Judith James - Libertines Kiss

1658

N IGHT HAD DESCENDED hours ago. He wandered a dark wilderness that was almost void of form. The sound of musket fire and the shouts of his pursuers had faded in the gathering storm. Now a mounting wind moaned and whistled, snapping off branches and rattling trees as thunder rumbled in the distance. The ice-cold rain, driven by angry gusts, fell in stinging sheets that raked his cheeks and turned the ground beneath him slick and treacherous. Thick oily mud squelched under his feet, gulping greedily at his ankles and clutching at his boots, and the torn bits of cloth wrapped tight around gashes in his arm and thigh were heavy with water, mud and blood.

He labored forward, fighting the elements and his own fatigue. His ragged breath strained in his ears. He clasped his injured arm tight against his chest, protecting it and the battered leather pouch strapped snug beneath his shirt. It was an unconscious act. For the past hour, all his attention had been fixed on a lonely flicker of light, wavering in the distance. Friend or foe, for now it was his only beacon. His exertions had opened his wounds. He was losing blood and heat and soon he would lose consciousness.

He limped to a halt at the edge of a small clearing. The rain had eased a bit, though the wind still battered in sudden whooping squalls. The feeble light had resolved itself into a warm glow that cast just enough illumination to coax shape and substance from the shadows. It emanated from the windows of a substantial cottage. His eyes flit here and there, coolly assessing. Isolated, two stories tall, built of brick and tidy stone; it was fitted with a solid slate roof and bay windows, and was too fine to belong to a simple farmer. A wealthy merchant or a gentlemans hunting retreat perhaps, and potentially dangerous depending on who was at home.

He listened intently. The house was quiet. No shouts, no laughter, no sounds of brawling or signs of horses, supplies or armed men. No signs it had been commandeered by Cromwells forces. His teeth flashed in a predatory grin and the fingers of his good hand twitched, then reached to caress the hilt of his saber. He needed shelter. Weapon drawn, keeping to the shadows, he crept forward.

There was no watchman, not even a mutt to raise an alarm. The only thing guarding the place was its solitude and a heavy wooden door. The latch seemed simple enough. He tried it with his free hand, but there was no strength in his arm and his numb fingers could barely feel to lift it. Cursing under his breath, he sheathed his sword and began working the latch with both hands as he pushed with his shoulder. The damned thing would not budge. His exertions were taking their toll. A wave of dizziness assailed him and he leaned back, letting the door take his weight as he waited for it to pass.

He lost his balance anyway, whirling to right himself, scrambling for his sword and fighting to stay on his feet as the door swung open suddenly on its own.

Most people use the knocker or pull on the bell.

He gaped in astonishment. Her voice was calm with a hint of irony, her demeanor self-possessed, but her fine gray eyes were as wide and startled as if she had just seen a ghost. Straightening and swallowing his own surprise, he looked carefully about the room as his heart steadied.

Other than a handful of servants, I am here alone.

Leaning against the doorjamb for support, he examined her as thoroughly as he had the room. She was a tiny thing, dressed in drab woolens and wrapped in a shawl she hugged close to her breast. Her hair was drawn into a severe bun hidden tight beneath a linen cap, accentuating a pale face that looked worn and tired. Her gaze was probing and wary. She reminded him of a brave little bird, torn between curiosity and the impulse to take flight. Collecting himself, he removed a wide-brimmed hat with a rain-soaked plume, and performed a courtly bow. Good evening to you, madam. My apologies for the rude intrusion, but Ive traveled as far as I may this day, and tis wicked cold outside.

She noted his height, his disheveled appearance, his sodden bandages, and his cavaliers clothes. Her eyes met hissearchingand then looked pointedly at his sword.

He sheathed it as if at her command.

A gust of wind slammed the door against the wall and sent a sheet of water spattering across the flagstone floor. She took another step back and motioned with her hand. Come inside. Ill give you shelter from the storm. He let go of the doorjamb, took one step, then another, and toppled into her arms.

H E AWOKE sometime later resting precariously on a dainty settee that was all but dwarfed by his length. Covered in warm blankets and settled in front of a cheerful fire, he was no longer cold, but his arm throbbed in time with his pulse. His leg burned like the fires of hell, and he ached all over. Grimacing, he tugged at his coverings, pulling them back to survey the damage, only to find he had been stripped of breeches and shirt, and other than a clean dressing and his boots, he was naked underneath. His lips quirked in amusement and he scanned the room, searching for his nurse.