8. Chapter Eight

Chapter eight

I gnoring her desperate pleas, the men punched and kicked Hugh until he passed out. “He is outnumbered, you brutes,” Charlotte yelled over and over to no avail. With no other recourse, she grasped Alexander’s arm and screamed into his ear, “Stop!”

Ignoring her, he remained bent over Hugh’s body. He pulled back his fist, winding up to land another blow.

“Alexander.” She clutched his forearm and tugged with all her might.

Finally, he straightened and looked at her. His pupils were unfocused, as if he were in a dream or intoxicated by power. Why were men such feral beasts?

She clasped his face between her palms and stared into his eyes. “Alexander, are you in there?”

He blinked and shook his head before focusing on Hugh’s supine body. At last, Alexander seemed aware he was beating a man to death. He positioned himself in front of Hugh and spread his arms wide in a protective stance. “Stop,” he demanded.

His command was no more effective than Charlotte’s appeals, so the men continued their savage attack. Unfortunately, she and Alexander would have to stop these out-of-control monsters one at a time. Grasping Leon’s cape, she tugged on the hood until the neckline choked him. Fortunately, the blasted capes were good for something.

Before she could persuade Leon to call off his men, Lord Nash lifted his foot, preparing to stomp on Hugh’s face. Charlotte charged forward, plowing into him. She bounced off his chest and tumbled backward, landing on her buttocks. At least she had kept Nash from smashing Hugh’s face.

Alexander rushed to her side. “Enough. My sister has been injured.”

Although Charlotte was not injured, the warning came out so desperate and deafening that the men halted their barrage.

“My lady,” Leon said, scoping low to pick her up.

Alexander intervened and pulled her onto her feet. Once he steadied her, he faced the enraged rabble. “Will someone tell me what is going on?”

A man with a mustache that curled up on each end answered. “His lordship said we was to fetch him and bring him here uninjured.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you did this.” Charlotte dropped to her knees beside Hugh. Blood pooled from his nose. Tears stung her eyes as she gently ran her finger over his battered jaw. Moments ago, she’d been kissing him. How had things gone so wrong?

A tall man in a grimy coat scratched his nose. “We kept tellin’ 'em we didn’t want to hurt 'em, but he kept fighting us, so what was we supposed to do?”

Apparently, her father had hired imbeciles.

“He needs medical attention, and we cannot take him into the house while there are guests,” Alexander said.

Looking up at her brother, Charlotte tried to dry her eyes—a pointless endeavor because tears cascaded, soaking her cheeks. “We have to help him.”

Alexander sighed. “Carry him to Reginald’s cottage. Charlie, go with them. Nash, you come with me. We will somehow get my father to leave the masquerade and speak with us so that we can decide what to do about this matter.”

“What about Lady Chesterhill?” Leon asked.

“We will keep her out of this until we discover what in the deuce is going on.” Alexander glared at Leon. “Do you hear me? Keep my stepmother out of this.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Interesting. Alexander usually seemed oblivious to their stepmother’s maleficence.

Alexander made eye contact with each of the men. “He is not to be harmed further. My sister is in charge until I return. Do I make myself clear?”

The men chorused their understanding.

Charlotte clutched her brother and kissed his cheek. “Please hurry back.”

Alexander’s shoulders hung as he and Lord Nash trudged toward the house.

“Pick him up,” Charlotte told the two ruffians working for her father. “Leon, help them.”

She sent two men to retrieve the physician and two others to find clean towels, water, and brandy. She barked orders until Hugh was gently laid upon their head gardener’s bed, and she did not stop even after the doctor arrived.

Time passed slowly as the evening faded into dawn. The doctor had arrived and left, providing very little information or assistance and making unsettling comments such as, “These masquerades are dangerous affairs indeed. Individuals running amuck in masks think they can do anything without repercussions.” And, “Good God, what did he do to earn himself this wicked beating?” Then the terrifying proclamation, “He could wake up and act as if nothing happened. Or it could be as if his brains have been scrambled. Might not know who or where he is. One never can tell with these types of injuries. One thing is for certain; he is going to hurt like the dickens.”

Charlotte had clasped her heart.

“He needs rest,” was the doctor’s only advice, leaving Charlotte feeling rather hopeless as she waited for her brother and father.

She had reminded the men they were not to seek out her stepmother and sent them on their way hours ago. Of course, she did not trust a one of them. Not Papa’s filthy rascals or her stepmother’s arrogant staff.

When the morning sun danced through the window, she was still waiting. Reginald, their dutiful head gardener, stood by her side. Every so often, she placed a cool towel on her patient’s forehead. Hugh occasionally stirred, only to fall back to sleep. Meanwhile, Charlotte watched his bare chest rise and fall. It would be indecent to stare at his muscles with longing at a time like this, so she tried not to. But how could she not admire his mesmerizing sinew? He is so strong . He will heal quickly, she told herself repeatedly.

“Lady Charlotte,” Reginald said.

She shook herself to the present.

“I am heading to the main house to seek Lord Chesterhill and your brother to see what has caused their delay.”

Charlotte acknowledged him with a nod.

Once the door clicked behind him, she sat on the mattress and clasped Hugh’s hand in hers. No wonder polite society insisted upon gloves. Skin-to-skin contact elicited a powerful intimacy. Fascinated by the strength in those hands, Charlotte ran a finger over the veins cording his knuckles.

“I am so sorry this happened to you. Please wake up,” she said.

He moaned.

“Hugh,” she whispered.

His eyelids fluttered open.

Her heart beat faster. If only he stayed awake this time, she might be assured he’d regain his health.

It took him a moment to focus. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself to sit and leaned his back against the wall. “Charlotte, where am I?”

He knew who she was. Her heart raced with delight. Although the cadence of his speech was slow, and he looked a little worse for wear, it seemed Hugh was going to be fine—bruised but coherent.

“Our gardener’s cottage,” she said.

“Hell, we could have come here for our liaison and avoided all of this.” He peered down at his torso and winced.

Charlotte could not help herself, giggles burst forth. “Reginald, our head gardener, might take offense to us using his home for a tryst.”

However, the one-room cottage was charming. A stone fireplace took up one wall, and a cozy bed was pushed against the opposite. A small wooden table and two chairs sat beneath an oval window that looked out over the gardens. The pleasant aroma of freshly baked bread filled the room. If only she had a cottage of her own. Then, she could invite Hugh to a nightly tryst.

Hugh moaned.

She wanted to wrap him in her arms and take away his pain, and she would have if she weren’t so concerned about bumping his scrapes and bruises.

“Have you been nursing me?” he asked.

Her smile was bittersweet. “I have.” Dare she mention she had not yet slept? “The doctor was not much help, and I was unsure how injured you were.”

He touched the bruise on his cheek and winced. “Ah, this is nothing. I’ve suffered far worse beatings.”

Charlotte gasped.

“Of course, I’ve dished out my fair share of arse kickings.” He ran his finger over his swollen nose and groaned. “Do not look so sad, Firefly. I’ve doled out far more than I have received, so I suppose this evens the score.”

Even after the trauma of the evening, he appealed to her so much that she tingled all the way to her toes. He was beyond beautiful and so dangerous. A woman like her could never keep him satisfied. But might she be able to if she embraced the new spirited Charlotte?

Who was she kidding? She was boring, and he was exceedingly exciting. Could the daughter of a marquess spend time with a duke’s cousin if said cousin had no title and was a scoundrel who once tupped Beatrice? Pfft and yuck . She’d never favored Beatrice.

“Firefly, if you continue to brood, your face might get stuck like that.” Hugh grinned and pointed at her forehead. “All squashed and wrinkled.”

The adorable man was teasing her. A dying man would hardly be taunting and grinning, more proof that he truly was fine.

She beamed at him. “Would you care for a drink? I thought you might want something when you awoke.”

“You know me so well, Charlotte.”

It did not take much to realize he would want potent libations after having the tarnation beat out of him. She had a brother, after all. Still, she was pleased he had acknowledged their connection. She reluctantly left his side to retrieve his drink. All the while, his gaze scorched through layers of fabric, skin, and blood to heat her bones.

She handed him his brandy. He gulped three times and passed her back an empty cup. She placed it on the small bedside table and plopped beside him, her feet dangling over the edge of the mattress.

“Come here,” he said, his voice deep and seductive.

“I am already here.” And sitting so close, their shoulders almost touched. If only she could scrape her fingers through his masculine chest hair. Swallowing desire, she licked her lips.

“I mean here.” He pointed to his swollen lips.

As much as she wanted to, she shouldn’t. “The doctor said you are to rest.”

“To hell with that. I’ve suffered terrible indignities to my pride. Do not tell me you will deny me one little kiss.”

The silly man could not see how bruised his lips were. “But I will hurt you,” she insisted .

He brushed a tendril of her wayward hair behind her ear. Heavens, she must look a mess.

“Nay. Your kisses will make the pain go away,” he cooed in that irresistible baritone.

Just moments ago, she thought he might be dying, and now she was leaning toward him, brushing her lips over his.

“Ouch.” He winced.

Slightly disappointed and not wanting to back away, she let her whisper blow across his mouth. “See. I told you it would hurt. You are quite a mess. Bruises and scratches everywhere.”

He shrugged. “I suppose we must find another way to pass the time.” His finger slid into the front of her bodice.

“Oh,” she moaned as tendrils of pleasure skittered down her torso to tickle her core.

“So responsive,” he said. “My favorite quality in a woman.”

Perchance she was his match.

The door flew open.

She leaped off the bed. “Papa, at last.”

“Hell’s teeth. What is your father doing here?” Hugh asked, his jaw clenched.

“Hugh Fletcher?” Her father stomped toward them, Alexander at his heels.