No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(52)

His breath caught and his belly tightened.

“Chris,” he said hoarsely, turning the man over. His heart pounded wildly, his vision dimmed, but when he opened his eyes again, the man he touched was not Christopher, not his brother.

“Water,” the man croaked. With shaking fingers, Neil unfastened his canteen and pressed it into the man’s hands. He moved on, moved down the hill, his eyes scanning for that crown of bright curls.

Please, God. No.

He almost passed another man with blond hair. This man’s cap was still on his head, his face obscured because he lay facedown on the hill. Neil did not want to do this. Did not want to see the dead face. But he had to know. He’d go mad otherwise. Neil got behind the body, dug his heels into the steep slope for purchase, and flipped the man over.

Shock and pain stabbed through him as he stared at the face of Christopher Wraxall. He hadn’t really expected it to be him. He hadn’t been ready.

One green eye stared up at him, seeing nothing. The hole where a musket ball had entered stood in place of the other eye. Neil turned to the side and retched quietly, then he sank to his knees and lay in the mud and the gore beside his fallen brother.

How he wished the dead man had been himself.

Neil knew it was dream, but he couldn’t seem to wake, couldn’t seem to rouse himself from the soft, warm bed. It was like climbing out from under a mountain of blankets. Finally, he forced his eyes open and frowned in confusion at the unfamiliar room. Then he looked down at the unfamiliar body pressed against him. It was female. He knew that much, but he wasn’t in the habit of spending the night with women. He tended to wake screaming, and guests seemed to find shrieks in the night off-putting. The smell of roses and the copper hair spilling over his chest left no doubt as to who he held in his arms. As soon as he realized Lady Juliana—he had certainly earned the right to call her Julia now—was sleeping beside him, he remembered his trek to the Draven Club the night before, returning to find her waiting for him, and that she’d promised to wake him after an hour.

The weak light slanting through the windows of the parlor told him what he already knew. He had slept all night, not merely an hour. Had she slept here with him? And what the devil was that pounding?

“Juliana Rose, open this door right now!” said a voice from the other side of the door.

The aforementioned Juliana Rose faced him, her cheek buried against his chest. She stirred and then snuggled closer to him. Neil had the mad urge to tell the person at the door to go away. But that would only cause more trouble, and he knew there would be trouble. No one but someone familiar with Lady Juliana would refer to her as Juliana Rose. That meant it couldn’t be the cook or the maid, and Neil wouldn’t be able to dismiss the intruder and make this all go away.

“My lady,” he said, voice low. “You have a visitor.”

She murmured something unintelligible and closed her fingers around a button on his coat. How had he slept so bloody well when he still wore his coat and boots? He’d barely loosened his cravat, and he couldn’t have had more than four or five hours of sleep, but those hours had been some of the most restful he’d had in months. He hadn’t dreamed of the war or of his missions until the pounding on the door reminded him of cannon fire.

“Juliana Rose!” came the impatient woman’s voice.

“One more minute,” she groaned.

“In another minute she will knock the door down and the situation will be far worse,” Neil observed.

“Whose voice is that? Who is in there?”

Something she heard must have finally penetrated her brainbox because she started like a frightened fawn and tried to sit but ended up falling off the couch. Neil winced when he heard the thump. He probably should have caught her, but he rather thought he’d held her enough for the time being.

She popped up again, pushing her tousled hair back from her face. She looked at him. “Oh no.” Then she looked about the room. “Oh no.” Then she looked at the door. “Oh no!”

“Juliana Rose, if you do not open this door this minute, I will have this man—What is your name, sir?” There was a muttered reply. “This Mr. Goring knock it down.”

“Mrs. Dunwitty?” Juliana asked more to herself than anyone else.

“It is I. You did write to me, did you not? And this is the welcome I receive!”

Her gaze met Neil’s, and there was the panicked-fawn look again. “She cannot find us here together.”

Neil’s brows drew together. “Do you want me to hide like some sort of rake?”

“No, of course not.” She looked wildly about. “I want you to escape through the window.”

“With whom are you speaking, Juliana? I know there is someone in there with you. Open this door.”

“Just a moment, Mrs. Dunwitty!”

“Who is Mrs. Dunwitty?”

“This is no time for questions!” She rose, grasped his hands, and yanked him up. His back protested, but he stood anyway.

“Jump out the window,” she demanded, rushing across the room and yanking the draperies back from the rectangular window looking out on the street, obscured somewhat by a light fog. At least the rain had ceased.

She tried to push the sill up, her face turning as red as her hair as she strained.

“I cannot jump out the window.”