The Redemption of Julian Price(14)

“Yes, Julian,” she agreed with a nod.

Reverting back to formality, Julian made a slight bow and turned to depart.

“Julian?” Henrietta halted him at the door. “What if that vile man comes back? I would much prefer it if you would sleep here. You needn’t fret about propriety,” she continued. “Millie is here as a chaperone.”

Julian hesitated. “Do you truly feel unsafe?”

“I feel uneasy,” she said, which wasn’t a lie. “I would much prefer it if you were close by.”

“All right, Henrietta,” he sighed. “I’ll see about getting a pallet.”

***

Julian shut the door softly behind him, waiting for the tumblers to turn before he stepped away. He then headed briskly down the stairs and back into the tavern for something to suppress his almost uncontrollable surge of bloodlust. Just moments ago, he’d very nearly killed a man, not that it would have been the first. In his years on the Peninsula, he’d killed dozens if not a hundred men. Thomas had once told him that the faces of myriad dead men haunted his dreams. Julian had never dared to confess that he, on the contrary, slept very soundly.

The taproom went silent when he entered. Gazes flicked and darted his way before the occupants resumed the low buzz of conversation, occasionally broken by a cough or a cackle.

“Whiskey,” Julian called to the barkeep. “Give me the bottle.”

The man behind the bar set a bottle of Irish whiskey in front of Julian and then leaned in with a whispered word of caution as he filled the glass. “The bloke ye dispatched. He be a bad ’un. I’d watch me back if I was you.”

“Your concern is duly noted.” Not that Julian was unduly concerned. In six years on the Peninsula, he’d acquired many deadly skills—knife fighting was only one of them. Had the innkeeper not pulled a pistol on the blackguard first, Julian would have had no compunction in slitting the pig’s throat with his own blade.

Julian raised his glass to the barkeep and then downed the first of many burning gulps that he hoped would dull the relentless drumbeat pounding in his ears. It wasn’t long before the languid lethargy that he sought settled into his limbs and calmed his mind.

His thoughts then turned back to Henrietta. The vision of that bastard’s filthy hands on her, and even worse, of dirtying hers on him, had sent bile rising into his throat. He tried to tell himself he was only being protective, but if he were being honest, his feelings went much deeper than that. He’d been almost sick with envy when Thomas had voiced his intent to wed her, but knowing his best friend was a far better man, he never would have tried to compete for her. But now Thomas was gone, and Hen was facing the prospect of spinsterhood. She insisted it was what she wanted, but he didn’t know if he believed her. Was she trying to convince herself?

He wondered how she could have gone so long unnoticed by eligible men. Surely all men weren’t so blind to her charms. What if she were to meet someone in London? That thought shocked him to the core. He thought once more of their ride to the lake and her comments about wanting to experience passion. Henrietta was a virgin. Of that he was most certain, but she was also ripe for plucking. What would happen if some silver-tongued rake came along? Maybe Julian wasn’t worthy of her, but he’d be damned before he’d let any other man have her. He wondered what he would have done if things had turned out differently. If he wasn’t in such dire straits, would he have given any thought to marriage? He wasn’t sure. The only thing he was certain of was that he didn’t want any man to touch her. Period.

***

Shortly after Julian departed, two servants arrived bearing a hip bath. Although Henrietta had hoped to cleanse herself from the unsavory encounter in the common room, she was sorely disappointed. The water was tepid and barely sufficient to cover her ankles. After scrubbing herself as thoroughly as she could manage, Henrietta and Millie sat down to a supper of cold chicken, hard bread, and slightly molding cheese. The cider, however, was passable, albeit much more potent than she was accustomed to. Henrietta had two cups. Millie finished the pitcher, looked to Henrietta with a yawn, and then promptly passed out.

Henrietta sat up, indulging some time alone with her thoughts. She was still unnerved about what had transpired below and shocked at how Julian had handled himself. She had no doubt he could have killed her assailant. The thought of it both appalled and secretly thrilled her.

She knew he was still the same Julian, but war and misfortune had wrought many changes. There was a deep despair beneath his feckless facade. She didn’t know why she put so much faith in him, but her heart told her that Julian wouldn’t let her down if given the opportunity to make good. He could so easily have fallen into his uncle’s reprobate ways, but he hadn’t. He’d escaped and even risked his life to prove himself better than Winston. He deserved a chance. Why did no one else seem to see that? If only she could help him.

The hour was growing late, and Julian still had not returned. Had the brute come back? She was debating breaking her promise to stay put when a soft rap sounded on the door. She drew in a breath.

“Henrietta? It’s me, Julian.”

Thank God. She swiftly rose, fumbled with the lock, and then swung the door open to find him leaning against the jamb, his coat discarded, hair mussed, and shirt open at the collar to reveal his tanned throat.

“You waited up for me?” He cocked a brow suggestively and then his gaze drifted lazily over her, making her suddenly aware of her state of undress. She wore her night rail, but no wrapper.