The Wild One Read online

Chapter 2

  "Help him!" Juliet cried. She thrust Charlotte into the other mother's arms, picked up her skirts and ran headlong through the weeds toward the fallen gentleman. "Dear God, he saved us all!"

  Still in shock, the other passengers stood milling around like sheep; but Juliet's words penetrated their daze, and before he could flee into the woods, the last highwayman was subdued and others were charging through the weeds after Juliet.

  "Is he all right?"

  "Bless him, he saved that little boy, that dear, sweet little boy —"

  Juliet reached him first. He lay on his back, half-concealed by a canopy of dripping nettles — broken, broken, bleeding, still. She plunged to her knees beside him and grabbed his hand — so lifeless, so smooth — and shoved her finger beneath the lace that draped it, trying to locate a pulse.

  More people came rushing up behind her.

  "Is he dead?"

  "Sure looks like it to me, poor fellow —"

  Juliet looked up at them over her shoulder. "He's not dead, but I fear he will be if we don't get help, and soon!"

  Ignoring the commotion behind her, she squeezed his fingers, willing him to hold onto life as more people came running to his assistance. She saw the blood soaking through his fine clothes, the paleness of his cheek beneath the crescent of dark lashes that lay against it. Wet stinging nettles were crushed beneath the other. Tenderly, Juliet reached down, flinching as those same fiery weeds stung her own tender skin, and lifted his head so that his face was clear of them.

  His cheek was already puckered and angry. Juliet looked up at the circle of faces above. "Someone, please give me a coat, a cape, anything!"

  His breath smelled of spirits. His head was a heavy, lolling weight in her hands, his damp hair coming loose from its queue to spill in soft, tumbling waves over her fingers. Someone thrust a jacket beneath him, and she gently eased his head back down to it as more people came hurrying toward them.

  "Let's get him out of these nettles and into the coach," Juliet said, instinctively taking charge. "You, take his feet. You there, help me take his shoulders. Hurry, let's go!"

  Their fallen savior was a tall man, lean and honed with muscle, a dead weight as they struggled to lift him. They rushed him across the road to the coach, where two people were already spreading a blanket on the grass for him while another hastily began clearing the vehicle's interior of broken glass. The other mother stood nearby, pale and silent, trying to quiet Charlotte wile her own children, seeing the injured man, hid their faces in her skirts.

  Juliet shut her mind to her baby's distress. "Right here. Easy with him. He's been hurt, badly."

  People pressed close, eager to help. This gallant gentleman had saved their lives, and everyone seemed to want to touch him. Hands reached out to support him beneath his arms, his body, his legs, though so many were not needed and only got in the way. Gently, they lowered him to the blanket while the coach was made ready for him. Kneeling beside him on the wet grass, the other passengers crowding around and above her, Juliet quickly loosened the flawlessly knotted, elegant spill of lace at his throat. Then she began unbuttoning his waistcoat, her fingertips going wet and slippery with blood as they neared the wound in his side.

  You can't die, she willed him, working furiously now and calling for some light. Not after what you've done for us!

  Charlotte, still in the stranger's arms, began to wail, only adding to Juliet's sense of urgency.

  Someone found a candle and flint. Suddenly, feeble light danced over worried faces and threw Juliet's shadow across the injured man. As she gingerly undid the last button, his head began to move weakly on the blanket. He groaned in pain, his skin as white as chalk, his eyelashes fluttering.

  "The child ..." he said, thickly.

  "The child's fine. Be still. Relax. You're going to be all right." Out of the corner of her eye, Juliet could see movement, shadowy and silent, as the dead were placed side by side and covered with a blanket. Please God, don't let this poor gentleman be joining them. She slid her fingers beneath his waistcoat, peeling it away from his blood-soaked shirt and feeling a wave of nausea at the sight that met her eyes. In the dim glow of the candle, blood was everywhere.

  "Oh, dear God, I'm going to faint," murmured one of the woman passengers, who was quickly escorted away from the grim scene before she could.

  And all the while Charlotte's piercing wails rang in Juliet's head.

  She shut her mind to her bawling daughter. She shut it to the last highwayman, his hands tied to a nearby tree and cursing them in language horrible enough to make her toes curl. She shut it to the people breathing down her neck, to her own queasiness, to her fear that this man was dying and there was nothing that she or anyone could do for him.

  "I need a knife," she said, anxiously looking up at the faces above. "Does anyone have one?"

  A small blade was produced, and Juliet deftly slit the injured man's shirt all the way to his breeches. The fabric was soaked with blood. Gently, she eased it open where the ball had gone in. In the feeble light, it was impossible to tell how badly he was hurt, but there was an awful lot of blood.

  "We need to get help, immediately," she said, hacking a strip of cotton from her petticoats and packing it into his side in an attempt to stop the bleeding. "I don't want to move him for fear of making his injury worse. Does anyone know where we are, how close the nearest village or town might be?"

  "I think we're almost into Ravenscombe."

  "Is there a doctor there?"

  "Don't know. If not, might be one back in Lambourn, I should think...."

  Juliet shook her head. "We can't go charging all over England with him while we're looking for a doctor. It would be better if one of you rides for help and brings one back." Glances were exchanged. "Now!"

  Her sharp word jolted everyone into action. Two men ran to the nervous coach horses, but another was already leading a well-bred chestnut steed from out of the surrounding darkness. "Here, take his instead, it's saddled and ready."

  "I'll go!"

  "No, let me, I insist!"

  After a brief debate about who would do the honors, someone swung up onto the tall hunter and the animal was away, thundering off down the road.

  And then the little group was alone. Both Charlotte and the highwayman had finally quieted, and now there was nothing but the soft rustle of the wind through the copper beeches, the sound of rain pitter-pattering into the puddled ruts. It was falling harder now, and two of the women stretched a coat over the injured man, trying to protect his face from the wet as Juliet tore another strip from her petticoats and bound it tightly around his torso.

  There was nothing to do but wait. In the deep silence of the night none of the passengers spoke, each remembering the shots, the highwaymen, the deaths — and this unknown gentleman's selfless sacrifice. They gathered close to him, protectively surrounding him, the rain falling softly in the grass verge, the hedgerows, and the field of young wheat beyond.

  "Oughtn't take more than ten, fifteen minutes to bring back help," someone nervously murmured.

  "Aye, fifteen at the most."

  "Provided Hawkins finds a doctor, that is..."

  A small sound came from the injured man. He was stirring again, groping for the wound in his side and trying to gauge the extent of his injury. Juliet caught his hand, lacing her bloodstained fingers through his. It was a smooth, elegant hand, white as the lace that framed it, a gentleman's hand. Yet the skill with which he had handled his pistol had been deadly.

  He groaned, and his head moved on the wet blanket. "Done for …oh, hell … the child…."

  "Easy, there," Juliet murmured, smoothing the hair back from his forehead. "Help is on the way." With her other hand, she urgently beckoned the other mother forward. If their noble rescuer was dying, before he left this earth Juliet wanted him to see proof that he had indeed saved the boy.

  "The child," he whispered, persistently. He opened his eyes — long-lashed, beautiful
ly shaped, romantic eyes that looked oddly familiar — and looked dazedly about him. "Tell me the little one is all right ..."

  "He's fine and with his mother," Juliet said softly, just as the man's searching gaze found the small boy, huddled against his mother's skirt and staring at him with huge, frightened eyes. Their savior smiled, at peace now, and Juliet did not protest when he carried her hand to his face and laid it against the angry red flesh of his cheek. "You saved his life," she murmured. "You're a hero."

  "Hardly. I was just … in the right place at the right time, I think." His eyes closed, but nevertheless his mouth remained curved in the faintest of satisfied smiles. He turned his head so that his lips were in Juliet's palm. They moved softly, sending wanton little thrills rushing unexpectedly down her spine. "Heroes do not make bumbling … fools of themselves, as I have done."

  "I think we'd all beg to differ on that, sir," Juliet said firmly, and was joined by a hearty chorus of agreement from those around them. "Can you tell us your name? Where you live? Your family will be worried and must be notified."

  "My family won't —"

  But his weak reply was lost beneath distant shouts, laughter, and the sound of hoofbeats rushing down on them from out of the night. Riders were coming from the south, and they were coming fast.

  "Hail them!" Juliet cried, raising her head to stare down the still-empty road.

  Suddenly, galloping horses burst into view, their riders spurring them to reckless speeds in what was obviously a race.

  "Stop!" The grandfatherly passenger ran forward, waving his arms. "We've an injured man here!"

  "Whoa!" The nearest rider hauled on his reins, sending his lathered horse skidding in the mud and rearing in protest. Whoa!"

  "What the devil's going on here —"

  "Good God above!"

  They were a group of carefree young rakehells, all splendidly dressed, all riding neck or nothing, all obviously in their cups to one degree or another. One by one they leapt from their mounts and ran forward, eager to lend what assistance they could.

  "Bloody hell, it's Gareth!" cried the nearest, the tail of his fine Ramillies wig bobbing as he fell to his knees before the elegant gentleman. "What the devil happened to you, man? 'Sdeath, I've never seen so much blood in my life!"

  "Shot. And watch your language, Chilcot ... there are women and children about."

  "Bugger my language, Gareth, tell us what happened!"

  Juliet raised her head and looked this Chilcot in the eye. He, like their injured savior, didn't look much older than herself, but it was obvious that she had more sense than the lot of these spirited young bucks combined. "Can't you see your friend is in a bad way?" she admonished. "Pray, don't make him talk any more than he has to. Now, if you must know what happened...." She quickly told them about the highwaymen, the other passengers adding pieces to the story.

  One of the young scapegraces pulled a flask of spirits from his coat, lifted his stricken friend's head, and held the flask to his mouth. "You mean Gareth took a bullet meant for one of the little ones?"

  "He did indeed. He saved all of our lives."

  "Gareth?!"

  "Don't look so surprised, Cokeham," the tallest of the lot drawled, surveying the scene with a lordly gaze and pulling out a snuff box. He took two pinches, then snapped the lid shut with a casual flick of his fingers. "Hasn't he always been the one to walk out of cockfights, rescue puppies, shun the use of spurs? Don't just stand there gawking at him. Go get help. Now!"

  "Oh, for God's sake, Perry," their fallen friend murmured, obviously embarrassed. He tried to move, and through his teeth, sucked in his breath on a gasp of pain. "Now, help me up, would you? Somebody?"

  He tried to sit up, but Juliet put a hand on his chest. "You're staying right there, Mr. Gareth whoever-you-are, until help arrives."

  "Ooooh! Listen to the lady, Gareth! Plagued with petticoats you are, and she isn't even your wife!"

  Juliet, impatient and growing angry, directed a glare toward the one who had spoken. "I assume you boys are his friends?"

  He snickered. "We're the Den of Debauchery."

  Juliet looked at Perry, tall, lounging and elegant — and the only one of the lot who seemed sober. "And you, I assume, are its … leader?"

  "No, ma'am." He sketched her a bow, then indicated his friend beneath her restraining hand. "Gareth is."

  "Well, then. Instead of standing around making him miserable while he bleeds to death in the rain, why don't you help us get him into the coach? Now that you're here and must know where a doctor can be found, you can bring us straight to help yourselves."

  Perry's eyes widened, and his lazy insolence vanished. He straightened up, looking with new respect at the slight young woman with the twangy, unfamiliar accent who knelt beside his friend. And then he gave a slow smile of acknowledgment and touched his hat to her. "The lady is correct," he said, turning to his companions. "Hugh, you ride for the doctor and have him meet us at the castle. Cokeham, you stay here with these people and keep them safe until we can send someone back for them. I will drive the coach." His voice was grim. "We're taking Gareth to the duke."

  "Now see here," the elderly man said huffily, his face angry as he seized Perry's silk sleeve, "he doesn't need a duke, he needs a damned doctor!"

  But Perry merely smiled and arched a brow. "What, don't you know who your noble rescuer is, then?"

  Once again, the injured man tried to sit up. "Perry — "

  But Perry's eyes sparkled with private amusement. He stretched out his arm, sweeping it down and forward with a dramatic eloquence that caused his friend's eyes to flash with impatience and anger. "May I present Lord Gareth de Montforte … leader of the notorious Den of Debauchery, third son of the fourth Duke of Blackheath, and black-sheep brother of Lucien, the preseent and fifth duke." He straightened up. "Now, do have a care. I, for one, have no wish to be held accountable to His Grace should anything happen to him."

  Someone let out an exclamation of disbelief.

  Lord Gareth de Montforte cursed beneath his breath.

  And Juliet Paige went as white as the chalk mud in which she stood.

  Their gallant savior wasn't just the duke's brother.

  He was Charles's brother, as well — and the uncle of her baby daughter.