Kiss the Earl Page 5

  Patrick nodded, tilting his head in question. “Why are they here? What did they say?”

  Miss Briley braced her hands on either side of her knees, seeming not to notice that the position left her cloak open—and her body vulnerable to his gaze. Her clear blue eyes were wary, concerned.

  “Amelia is missing. They’re here because they’ve been sent to look for her. And the baron wants to kill whoever’s responsible. I think you might be in danger, Patrick.”

  Patrick prided himself on his levelheadedness, his steadiness. After all, he’d been cleaning up after Amelia’s scrapes his entire life. But this news was a shock. He swallowed, took a breath, nodded, and stood.

  Perhaps he should have remained with Iain in the taproom. Forgetting his own name would be preferable to dealing with the madwoman in his bedroom and the madwoman he was supposed to have run off with tonight.

  Bloody females. He should have become a priest.

  Five

  Ella looked hard at Patrick’s face. Concern lined his forehead as he paced in front of the room’s small washstand.

  What she wouldn’t give for that bowl to be full of warm water right about now, and for her feet to be soaking in it.

  Oh well. Maybe later.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, watching as he paced back and forth, back and forth, his formerly shiny boots spattered with mud. “I know this is bad.”

  “It is good that I did not give the innkeeper my name. Where the devil has she gone? That foolish girl,” he said, a frown darkening his features. He was even more handsome in the flickering candlelight than he had been in the moonlight. Kidnapping jerk. Why couldn’t she be mad at him instead of blaming herself for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Ella pursed her lips and looked skyward.

  “I don’t know. I know you’re worried about her, but listen to me. Those guys outside are looking for someone to blame, and if you think that Amelia’s dad is going to believe you had a hand in this, then your life might be in danger.”

  Patrick waved a hand in the air, never stopping his constant pacing. He was almost making her tired with the movement. “That’s preposterous.”

  “No it’s not. I heard those guys. You didn’t.” For the briefest of seconds, Ella forgot that her feet looked like raw hamburger, and she stood. With an unexpected squawk of pain, she fell back onto the bed, almost hissing her next words. “Crap. That hurt. They mentioned she might be with an earl. That’s you. You can’t go out there. Please.” She hated the pathetic-ness in her voice, absolutely despised it, but like it or not—she didn’t—she kind of needed Patrick right now.

  “For the love of the saints,” he said, turning away. “You are in pain. Enough of this nonsense.” He turned to the washbasin then. Ella fought the urge to throw something at his head.

  She knew that the ache in her feet was her own fault. His snarky comments were just adding insult to injury.

  “Here. This water is fairly warm. We’ll wash your feet, and then I’ll ring for some brandy and bandages.” He knelt in front of her, placing the porcelain basin at her feet. Ella fought the urge to kick him.

  “I can handle this,” she protested as he picked up her foot. “Besides, I need to take my tights off.”

  He crooked a brow at her, his large hand warm on her ankle. “Tights?”

  She wasn’t really sure why she did it, but she was extremely gratified at the way his eyes went round as she yanked up her dress’s hem and showed him the lacy tops of her now-ruined legwear. “Yup. Aptly named, huh? They’re tight.”

  He swallowed, not saying a word as she shimmied them down her legs, slowly pulling one foot free. She repeated the motion on the other side, hissing with pain as she then lowered her feet into the tepid water.

  Rocking back on his heels, he looked at her. Ella, not one to back down from a challenge, stared right back, hoping that she looked a lot tougher than she felt.

  “Why were you there, all on your own, in the street tonight?”

  His softly voiced question seemed to shoot right through her. She didn’t look away, even though her nerves started to vibrate with alarm. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes you do.”

  Without moving from that spot, he lifted her left foot, cupping the water in his hand and sluicing it down her sole. She gritted her teeth against the sting.

  “Miss Ella Briley, who is acquainted with the Duchess of Granville and no one else. Who had only one pair of shoes and tossed them away. Whose lips should not be quite so red, cheeks not quite so pink, hair not streaked with purple. Your attire is strange, your accent and words stranger, and you worry for my safety as if you’ve a vested interest in me.”

  She gripped the sheets so hard she was afraid they’d rip. The whispered words came from somewhere deep inside her.

  “You’d never believe me.”

  His big hands were so gentle, but she still winced as he carefully wiped the dirt away from the puncture on her heel.

  “Try me.”

  Ella bit her lip, looking around the inn’s room, one of the finest in the Hart and Dove. She’d seen walk-in closets bigger than this. Not hers, of course, but other people’s. Mostly on HGTV. There was dark paneling on the walls, a couple of candles on the nightstand, and a candelabra on a cabinet in the corner. The rest of the room held a bed that was about the size of a double, a chair, and what was quite obviously a handwoven rug on the floor. That was it. It was so different from what she was used to.

  How could she ever make him believe her?

  “I’m waiting, Miss Briley.” He lowered her foot into the water and stood, apparently not afraid to use his height to intimidate.

  She cleared her throat, more for time than anything else. “If I tell you, do you promise not to laugh? Or think I’m a lunatic?”

  His broad hand cupped his chin, stroking the stubble there. “Laugh? I can safely promise that, I think. But as to your sanity, I cannot claim to know its status.”

  Ella rolled her eyes. “Do you have to put everything in such flowery terms?”

  “Flowery? I do not take your meaning.”

  “Never mind. Just…never mind.” Ella curled her toes in the pinkish-stained water. “Before I tell you, I want us to get a couple of things straight. First of all, your fiancée. I know she’s missing, and you’ve got to be worried. I promise to help you find her, okay? But you’ve got to promise me something too.”

  He folded his arms and lifted that aristocratic chin. “I will consider it. What would you have me do?”

  Taking what she hoped was a deeply steadying breath, Ella continued. “Someone sent me here from really far away. Farther away than you can ever imagine. I don’t have anyone here. I’m totally alone.” She absolutely hated how her voice got all choked, how her eyes started stinging with tears. But she was stuck, and she needed his help. She forged on. “If you leave me and go off to find Amelia, then I really don’t know what will happen to me. I have nothing here. Nothing and no one. I need a friend, Patrick, someone in this time and place to help me figure out how to get home. And since you picked me up like a Chinese takeout order, it’s got to be you.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long minute, just kept staring at her with those intense green eyes, arms folded and chin lifted like he was a statue.

  Ella didn’t really have a choice but to keep talking.

  “I’m from the future—close to two hundred years in the future, on a different continent, in fact. I don’t expect you to understand how. I don’t even really understand it myself. Suffice it to say that there was definite hocus-pocus going on, real magic. But there has to be a way for me to get back, and I need help to find it.”

  He didn’t say a word.

  It wasn’t embarrassment that made her drop her gaze to the floor. She just didn’t want to see how weird he thought her words were. She let
the silence hang there for just a moment before she couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Please don’t leave me.”

  God, she sounded pathetic. If there was ever a convenient time for her to sink down into the floor, this would be it.

  * * *

  Patrick kept a wary gaze trained on her, waiting for her to crack. She didn’t. She sat there, mute as a stone, her impossibly bright eyes shining as she stared a hole in the floorboards.

  He wanted to believe that she was mad. But something deep inside his memory refused to fully subscribe to that theory. He stayed silent.

  “If we can get back to London, I could show you the mirror I traveled through. I know it sounds crazy, believe me.” Her gaze darted just past his shoulder, and she stared as if she could solve the mysteries of the world if she could but look a little harder. “I just want to go home, Patrick. Will you help me?”

  He dragged in a heavy breath through his nostrils.

  “I must speak to the innkeeper. Those wounds want dressing.” With a curt bow, he turned on his heel and left the room. Yes, he could have rung for the maid and had the items fetched, but he needed a moment apart from her.

  Once he stood in the dim, lantern-lit hallway, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

  Magic?

  A memory brimmed, but he slammed it down quickly. No. He’d promised himself that it had been a dream. No such thing existed.

  Well, no criminal, she. More a Bedlamite escaped from her padded cell. Surely her wardens were frantically searching Town for her. Patrick shook his head and descended the stairs. What was he to do? Oh, Amelia, when I get my hands on you, I shall surely throttle you senseless.

  The taproom was now empty but for a young maid who was sweeping beneath the tables. Patrick glanced at the corner, relieved to see that Iain had gone. He’d have a strong word with his cousin later.

  “Smitters,” he called at the closed door to the innkeeper’s room, accompanying his words with a brisk knock. “I require assistance.”

  In only a brief moment, Smitters answered the door. Swathed head to toe in a white cotton nightshirt, his bald head covered with a cap, he nodded at Patrick.

  “Of course, Your Grace. What can I do for you?”

  “A bottle of brandy and some linen bandages, if you please. Also, we will require a pair of boots for Her Grace. Her own shoes met with a mishap upon the road. Oh, and a suitable gown and underthings, if they can be had. Brigands stole her trunk. And they may be looking for us, so you must tell no one we are here.”

  Smitters, bless his round, bald head, did not say if he found Patrick’s requests odd. He simply nodded.

  “Of course, Your Grace. I shall see to it directly.”

  Patrick nodded. “Have them sent up to my room.”

  Smitters was all smiles and conciliation, and Patrick took his leave. He did not rush directly back to Miss Briley’s side, however. He lingered in the hallway outside the door, tossing ideas back and forth in his head like a cat with a mouse.

  She was here because of him. And he could not abandon her.

  Patrick snorted to himself. Why was he even considering allowing her to help him search for Amelia? Well, he’d seen the baron’s temper before, and he didn’t doubt the man’s bloodlust would be high if he thought someone had despoiled his precious daughter. Perhaps Miss Briley was right, and he should attempt to search for Amelia and avoid the baron’s dangerous suspicion.

  He’d lingered so long in the bloody hall that he startled the poor little maid as she approached, her arms full. She squeaked in surprise when she looked up and saw him standing there, his face probably lined with confusion and concern.

  “Oh, Your Grace, I apologize. I didn’t expect you there.”

  “Not to worry.”

  Patrick took the bundle of bandages, the brandy, and a neatly tied little bag that felt like it had some boots and clothing inside.

  “Thank you. We have all we require now.”

  With a quick bob, the mob-capped little female darted away.

  Patrick rapped quickly on the door before entering, and he did not know whether to laugh or to shake his head at the sight that greeted him.

  He settled for scowling. “Whatever do you think you are doing?”

  Miss Briley was sitting upon the floor, her black cloak in a large puddle beside her, revealing the complete unsuitability of the gown she wore. Her foot was in the air, wrapped in some sort of black, stretchy fabric. Her other foot was tucked up against her lovely white thigh, already bandaged, if one could call the awkward bundle of blue fabric about her foot by such a generous name. A large, ragged strip seemed to be missing from the hem of the gown now—a strip of fabric she could ill afford to lose.

  “You’ve made a right bungle of this,” he said as he knelt by her side, ignoring the abundance of creamy white flesh left on display by her ripped dress. The poor madwoman seemed to have no sense of propriety. If he were less honorable, he would…

  No, he’d not even think it.

  “I did fine, considering what I’ve got to work with. I wasn’t ever a Girl Scout, but how hard can it be to make a bandage?”

  “It is apparently well beyond your scope.” Patrick pulled at the black fabric on her upraised foot, and it stretched and formed to his hand. Once it came free, he tossed it aside.

  “If you will permit me, I will see to your injuries.”

  Miss Briley bit her lip and looked away. “Do I really have a choice?”

  “Of course. I will not touch your person if you do not wish it. But I was once a soldier, you know, and have done my fair share of bandaging wounds.”

  She looked him in the eyes then. “I trust you.”

  Those three words seemed to hit him in the stomach. Picking up the bottle of brandy, he pulled the stopper free and held her foot over the shallow basin, placing a cloth just beneath her heel. “This will sting like the devil, but it will clean the wounds.”

  “Can I have a swig first?”

  He gave a crooked half smile at the bravery on her face and passed over the bottle. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a hearty drink, coughing as it went down.

  “There. Do your worst, Doctor House.”

  She managed to keep her curses low as he poured the liquor over her open wound, though he knew that it burned her open flesh like fire. He dabbed brandy on the wounds, making sure that they bled cleanly before rinsing them with fresh water and then patting them dry. Then, with careful, smooth motions, he bandaged them both, taking care to put an extra-thick square of linen on her heel, where the largest wound still seeped dark blood.

  “There. That will help tremendously.”

  Her lips were pursed and her forehead lined as she breathed heavily. He could not help but be sorry for the pain he’d caused her.

  “Thanks.”

  “Allow me to help you into the bed.” Without waiting for her to respond, he bent and picked her up, one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. Gently as he would handle a newborn foal, he laid her down on the mattress. She shivered in his arms, and he did his damnedest not to look at her body.

  He would have to be a scoundrel to take advantage of a madwoman who could not know how beautiful she was, how very close to nude she was. He was a gentleman, and he’d remember that if it killed him.

  And if the throb in his blood was any indication, it very well might.

  “It is late,” he said, straightening. “You should rest.”

  She nodded, her jaw widening on a yawn. “So should you. Where are you sleeping?”

  “Ah.” Patrick kept his face stoic. “Well, after my cousin’s convincing tale, we are expected to share this room, and there is but one bed.”

  Miss Briley frowned, narrowing her arched brows. “What exactly are you saying?”

  He glanced around
the room. The chair’s back was broomstick straight, and the floor looked no less forgiving. But she was an unwed female, and his damned sense of honor would not relent. He stifled his heavy breath. “Nothing at all, Miss Briley.”

  “Good.” Scooting down under the coverlet, Miss Briley turned and gave him her back. “Sleep well.”

  Patrick crossed his arms and looked down at her. She was in the exact middle of the bed, her shiny black hair fallen around her like some sort of sinful snow, that purple streak standing out bright against the white pillow.

  With one last longing glance at the bed, Patrick sighed, then sank into the chair. Blast.

  He wished he were less of a gentleman and more the rake Amelia had sworn he could be. If he were, he’d be warm and comfortable now, instead of fully dressed and sleeping in a hard chair.

  Chivalry be damned, he thought as he rested his chin on his chest.

  Six

  He stayed in the blasted chair until close to dawn. He’d removed his coat, waistcoat, cravat, and boots, deeming himself presentable enough in the circumstances. The few times he had managed to drift off into the arms of Morpheus, however, his head would bob like a duck on Meadow Pond, startling him awake.

  By the time the sky was starting to lighten in the east, he’d begun to seriously consider what life would be like as a rake, warm in a bed beside a female—even a sweetly strange one like Miss Briley. He’d found his night as a perfect gentleman singularly unsatisfying, and even though there was but a short time left to rest before they must be on their way, he did consider sneaking into bed beside her.

  The thought of his late father’s scowl of disapproval deterred him.

  Miss Briley gave a soft snore, rolling toward him, her lovely face relaxed in sleep. A silky black curl decorated her bare shoulder, and he found himself wondering if it was as soft as it looked.

  A sudden noise from the hallway beyond the door caught his attention. Voices coming down the hallway, hushed but loud enough that he could discern them if he tried. Leaning forward, he stilled his breath, listening.