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‘Well, if you wants to go to hell, guv’nor, I’m sure we can manage that. Just hand the dibs over first.’ The closer man seemed to be the leader—he was certainly doing all the talking. She tried to commit his appearance to memory for later reporting to the magistrates, but between a kerchief covering him from the nose down, and a battered tricorne jammed on his head, there was little to identify him.
She couldn’t see properly to get a clear shot at the other, not without coming right out into the open, and she didn’t want to do that until Max made his move. Her bruised wrist was already aching abominably with the weight of the pistol; she just wished he’d do something.
When he did, it took her by surprise as much as it did the highwaymen. His head snapped round as though he had just seen someone approaching and both men responded. In the second it took them to realise nothing was there, he had the pistol trained on the nearer rider.
Bree saw the man’s hands tighten on the reins and his horse began to sidle. ‘Just need to point out, guv’nor—there’s two of us. You loose off that pop, you’re going to get shot.’
‘And you will be dead. I am an excellent shot,’ Max rejoined calmly. ‘Might I suggest we call it quits and you leave before you get hurt?’
‘Nah. You cover him, Toby. He won’t do nothing. The odds aren’t right.’
‘They are now.’ Bree slid out from behind the carriage and ducked under Max’s arm before any of the men could react. ‘I’ve got your friend Toby right in my sights.’ For just as long as I can hold this thing steady, which isn’t going to be for much longer….
‘That’s a woman!’ the nearer rider said indignantly. He fired at Max just as Max pulled the trigger. Bree took aim at the centre of Toby’s chest and squeezed. The air seemed to be full of the sound of gunfire; something whistled past Bree’s ear and struck the coach. Toby was clutching his right hand, swearing, his horse rearing. The other man was slumped over the pommel of his saddle, one hand groping for the reins.
Bree turned to Max, expecting him to go forwards to grab the horse while the man was incapable, and found he was on his knees, one hand pressed to his shoulder, blood showing between his fingers.
‘Max!’ The sound of hooves made her turn to see both men, lurching in their saddles, cantering away. ‘Max!’
He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I think it’s just a graze, across the top of my shoulder.’
‘Come here, help his lordship up!’ The postilions hurried over, and between them got Max to his feet.
‘It’s all right. I can manage.’ He shook them off and climbed into the carriage, muttering words under his breath that Bree was fortunately unable to hear clearly. ‘Drive back to London before anyone else decides to have a go at us.’
‘We should stop in Hounslow, find a doctor. Max, you’re bleeding.’
‘Not much. Don’t fuss.’ His teeth were gritted and he was pale across the cheekbones, but the bleeding did not seem to be getting any worse. ‘That was one hell of a shot—you took the pistol right out of his hand.’
So that was what had happened. Bree realised she’d shut her eyes the moment she’d pulled the trigger. The temptation to take the credit for such a feat was acute. ‘I was aiming at his chest,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve never shot anyone before.’ And would not again, if she could help it. Her ears were still ringing, her wrist felt as though it had been hit by a hammer and she didn’t like to contemplate how she would be feeling if she had killed the man.
Max gave a shout of laughter that turned into a gasp as the chaise lurched forwards again. Was there anything this woman wouldn’t attempt? And then to have the honesty to admit she had missed by a foot. He was going to get her back home before anything else happened, and he certainly did not intend her spending any time in Hounslow in broad daylight, dressed like that, while they found a surgeon.
He dragged off his neckcloth, wadded it up and pushed it under his coat.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Bree was watching him, hands fisted on her hips.
‘Stopping it bleeding.’ Ouch.
‘We need to look at it, bandage it properly. It could be bleeding worse than you think and with that dark coat I can’t tell.’
‘I’ll take off the coat,’ Max conceded. Anything to stop her fussing, he told himself, trying to ignore the very real anxiety in her blue eyes.
Shrugging out of it, in a moving carriage, was not easy. He could feel the sweat beading his forehead, and he almost bit his tongue with the effort not to swear out loud.
Bree came and sat next to him. ‘Now take off your shirt.’
‘No.’ He could feel the colour rising in his face and tried to fight it.
‘Why ever not? How can I bandage this if you don’t?’
‘It doesn’t need bandaging.’
‘I will be the judge of that. You can’t sit in a jolting chaise for another hour with it oozing like that.’ He heard her swallow hard. Obviously dealing with oozing gunshot wounds was not something Miss Mallory dealt with daily. He was almost surprised.
‘I will hold my neckcloth over it.’
‘You will not. Take off that shirt.’
‘No.’ Max groped for a convincing explanation. ‘It would not be proper.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! I’ve seen men’s bare chests before. I have a brother, don’t forget. And the men are always sluicing off under the yard pump. I’m sure a lord has nothing they don’t have.’
He could feel it now, the blush was positively burning. ‘I am not going to take off my shirt.’
‘Don’t be such a baby.’ She had her hands on the collar. It was quite obvious the wretched woman had a younger brother.
‘I am not being—’
Bree simply gripped the shirt either side of the tear made by the bullet and yanked. Max clutched the tatters of the garment to his chest and glared at her. ‘Satisfied?’ he demanded, glancing down and flattening his palms firmly to his pectorals.
‘Better, but you are making this very difficult.’ She peered at the wound. ‘It is just a groove, but it is really deep. It must hurt.’ She lifted the neckcloth and dabbed gently at the edges. ‘I’ll make a pad with some of the shirt fabric and then tie it up with the neckcloth. Will you please let go of it!’
Max clung on grimly while Bree wrenched at the shoulder seams until the whole back of the shirt came away. She made a neat pad and pressed it to the wound, then stared at him. ‘It isn’t the pain, is it? You’re embarrassed—in fact, you are blushing. For goodness’ sake, you’re a man of the world, a rake probably—what is there to be embarrassed about?’
‘I am not a rake,’ he ground out between clenched teeth.
‘Well, you certainly aren’t a monk! Women must have seen your chest before now. Lots of them. Oh, have it your own way—just sit still.’
He should have realised, if he had been thinking clearly, that the only way to secure a pad on his shoulder was to place the middle of the long neckcloth on top, cross it under his armpit and then bring one end across his chest and the other around his back, to tie under the opposite armpit.
But it did not occur to him until her right hand was diving under the front of his shirt, pushing his own hand out of the way.
‘What on earth?’
Oh, Lord. If she laughed, he’d strangle her. Reluctantly Max unbuttoned the wreck of his shirt and pulled it off. ‘Before you ask, I was very drunk, very young and it was a bet.’
‘But…’ She was staring, obviously fascinated. The effect of her wide-eyed, innocent regard was damnably arousing. He concentrated grimly on the embarrassment. ‘It’s pierced, only not like earrings. It’s a sort of stud.’ She reached one exploratory finger towards his right nipple, realised what she was doing, flushed as red as he knew he was, and snatched her hand back. He thought he might simply faint from lust, there and then. ‘What is it?’
‘I was nineteen,’ Max said, determined to get this said and finished with. ‘We went to a house of…a place…’
‘A brothel?’
‘Yes, a brothel. And there was a tableau…’
‘Really?’ Bree’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What of?’
‘Never you mind. Anyway, the man had his nipple pierced, and there was an argument about how much it hurt to have it done, and like an idiot I said it couldn’t be that bad, women had their ears pierced all the time—I did mention that I was very drunk, didn’t I?—and one thing led to another, and there was a bet. And there I was.’
‘Did it hurt?’ Her eyes were enormous.
‘I cannot begin to describe it.’ He winced even now at the memory. ‘This shoulder is nothing in comparison.’
‘Can’t you have it removed?’ She was staring, openly fascinated despite her blushes.
‘No. It’s shaped like a tiny dumbbell with ends that seem to self-lock. I went to my doctor. When he’d finished falling about hooting with laughter he said I risked losing significant bits of flesh if he tried to cut it off, so I’m stuck.’
Bree was still staring, transfixed, and the blush was ebbing away to leave her looking positively intrigued. ‘Does it still hurt?’
‘No.’
‘Why do people do it, though?’
‘It’s considered erotic.’ And I hope to Heaven she doesn’t ask me what I mean. ‘And don’t you dare laugh.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Bree assured him, biting the inside of her cheeks in an effort to keep a straight face. The poor man was mortified—who wouldn’t be? But it was very endearing to see such a very male creature reduced to blushing confusion. She busied herself with catching the ends of the makeshift bandage and tying it, which was not at all easy without brushing against the unmentionable stud.
But erotic? Why would such a thing be erotic? she wondered as Max rearranged the shredded shirt as best he could and then eased the coat back on.
She knew what the word meant. She understood in principle what went on between men and women—you didn’t grow up on a farm and run a public hostelry without working that out—but what on earth had nipples to do with it?
The problem was, just thinking about it made her own begin to tingle in a most extraordinary way. In fact, they were positively aching and she was finding it very difficult to meet Max’s eyes and her breath felt as though it was tight in her throat and something of the dizziness she had felt when he had caught her in his arms in the inn yard returned.
So, this was sexual attraction. Oh, my goodness! Well, thankfully I haven’t felt this way until this stage in the journey and Max is doubtless too embarrassed, and in too much discomfort, to notice anything odd about my manner. Am I blushing? He’s stopped blushing. That’s all right then.
Max crossed his legs abruptly, making Bree certain he was in more pain than he was admitting. He was fiddling with the tails of his coat, flipping them across his lap and turning in the seat away from her.
‘I should have asked you,’ he said suddenly. ‘Are you all right? The shock of the highwaymen must have been considerable.’
‘No, I’m absolutely fine,’ Bree said brightly, well aware that she was overdoing the cheerfulness by several degrees. She glanced out of the window and saw the glint of water to the right. ‘The Thames—we’re nearly at Kew.’
‘I told the postilions to take me home first, to Berkeley Square. Then they can take you on to your home. I thought that would be more discreet.’
‘Yes, of course. How thoughtful.’ She was sounding like one of the ninnies he said he disliked. But what did it matter? Bree realised with a sinking heart what should have been obvious from the start of this adventure: she was never going to see Max Dysart, Earl of Penrith, again.
This attraction was too new, too strange to handle. If she said anything, she’d be sure to betray herself, she was certain. Better to be safe than sorry. With an artistically contrived yawn Bree turned her head into the corner squabs and pretended to settle down and sleep.
The rumble of carriage wheels over cobbles signalled their return to town and gave Bree an excuse to wake up. It was a relief—sitting with one’s eyes closed, and nothing to think about but a disturbing gentleman only inches away, was not a comfortable way to pass the time. Especially when the man in question was about to become nothing but a daydream.
The imposing houses around the square were a far cry from the modest respectability of Gower Street, but Bree had a fair idea of what they looked like inside. James’s own town house was just a stone’s throw away in Mount Street.
Max looked very much more himself, she noted. Doubtless relief at seeing the back of this inconvenient adventure acted as a powerful tonic. ‘Miss Mallory.’ He was being very formal all of a sudden. ‘It has been a pleasure.’
‘I am quite sure it hasn’t,’ Bree retorted, smiling. ‘Your handsome drag is no doubt scratched all over, you’ve lost a night’s sleep and been shot in the shoulder—you must have a very strange idea of pleasure if the past twelve hours have been entertaining.’
‘It all depends on the company,’ he said, surprising her by catching up her hand and touching his lips to her fingers where they emerged from their makeshift bandage.
‘That, my lord, is very gallant.’ Ye gods! What must he be like if he sets out to flirt in earnest? The women must fall at his feet in droves. Those dark brown eyes were melting something inside her in a way that was, strangely, both painful and enjoyable.
‘Gallantry does not come into it. What direction shall I give the men?’
‘Oh, um—’ She almost said Gower Street, then thought rapidly. ‘The Mermaid Inn, High Holborn.’
‘Home of the Challenge Coach Company? Of course. Good day, Miss Mallory.’
Not goodbye. ‘Good day, my lord. And thank you.’ Impulsively Bree leaned forward and kissed his cheek, and sat back, flustered, as he stared at her, a smile just curving the corner of his mouth. Then he had stepped back, the door was closing and the chaise moved off.
Piers came bounding out of the office as she climbed down from the chaise and thanked the postilions. ‘What on earth are you doing in that? It’s not like you to spend that sort of money. Still, I don’t blame you. You must be exhausted. How did it go? Tell me all about it, Bree. I wish you’d let me go too.’
‘Do hush a minute!’ She threw up a hand to silence him and hastened into the office. ‘The sooner I get out of these clothes the better. Help me with this greatcoat, will you?’
‘What have you done to your wrist? Let me see.’ Piers pushed her firmly down into her desk chair and began to untie it. ‘Ouch! That looks painful.’ The fine square of white linen, soiled now where it had been on the outside, flapped open as he shook it out, revealing a fine white-work monogram in one corner. ‘D? Where did this come from?’
‘It stands for Dysart, and it belongs to Max Dysart, Earl of Penrith. And yes, he is that Max Dysart, your hero from the Nonesuch Whips.’
‘You’ve met Lord Penrith? Tell me—’
‘I will tell you all about it when I’ve got out of these clothes, had a bath and we’re eating our luncheon. Is everything well here?’
‘Oh, yes, fine, except I can’t work out what’s going wrong with the oats bill either. But what happened—Bree, you cannot leave me in suspense…’
‘Oh, yes, I can,’ she said, making for the door and the blissful prospect of a deep, hot bath. ‘Just watch me.’
‘If you’re going to be mean, then I’ll spoil your bath by telling you that James sent a message round to ask why you haven’t answered his letter. So I thought I’d better read it in case it was something serious.’
‘And is it?’ Bree stopped in the doorway.
‘He’s getting married.’
‘At long last! To whom? And why is that such a matter of urgency for us to know about?’
‘He’s engaged to Lady Sophia Lansdowne, the younger daughter of the Duke of Matchingham.’
Bree whistled soundlessly. ‘That’s a very good match. Brilliant, in fact. She’s supposed to be very beautiful and extremely well dowered.’
‘Yes, and she’s got a fierce grandmother who has heard that James has some disreputable relations and she’s not willing to give her blessing until she’s inspected us for herself. Apparently she’s heard we run a broken-down ale house and are in the horse-coping business or some such.’
‘Well, why doesn’t James put her right?’ Bree demanded. ‘Snobbish old harridan.’
‘Rich, snobbish old harridan, if you please. Apparently she’s likely to leave the bulk of her fortune to Lady Sophia—if she approves of her marriage.’
‘So we have to be taken to be inspected, I collect? I’m half-inclined to dress like a Covent Garden fancy piece and have you borrow an outfit from one of the grooms.’
‘We’d look very out of place.’ Piers grinned. ‘We’re to attend the ball to celebrate the betrothal and, what’s more, we’re invited to the dinner beforehand.’
‘To make certain we don’t eat peas off our knives and spit in the finger bowls, I suppose. Honestly! We visited with James at the town house only six months ago—he must know we have presentable society manners.’ She sighed. ‘We had better go. James is a tactless idiot, but he is our brother. What will it be, trollop and ostler or lady and gentleman?’
‘Lady and gentleman, I think,’ Piers said reluctantly. ‘Less fun, but we’d only give him heart failure otherwise. And look on the bright side, Bree—you’ll need a new gown.’
