Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(2)

Hastily Sara fumbled in her handbag for the pistol she always carried on her research trips. She had never used it on anyone before, but she had practiced target shooting in a country field to the southeast of Greenwood Corners. Drawing out the small weapon, she cocked it and hesitated.

“Here, now!” she called out, trying to make her voice strong and authoritative. “I insist that you stop at once!”

One of the men looked over at her. The other ignored her cry, raising the knife once more. They did not consider her a threat at all. Biting her lip, Sara raised the trembling pistol and aimed to the left of them. She couldn’t kill anyone—she doubted her conscience would tolerate it—but perhaps the loud noise would frighten them. Steadying her hand, she pulled the trigger.

As the echoes of the pistol’s report died away, Sara opened her eyes to view the results of her efforts. To her amazement, she realized she had unintentionally hit one of the men…dear God, in the throat! He was on his knees, clasping the gushing wound with his hands. Abruptly he toppled over with a gurgling noise. The other man was frozen. She couldn’t see his shadowed face.

“Go away now,” Sara heard herself say, her voice shaking with fear and dismay. “Or…or I shall find it necessary to shoot you as well!”

He seemed to melt away into the darkness like a ghost. Sara crept to the two bodies on the ground. Her mouth gaped open in horror, and she covered it with her unsteady fingers. She had very definitely killed a man. Edging around his fallen body, she approached the victim of the attack.

His face was covered with blood. It dripped from his black hair and soaked the front of his evening clothes. A sickening feeling came over her as she wondered if rescue had come too late for him. Sara slipped the pistol back into her handbag. She was cold all over, and very unsteady. In all her sheltered twenty-five years, nothing like this had ever happened to her. She looked from one body to the other. If only there were a foot patrol nearby, or one of the renowned and highly trained city officers. She found herself waiting for something to happen. Someone would come across the scene very soon. A sense of guilt crept through her shock. Dear Lord, how could she live with herself, knowing what she had done?

Sara peered down at the victim of the robbery with a mixture of curiosity and pity. It was difficult to see his face through all the blood, but he appeared to be a young man. His clothes were well-made, the kind of garments that were to be found on Bond Street. Suddenly she saw his chest move. She blinked in surprise. “S-sir?” she asked, leaning over him.

He lunged upward, and she gave a terrified squeak. A large hand grasped the material of her bodice, clenching too tightly to allow her to pull away. The other hand came up to her face. His palm rested on her cheek, his trembling fingers smearing blood across the surface of her spectacles. After a frantic attempt to escape, Sara subsided into an unsteady heap beside him.

“I have foiled your attackers, sir.” Gamely she tried to pry his fingers away from her bodice. His grip was like iron. “I believe I may have saved your life. Unhand me…please…”

He took a long time to reply. Gradually his hand fell away from her face and drifted down her arm until he found her wrist. “ ’Elp me up,” he said roughly, surprising her with his accent. She wouldn’t have expected a man wearing such fine clothes to speak with a cockney twang.

“It would be better if I called for assistance—”

“Not ’ere,” he managed to gasp. “Empty-’eaded fool. We’ll be…robbed an’ gutted in a frigging second.”

Offended by his harshness, Sara was tempted to point out that a little gratitude wouldn’t be amiss. But he must be in considerable pain. “Sir,” she said tentatively, “your face…if you will allow me to get the handkerchief from my reticule—”

“You fired the pistol shot?”

“I’m afraid so.” Easing her hand inside her reticule, she pushed past the gun and found the handkerchief. Before she could pull it out, he tightened his grip on her wrist. “Let me help you,” she said quietly.

His fingers loosened, and she brought forth the handkerchief, a clean, serviceable square of linen. Gently she dabbed at his face and pressed the folded linen against the hideous gash that ran from his brow to the center of his opposite cheek. It would be disfiguring. For his sake, she hoped he wouldn’t lose an eye. A hiss of pain escaped his lips, spattering her with blood. Wincing, Sara touched his hand and brought it to his face. “Perhaps you could hold this in place? Good. Now, if you’ll wait here, I’ll try to find someone to assist us—”

“No.” He continued to hold the fabric of her dress, his knuckles digging into the soft curve of her br**sts. “I’m awright. Get me to Craven’s. St. James Street.”

“But I’m not strong enough, or familiar with the city—”

“It’s close enow to ’ere.”

“Wh-what about the man I shot? We can’t just leave the body.”

He gave a sardonic snort. “Pox on ’im. Get me to St. James.”

Sara wondered what he would do if she refused. He seemed to be a man of volatile temperament. In spite of his injuries, he was still quite capable of hurting her. The hand at her bosom was large and very strong.

Slowly Sara removed her spectacles and placed them in her reticule. She slid her arm beneath his coat and around his lean waist, blushing in dismay. She had never embraced a man except for her own father, and Perry Kingswood, her almost-fiancé. Neither of them had felt like this. Perry was quite fit, but he was not at all comparable to this big, rawboned stranger. Struggling to her feet, she staggered as the man used her to lever himself up. She hadn’t expected him to be so tall. He braced his arm across her small shoulders while he kept the handkerchief clutched over his face. He gave a slight groan.