanor’s stomach twisted at the worry in his voice. ‘Do you have a better idea?’ She dug her heel into Mist’s flank and they galloped swiftly into the protection of the woods. Eleanor used to love the freedom of riding at night. Many times, she and William, her twin, had slipped out to roam the countryside around their Hampshire estate after midnight. They’d been best friends in those days. She’d borrowed his clothes. And why not? She’d ridden as well as, if not better than, her brothers, shot as well as they did. And that was her downfall. She thought she knew better than them.
Look at tonight. This victim had been wonderfully rich, but the night had almost ended in disaster. Everything she touched went horribly wrong. William was on his way home, his ship due in Portsmouth any day now, and he’d come home to find himself ruined.
All because she couldn’t leave well enough alone. Heat flooded her body. He’d think her such an impetuous fool.
Unless she could put things right before he arrived.
It didn’t take long to reach the barn where they hid their horses. Eleanor slid out of the saddle and led Mist inside. She swept off the mask, wig and hat, casting them to the floor, scrubbing at her itchy scalp as her hair cascaded around her shoulders.
‘Do you know who he was?’ Martin asked, following her in.
‘A dandy with gold in his pocket and jewellery to spare.’
‘It was Beauworth. I recognised the coach.’
‘What?’ A cold, hard lump settled in her stomach. Beauworth? The man bent on destroying her family. She’d flirted with him, let him kiss her. Her face warmed at the memory. How demeaning. She yanked the leading rein through the metal ring in the wall. ‘You should have told me.’
‘Weren’t much time for talking,’ Martin said, turning from the task of lighting a lantern hanging from a beam. His voice sounded disapproving. ‘He’s a gambler and a libertine. Cuts a swathe through the ladies like a scythe through hay, I’m told. The way he took hold of you fair makes my blood boil. We should never have held him up, neither. His uncle is the magistrate. We’ll be knee deep in Bow Street Runners in a day or so.’
Eleanor grimaced. ‘Without money, we’ll starve and what will I tell William? That I carelessly lost his home and fortune?’ Her stomach dropped away, her skin turning clammy, the way it did every time she remembered. William had trusted her to look after his interests until he returned. By forging his signature, she’d spent every penny in the bank. And then, out of nowhere Beauworth had demanded repayment of a mortgage she’d known nothing about. Damn him.
When he realised they couldn’t pay, he’d sent in the bailiffs, forcing her and Sissy to seek refuge where they could.
If only the ship into which she’d sunk all William’s money would return from the Orient, everything would be all right. The stupid thing seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Her heart picked up speed. What if it never returned?
And she needed money so they could eat. Blast it all. She had thought she was so dashed clever. Instead, she’d brought them all to the brink of ruin.
Miserably, she pulled a carrot from the pocket of her coat. Mist’s warm breath moistened her palm as he nuzzled it free.
‘Perhaps if I went to speak to the Marquess, he would listen to reason,’ she said.
‘Take pity on a helpless woman, you mean?’
Phrased in such bald terms, it sounded thoroughly dishonourable. William would never approve. But then he wouldn’t approve of her taking to the High Toby, either. A career that she’d discovered all too quickly, lacked the romance and adventure of legends. If they were caught, the authorities would respond without mercy. ‘Ask for more time.’
‘Jarvis said he needs the money. Got debts of his own.’
They always did, these fashionable men. Michael, her eldest brother, had had huge debts when he died. They were what made her invest in the ship.
There had to be some other way out. ‘We need something to trade for the mortgage.’
‘Too bad you didn’t think of that an hour ago. We could have traded his lordship.’
Jaw slack, her eyes wide, she gazed at Martin’s broad back. ‘Blast. I walked away from the perfect solution.’
Martin swung around. ‘Oh, no. I was jesting, my lady, and badly. I promised your father my loyalty to his children and I’ve kept my word, but I’ll not be party to abduction.’
‘You are right. It is far too dangerous.’ She tossed an old blanket over Mist’s back. Martin did the same for his mount.
‘Why didn’t you tell me the rest of that stupid legend?’ she asked. ‘The kissing business?’ A kiss as sweet as sugar and as dark as the brandy on his breath. Not to mention strange delicious shivers deep in places she never knew existed. His body, where he pressed her close, had felt satisfyingly hard. She had wanted to touch him. All over. At the thought of her fingertips on his skin, her stomach tumbled in a strangely pleasant dance.
Blankly she stared at the plank wall with limbs the consistency of honey. She clapped a hand to her mouth. How could she feel this way knowing what this man had done?
Martin scratched his chin. ‘My brother never mentioned no kiss, my lady.’ Which meant it probably wasn’t true. She felt the heat rise in her face as Martin turned to look at her. ‘Why did you take his boots?’
Eleanor still didn’t understand the sudden teasing urge she’d felt and she certainly wouldn’t tell Martin about the way his wicked smile and brush of his lips had turned her insides to porridge. ‘They were new and he’s a dandy.’ She shrugged. ‘It will annoy him. You know how ridiculous William is about his boots.’ Besides, he’d been too bold, too reckless for his own good. A real criminal might have killed him. A lesson in humility would do him good. ‘Throw them in the pond.’
She picked up her hat, tucking the wig and mask inside it. She stripped off the coat and waistcoat and handed them to Martin, who hauled the bundle up to the rafters in a net by way of an old block and tackle they’d found in the hayloft. ‘We will have to ride out again.’
‘Please, my lady. You are risking your neck for naught but a few baubles and a handful of guineas.’
She winced. As her father’s sergeant in the army and later his steward, Martin would have given his life for her father. Now he held doggedly to his promise to serve his children, but she couldn’t ask him to take any more risks. Not when everything she touched went wrong. ‘It would serve William best if you returned to Castlefield. Keep an eye on the house. Make sure the bailiffs don’t steal anything.’
‘And let you risk your neck alone?’ Martin glowered and shook his shaggy head. ‘Your father always said you was a handful.’
A tomboy, he meant. Too competitive for a girl. Too impetuous, Father had said, when Mother defended her. And she’d been so sure she’d show William how well she could handle things in his absence. Pride had definitely ended in a fall. And if she didn’t do something soon, she’d drag the rest of the family into the pit.
Garrick groaned and sat up on the floor of the carriage. Cursing, he pulled himself on to the seat and investigated the bump behind his ear with his fingertips. A knot as big as an egg. Blast the woman.
A comely female at that, if he hadn’t been mistaken. He recalled the spiralling heat between them and her delicate trembles beneath his touch with a searing jolt of desire. For one heady moment, he’d thought he’d wooed her out of her villainous purpose. He might have, too, if she’d been alone. His luck was definitely out. First he’d taken the bit between his teeth to tell Uncle Duncan the bad news, and then he’d been robbed.
Head aching, he probed the tender spot on his scalp. Brandy might help. He fumbled in his cloak pocket and pulled out his flask. He rubbed some of the alcohol on the lump, hissing at the sting, then took a swig. The servants must have been terrified.
The abominable pounding in his head increased. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the squabs, uttering a sigh when, some twenty minutes later, the carriage crunched on gravel to a gentle stop.
Beauworth Court.
Johnson pulled open the door and let down the steps. ‘My lord? Are you all right? I darsen’t stop on the road.’
‘I’m perfectly all right,’ Garrick said, forcing a smile.
He allowed the coachman to help him out of the carriage and glanced at the house. Stone lions guarded the wide granite steps to the front door. Columns, illuminated by torches, rose up to the first floor with Palladian grace and the lower windows blazed with light. Uncle Duncan must be entertaining. Garrick bit back a groan. Merde. He really did not want to be here.
‘Dan,’ he called out. ‘Bring my coat, please.’
Dan jumped down with alacrity and dived into the coach for the garment. ‘’Ere, my lord.’
‘Good. Stay close to me.’
The gravel stabbed into the soles of his feet as he hobbled up to the front door. ‘Damn, blasted wench.’ Why the hell she had stolen his boots he could not imagine.
On cue, the door opened. The butler, a slick-looking fellow Garrick didn’t recognise, stared down his nose. Recovering swiftly, he stepped back with a bow. ‘Welcome home, my lord.’
Hah. ‘Thank you.’ He handed over his greatcoat and headed for the arching sweep of staircase leading to the first-floor chambers.
A door opened. Light spilled from the dining room. A heavily built figure, his military bearing obvious, strode purposefully across the black and white tiled floor. Duncan Le Clere, his father’s cousin, and Garrick’s trustee for twelve more months.
Dan ducked behind Garrick as Le Clere’s stern gaze took in the scene. ‘The devil. What is the meaning of this?’
‘Got held up.’ His uncle stiffened. ‘By highwaymen.’ Garrick chuckled at his pathetic humour.
Le Clere quickened his pace. ‘Are you injured?’ He must have caught a whiff of the brandy because he recoiled. ‘Or drunk? Is this one of your pranks?’ Nothing slipped past Uncle Duncan with regard to Beauworth and its heir.
‘I might be a trifle foxed, but I am fully in possession of my faculties, I assure you. The damned rogues relieved me of my valuables and my boots.’
Two more men hurried into the vestibule: Matthews, the Beauworth steward, and Nidd, his father’s ancient valet who did for Garrick on the rare occasions he came home.
‘Johnson told us what happened,’ Matthews said. ‘These villains need teaching a lesson.’
And the beefy Matthews was ready to mete out the punishment. The thought of the saucy little wench in his hands did not sit well in Garrick’s stomach.
‘Send for the constable,’ Uncle Duncan said, taking in Garrick’s stockinged feet with raised brows.
‘Not tonight.’ Garrick put a hand to his head and winced. ‘The morning will be soon enough. Right now, I’m for bed.’
Uncle Duncan’s lips flattened. He glanced toward the dining-room door. ‘I expected you for dinner. It takes more than a contretemps with the lower orders to keep a man from his duty.’
‘Johnson said they struck his lordship on the head,’ Matthews said.
The hard expression on Le Clere’s face dissolved into concern. ‘I’m sending for the doctor.’
The doctor who would poke and prod and wonder. Garrick put up a hand. ‘A small lump, nothing more. I’ll be well by morning.’
The broad back stiffened. ‘A knock on the head, Garrick…I’m only thinking of your welfare.’
‘Don’t fuss.’
Le Clere recoiled. ‘But your head, Garrick…’
A black emptiness rolled out from the centre of Garrick’s chest. He knew what Le Clere was thinking, knew from the wary look in his eyes what he feared, and Garrick honestly couldn’t bear it.
Garrick rubbed his sore knuckles. Le Clere hadn’t yet heard of the latest débâcle. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle. I know you mean for the best, but I do not need bleeding or quacking tonight.’
