“I was dreaming of whisky. Do ye see any?”
She looked around, and he wished he hadn’t asked. He wanted her eyes to stay on his. “I do not see anything to drink in this room. No doubt your friend has consumed every ounce of spirits within a mile. Shall I see if I can find a kitchen or any servants?”
“No.” He reached with his uninjured arm and took her hand in his. “Stay with me, lass.”
“I will stay as long as you want, Mr. Murray.” She smiled at him, and he hoped he was not dreaming.
“Did ye already explain tae me how it is yer speaking English?”
Her cheeks colored. “I have not, não, but I suppose I should confess now that I lied earlier.”
“Ye dinnae say.” He closed his eyes and found it difficult to open them again.
“I do speak English. And Portuguese and Spanish. I lied because I did not want you to take me back to London. Not right away.”
“Yer husband beats ye, does he?”
“No. That is to say, I do not have a husband. I cannot complain of any ill treatment.”
Duncan opened his eyes, and she was staring at a point on the far wall. Hearing her speak didn’t make the pain go away, but the sweet sound of her made it bearable. She did not have a husband. That pleased him.
“I did not know the carriage I climbed into was yours. I did not know you were leaving London. But when you woke me, and I realized what had happened, I did not want to go back right away.”
He closed his eyes again, the lids too heavy to keep open. “Why is that?”
“I suppose I wanted a taste of freedom. I was almost trapped once, and I was beginning to feel trapped again.” Her voice lowered to a whisper, and he had to concentrate to hear her. “And if I am really honest, once I realized I was in your carriage, I was hoping for PED.
“I dinnae ken what PED means.”
“Passion, excitement, and danger. I hoped to combine all three and steal a kiss.”
His eyes opened wide, and she stared down at him. She moved away, trying to pull her hand out of his, but he wouldn’t let go. “Ye wanted to kiss me?”
“I thought you had fallen back asleep.” She tried to tug her hand away again.
“Do ye always go aboot kissing strange men?”
“We are not strangers,” she said, giving up on trying to free her hand. “We have mutual acquaintances.”
“Who?” He tried to sit then immediately regretted the action. As soon as Duncan could stand again, he would flatten Pope and then kick him for good measure.
“Benedict Draven.”
Duncan did not know what he expected her to say, but it was not to mention his former commander. It made sense, though. He had left the coach outside Draven’s home, and that must have been when the lass climbed in. But what had she been doing at Draven’s? She was not dressed as a servant. She must be a friend of Mrs. Draven’s. That theory fit because they both spoke Portuguese. Except with her shop so busy, he wouldn’t have thought Mrs. Draven would have time for friends. Besides, she was always in the company of her younger sister.
“Christ and all the saints!” Draven hissed. Now he did sit, the sharp pain in his arm punctuating his alarm. “I ken who ye are.” She winced. Duncan lowered his voice. “Miss Neves, isnae it?
She nodded.
He released her hand as though he held a viper. “Why am I asking ye for whisky? Ye might as well bring me a knife.”
“You cannot possibly cut the ball out of your arm yourself,” she said.
“I meant so I can slit my neck.”
She gasped.
“It’s a far better proposition than waiting for Draven to show up and rip my...” He looked into her face, and her eyes were wide.
Duncan sank back down.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “I did not think. I wanted an adventure and a romance—”
“Romance? With me?”
“Why not you?”
“I’m nae poet, lass. The most romantic thing I do is throw a lass over my shoulder before I carry her tae bed.”
Her brows went up. “Really?”
Christ, but she actually seemed intrigued by that idea. And he must be delirious from pain because he could imagine tossing her onto his bed and having his way with that mouth of hers.
“Then what do you do to her?”
This woman would be the death of him. Literally. “I read her a bedtime story and tuck her in,” he said.
She let out an annoyed breath, clearly wanting more salacious details. Just then they heard footsteps outside the door, and Duncan jumped to his feet. He swayed slightly before he steadied himself and pushed Draven’s sister-in-law behind his back.
“Mr. Fortescue said Mr. Pope would not trouble us,” she said from behind him.
“Just stay behind me, lass.”
The footsteps stopped at the parlor door. Duncan tensed, while behind him he felt the woman fidgeting. “Stand still,” he said.
“I am trying to ready the pistol,” she said.
“The pistol!” He’d forgotten about that. He turned, found her with it pointed right at him, and snatched it out of her hands. The door opened. He spun around and pointed the weapon at the older woman carrying a tray into the room.
She stopped. “I take it you are not hungry then?”
Duncan lowered the firearm. “Forgive me, missus. I thought ye were someone else.”
“Oh, Mr. Pope is quite harmless at the moment. But you, sir, had better sit down. You are injured.”
“Good idea.” Duncan sank down onto the couch, closing his eyes to make the world stop spinning.
The women were speaking now, both of them fluttering about him, but he couldn’t hear what they said above the buzzing in his ears. Dinnae pass oot, he told himself. Suddenly, he felt the cool rim of a glass at his lips. He opened his mouth and sipped. It wasn’t whisky, but gin was the next best thing, he supposed. After a few more sips, the buzzing ceased. Unfortunately, his eyes also refused to open, and he couldn’t stop his body from tumbling down and down and down.
INES
Ines removed her hand from the back of Murray’s head and studied him with concern. “I believe he is unconscious.”
The servant peered at him. “Best thing for him, if you ask me, miss. He won’t feel the pain so much.” She gave Ines’s dress a wide-eyed look. “But you are hurt, too, miss!”
Ines glanced at her blood-stained dress. “It is Mr. Murray’s blood. I am uninjured.”
The servant sighed in relief. “Oh, good. I will try to find you something clean to wear.” She looked at Murray. “And something for him as well.”
“His trunks are here,” Ines said. “He has clothing in there. What should I do to help him? It seems like Mr. Fortescue has been gone hours. I am anxious for the surgeon.”
“It looks like you did a good job of binding the wound and stopping the blood flow. But we could clean the wound.”
“How?”
“I’ll fetch more gin. In the meantime, I made you soup. Go ahead and eat.”
“Are you the cook?”
The woman bobbed a curtsy. “Mrs. Brown, miss. Do you mind if I ask your name?”