Page 12 of The Duke’s Man-At-Arms (The Duke’s Guard #11)

“I beg your pardon?” Michaela must have been letting her mind wander. Surely she had misheard what O’Malley just said. His gaze bored into hers, as if he were sifting through her thoughts. His color was back to normal, and he was sitting upright without aid. His ability to recover so quickly astounded her.

“No need to ask me pardon, lass. Ye said yerself that yer da needed to know that ye had been found and were being taken care of. I delivered the message for ye.”

She struggled to keep calm. Losing her temper would only lead to her breathing erratically. She’d end up suffering for it because of the way her ribs had been tightly bound.

“Yer face is turning red, lass. Breathe!” O’Malley ordered her.

With a hand braced against her ribs, she blew out a breath, drew one in, and glared at the stubborn Irishman. “Why didn’t you mention it earlier?”

“When Masterson all but dragged me into Coventry’s apartment because I wobbled dismounting from me horse?”

“He said you fell out of the saddle,” she reminded him.

“Nay, I think he said I all but fell out of the saddle. ’Tis a different thing altogether.”

“But you were fevered, and the infection—”

“Do ye not remember trying to convince me that ye needed to clean out me wound a second time, or that ye were struggling to breathe even then?”

Michaela fought the need to shout at him. “Of course I remember. I was not the one in danger of keeling over!”

“Ye’re getting yer dander up again, lass, and for no reason, or are ye forgetting that me fever broke? I’m thinking ye were right about donning a clean shirt. Between that and yer undivided attention, I’m thinking both together did the trick. It healed me, lass.”

Ignoring the twinges in her side as she gulped in air, she demanded, “Am I not allowed to show emotion?” When he leveled a neutral look at her, she prodded him, “Well?”

He grinned. “God in Heaven, if I haven’t fallen into a pile of sweet-smelling shite !”

Her mouth dropped open. “Are you comparing me to a pile of horse dung?”

O’Malley snorted with laughter. “That I am. Did ye forget I was raised on a farm? ’Tis part of a farmer’s life and essential to the soil.”

She was momentarily speechless. He shook his head at her. “Faith, I love the way ye’re trying to be proper and not cursing a blue streak at me. Ye’d be mistaken thinking I was insulting ye, lass. ’Twas a compliment. A fine wife ye’ll be.” He leaned toward her. “Ye’re even more beautiful when ye’re angry, Michaela-mine.”

His words deflated her. How could she stay angry with Emmett when he said lovely things like that? “You do not fight fair.”

He swung his legs over the edge of the table, braced a hand on top of it, then pushed to the edge and stood. Placing his hands beneath her elbows, he drew her closer. “I’m not after arguing with ye, lass.” He stared at her mouth, then lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I have other things in mind.”

She placed her hand in the middle of his chest to stop him, and stifled a moan of pleasure when his muscles shifted beneath her hand. Gathering her composure, she pleaded, “You need to rest, Emmett… Your fever—”

“Were ye not listening? In truth, it broke half an hour ago. I sat as ye asked, to make certain me head was clear. ’Tis clear, lass. I have a job to do, Michaela, and will not get any answers lying on the table or sitting here on me arse .”

“But the infection—”

“I’ve had more than one over the years, lass.” He traced the curve of her cheek. “Ye said yerself that the redness was fading after the second cleansing and soaking with the poultice.”

Michaela wished he did not have such an overwhelming effect on her senses. She felt as if she were being pulled toward him, and at the same time felt the need to shove him away. Why couldn’t her heart make up its mind? She had already said she would marry him, and furthermore, she had agreed with him that in order to be truly wed to him, she had to lie with him, let him consummate their union… She shuddered remembering what that entailed, and gasped as sharp shards of pain jabbed into her side.

Before she could gather her wits about her, she was enveloped in the warmth of O’Malley’s embrace. His strength was evident by the way he gentled his touch so as not to hurt her. “Easy, mo chroí . Ye have to be the most difficult patient I have ever had. Can ye not remember to keep calm and not allow yerself to get riled up? Ye’re doing yerself harm taking in great gulps of air, and ’twill do ye no good if ye end up in bed for a fortnight because ye’ve injured yer lungs as well as yer ribs.”

“I did not cause my injury!” Her acidic tone had her immediately apologizing. “Forgive me, O’Malley. You do not deserve the sharp edge of my tongue.”

Instead of agreeing with her, he smiled and brushed his lips to her forehead. “A fine and feisty wife ye’ll be, lass.” His callused fingertips traced the line of her jaw before he cupped her face in his hands and whispered, “Kiss me, lass.”

She had already promised to marry him—why would he want to kiss her now, when they would share a kiss after they were wed? Michaela had already shown him a glimpse of her temper. After all he had done on her behalf today, she really shouldn’t continue to vex him. So she acquiesced.

Leaning against his powerful chest, she was surprised when his firm, yet pliant, lips molded with hers and immediately pulled at her heartstrings. Michaela had no choice but to respond to his kiss. Sensations she had not experienced before swept her up in a maelstrom of emotions too tangled to pull apart and dissect. A bolt of heat sizzled between them when the tip of his tongue traced the rim of her mouth. She moaned, and he immediately pulled back.

“I did not mean to frighten ye, Michaela.”

She stared at his mouth and blinked, unable to believe that the meeting of lips could elicit such a whirlwind of feelings. “I wasn’t… You didn’t…” She was unsure of how to put into words what she felt because it was new…unexpected.

“Well then, that’s fine. I would never want to give ye reason to fear me, lass. But the taste of ye went to me head like three fingers of the Irish on an empty gut.”

Michaela was surprised by his response, though she sensed he had felt something, too, when they kissed. With a hand to her belly to ease the fluttery feeling inside of her, she dug deep for the courage to ask, “Is it common to feel so much from the mere meeting of lips?”

His eyes darkened with what she hoped was desire. “Ah, lass, there are so many ways to express yer feelings with a kiss. If ye’ll allow it, I’d be happy to demonstrate.” His lips were a breath away from hers when the door to Coventry’s apartments burst open.

“Kiss yer intended later, O’Malley!” Garahan grumbled. “Coventry’s alerted the new recruits to our London guard, and the men on the docks and in the stews, to the situation, instructing them to see what they can uncover. He agrees that there is something more sinister behind yer kidnapping, Michaela. He’s waiting to meet with us.”

She was not about to tell either man the connection she had to her kidnapper. She’d have to find a way to get word to Lord Haversham. Michaela needed to let the man know that she was willing to pay him to remain silent, if he would leave her father out of his need for revenge. She could save the pin money her father indulgently gave to her for visits to the modiste, hoping it would be enough to pay Haversham. Fortunately, she received anonymous donations of gowns to replace tattered ones for those in need. Michaela would need to seek donations for the time being to maintain her supply of linens, herbs, and tinctures.

“What aren’t ye telling us, mo ghrá ?”

Emmett’s tender endearment nearly had her confessing what she feared was behind her abduction. When he pressed his lips to her temple, she wanted to tell him all that she knew and who had orchestrated it.

“Darby!” Aimee rushed over to his side. “I need to speak with you.”

“Later, love, we’ve an important…” Garahan’s words trailed off when he looked into Aimee’s upturned face. “What is it, lass? Are ye feeling poorly again?”

Instead of answering, she nodded. Without asking, he swept his wife into his arms and carried her over to the settee and gently set her on it. “Rest until I get back. Ye’ve yet to recover from this morning’s stomach upset.”

“I’m afraid I won’t recover for quite some time,” Aimee replied.

Garahan’s face lost every ounce of color. He plopped down on the settee beside her, pulled her onto his lap, and pressed her face against his heart. “Michaela, what do ye know about Aimee’s illness? Is there no cure for what ails her?”

The entreaty in his voice had tears welling in Michaela’s eyes and Garahan shaking his head.

“Nay, I’ll not believe there is naught ye can do to ease me Aimee’s suffering. She’s been sick of a morning for over a week now, and again at odd times during the day. I’ve told her to rest, but she refuses.”

“Aimee is quite fit, Darby, but I agree that she needs to rest often, and nibble on bread or scones to keep something dry in her belly upon rising so that she won’t feel nauseated.”

“Just what kind of stomach ailment does she have?” Garahan demanded.

Michaela kept her response cryptic at first, hoping Garahan would catch on to the fact that his wife was carrying his child. “The kind that will ease in the next month or so as she gains weight.”

“Emmett!” Garahan barked. “What do ye know of this?”

O’Malley grinned. “If ye’d quit yer worrying for a minute and think about what has been described to ye, and what ye’ve noticed, ye’ll put two and two together and get three.”

“Three? Are ye daft? Two and two together is four, not three!”

Aimee giggled.

“Ye could be dying, lass. Do ye find this funny?” Garahan glared at everyone. “Have you all gone mad?”

Michaela took pity on the man. He was obviously too concerned for his wife’s health to even realize he had all the clues to come up with the answer. “Aimee, tell Darby what he can expect in nine months’ time.”

Garahan’s eyes narrowed. “Nine months?”

Aimee’s eyes welled with happy tears that spilled over when she placed a hand on her still-flat belly.

“A babe? Are ye carrying me son?”

She shook her head. “I may be carrying our daughter.”

Garahan’s shout of joy bounced off the walls. He shot to his feet and twirled Aimee around in circles until she moaned. “Ah, lass. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to make ye—”

Miranda rushed over with an empty chamber pot in time to avert disaster, but not Aimee’s acute embarrassment at having relieved the contents of her stomach with an audience.

“Don’t give it a second thought, lass,” O’Malley assured her. “Me cousins and I have been on hand with a chamber pot, planter, vase…what have ye, whenever the duchess, countess, or viscountess have had need of it.”

“Quick on our feet,” Garahan said. “I’m so sorry, lass. I wasn’t thinking.”

Miranda handed Aimee a cloth to wipe her mouth. Michaela urged Garahan to place his wife on the settee. “No sudden movements for the next little while, Darby.”

“Ye have me word.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Aimee’s head and slowly eased his arms from around her. “Rest now, lass.”

“We will,” she replied.

“We.” He grinned. “I’m going to be a da!”

O’Malley walked over and clapped a hand to his cousin’s shoulder. “Congratulations, Da.”

Suddenly solemn, Garahan rasped, “We’re having a babe. ’Tis a big responsibility.”

“The biggest,” O’Malley agreed. “Now let’s be off—we’ve work before ye can come back and wrap yer wife in cotton batting to keep her safe for the next nine months.”

At Garahan’s thoughtful expression, Michaela said, “Not a realistic or helpful suggestion, Emmett.”

O’Malley smiled, opened the door, and yanked Garahan’s arm to get him to follow. When the door closed, Miranda and Michaela sat on either side of Aimee. “It’ll take him a while to become accustomed to the fact that sudden movements may upset your equilibrium,” Miranda said. “Or that certain scents may bring on a bout of nausea.”

“From what I have observed of your darling Darby,” Michaela said, “he’ll soon catch on and catch up to what you need. He’ll be a wonderful father.”

Aimee whispered, “After what happened to me, I never thought I’d marry. Not once did I even dream I’d want, or deserve, to be a mum.”

“You deserve all the happiness your heart can hold.” Michaela’s tone was stern because Aimee’s words were the same thoughts she had had ten years ago, and still had on occasion.

“Trust Darby,” Miranda urged. “Every man in the duke’s guard can be trusted to guard the duke, his family, and the guards’ wives and babes. I have never heard one of them pass judgment because of circumstances beyond one’s control.”

“From what I have noticed,” Michaela said, “your husband and his men are cut from the same cloth.”

Miranda smiled. “They truly are. All of them appear gruff, hardened. It’s a reflexive emotion to protect themselves from years of being treated as if they were half a man because of the injuries they incurred serving king and country.”

“Gallant, brave men,” Aimee agreed. “One and all.”

“Even when they are annoying us,” Michaela murmured. “Now then, Miranda what can I do to help with supper?”

“Not a thing. I have the stew simmering, and Aimee and I baked bread first thing this morning.”

“I’m a fair hand at making scones,” Michaela said. “Though I haven’t used that talent since my mum fell ill.”

“I lost my mum the year before Michael and I married. We were always in the kitchen together. My favorite job growing up was having a turn on stir-up Sunday. It’s been years since I lost the both of them.”

“I loved making Christmas pudding.” Michaela smiled, remembering happy times in the kitchen with her mum. “I wonder if we could make more than one, so the men could all share in the tradition and have a turn stirring.”

Miranda beamed. “I think that is a wonderful idea. Let’s put our heads together and see if we need to double or triple the recipe.”

Aimee suggested, “It might be easier to just make separate batches—that way, the proportions and ingredients will be correct.”

Michaela smiled, thinking that she felt at ease with these two women and had finally found true friends—women who yearned for the same traditions and basic need to have a home and family. Though neither Aimee nor Miranda shared the overwhelming need to heal others as Michaela did, they were adept at caring for all manner of wounds. A necessity, given whom they had married.

By the time the women had the meal ready to be served, Garahan and O’Malley had not returned. The captain had been summoned to Bow Street, leaving Masterson, Tremayne, and Miranda’s son to guard the women.

They ate in shifts, little Emma and Michael sitting down for the first serving, Masterson the second, and Tremayne after him.

Michaela’s worry increased with each passing hour. Where were Garahan and O’Malley? Why hadn’t Captain Coventry returned? After a few hours, her gut was roiling. As if she sensed what was happening, she announced, “We need to prepare for injuries. I need to be able to look Emmett in the eye and tell him that I did not overdo it, so I’ll sort and fold the linen strips. Aimee could keep the kettle warm and put on a large pot of water…just in case.”

“I’ll ready a few poultices and herbals,” Miranda added. “That way, we’ll be prepared for anything.”

The sound of shots fired at close range, and a heavy object hitting the door to their building, had the women freezing for a moment before Miranda jumped into action. “I’ll bring Emma out into the kitchen. No one is going to climb in her window again! Aimee, grab one of my heavier pots, and give one to Michaela, too!” With that, she disappeared into her daughter’s room.

“Pots?” Michaela asked.

Aimee nodded. “Aim for your attacker’s face and throw it as hard as you can.”

Michaela nodded as the door burst open, and her nightmare stepped over the threshold. Impeccably dressed, a sneer on his face, and a dueling pistol aimed at her heart. “Aimee, run!”

In answer, Aimee hurled a pot at Haversham’s head. He lifted the hand that held the pistol to deflect the pot from bashing him in the face. “Bloody hell!” He leveled the pistol at Aimee, and Michaela threw her body in front of her friend as Haversham fired.

White-hot pain seared through her upper arm as the lead ball grazed her. She stumbled, but did not fall. She had to protect the others…one a mother and the other a mother-to-be. Without thinking of the repercussions to herself and her father, she said, “Lord Haversham, wait. I’ll go with you. Please leave the others alone! They have no part in what I have been doing these ten years past.”

His chest was heaving, whether from anger or exertion, she did not have the time to discern.

“Please?” She struggled to keep her balance, though her vision was a bit blurry. She walked toward the man responsible for ruining her, shoving those thoughts back into the tiny box she kept at the back of her mind. Now was not the time to ruminate over the past—it was time to take action to save Miranda, Emma, Aimee, and the babe in her belly. She had to get Haversham out of there before he realized Miranda and little Emma were in one of the back rooms, or he decided to take Aimee hostage, too. Michaela would not allow it! She could not let any harm come to her friends!

Digging deep for the strength, she put one foot in front of the other until she stood before the man she detested with every fiber of her being. Meeting his dark and twisted gaze, she did something she never thought she’d do…surrendered herself. “I’ll go quietly. I promise not to cause a scene or call for help once we step from this room.”

His breathing slowed to normal, and the flush on his face faded. As if it had been his plan all along, he nodded and grabbed hold of her arm, ignoring the fact that it was bleeding from where he’d shot her. “Toss that pile of linen to me!” he ordered a pale-faced Aimee. Garahan’s wife quickly did as he asked.

“When we are in the carriage,” he told Michaela, “I’ll bind your wound…if you come along quietly.”

Michaela nodded and let herself be led. Stepping outside, she gasped in horror. Masterson was lying in a pool of blood on the front steps. He wasn’t moving. “Please, let me—”

Haversham pointed the gun at Masterson’s head. “One more word, and I’ll shoot him between the eyes.”

Tears welled up and spilled over, but she did not utter another sound. She prayed that the Lord would send help, and soon. There was no sign of Tremayne. Where was he? Where was Miranda’s son?

Haversham opened the door to his carriage and prodded her in the middle of her back with his pistol. “Inside.”

She obeyed, ignoring the narrowing of her vision as the detestable man shouted to the coachman to drive and the carriage lurched forward. He settled on the seat across from her, still aiming the dueling pistol at her heart. “Now then. Wrap this around your arm and tie it tight.” He tossed the strips of linen at her face. She could not imagine he would have willingly bound her wound. She barely had time to react and catch the linen before it landed on the floor. God only knew what he had stepped in before he entered the carriage.

Silently praying for the strength to bind her own wound, she managed to wrap her arm, but could not tie it off. After her third attempt failed, Haversham leaned toward her, roughly tightened the bandage, and tied it.

The pain helped to clear her head. Now that the bleeding was under control and her vision was returning to normal, she felt woozy. Her stomach was nauseated, but she held on to consciousness until he leaned close and rasped, “I’m going to have you again, Michaela. I’m going to take my time with you to see what you’ve learned about pleasuring a man since the last time I buried my shaft deep inside of you.”

Her heart stuttered at his coarse words and the meaning they carried. O’Malley’s handsome face filled her mind’s eye. She would never submit to Haversham. She was stronger, wiser, and had had lessons in protecting herself from Alasdair.

Lifting her head, she stared into Haversham’s soulless black eyes. His look of astonishment when she had not cowered at his threat was all the encouragement she needed. She would not submit without a fight! She was no longer a young miss just out of the schoolroom, and hadn’t been for a decade.

Haversham was about to meet the fierce angel of the streets and learn that she was a strong, formidable woman in her own right. She had risen from the ashes of her shattered reputation and life to save herself so that she would be able to save others. Michaela would stand up to him this time. She would fight to save herself, because she would never be taken by force again!