Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(6)

The indignity of the position struck her at once, prompting her to squirm against the velvet squabs in an effort to free herself. Heat licked at her face. With a squeak, she slid from beneath him and landed on her knees on the floor of the coach.

Leaning forward, she watched as his eyes flickered open, their blue color startling against his swarthy skin. His too-long hair framed the sharp planes of his face, the dark locks in desperate need of cutting.

He gave her a quizzical, not quite lucid look. “What are you doing to me, woman?” he drawled in that strange accent of his, his voice warm as honey sliding though her and curling in the pit of her belly—even if his words rang out with a decided lack of charm.

“You’re wounded. We’re going to find a physician, of course.”

Pulling herself up off the floor, she fell back on the seat across from him and eyed him, still as death on the squabs, his booted feet still jutting out the door. His eyelids fell shut, lashes fanning his swarthy cheeks, dark as soot.

Chest rising and falling, she permitted herself to look her fill, her gaze lowering to his mouth. Lovely. Full, wide, kissable lips. Her lips began to tingle the longer she stared. Appalled for noticing a man’s mouth, she sighed and dragged a hand over her face as if she could wipe the inappropriate musings from her mind.

She had been propositioned over the years. Since Bertram had abandoned her. Her swift change of fortune had made her prime pickings for rakes and libertines.

And yet she had never accepted an offer. Even when to do so would have provided her with more comfort in life. The idea of another man filled her with distaste. Her father, her husband, even Mr. Welles…they had brought her nothing but grief.

Coral stuck her head in the carriage. “Is he dead?”

“No.” Astrid shook her head, brushing her fingers over lips that still hummed from the direction of her thoughts.

The man would probably be disgusted to learn that his mouth had become a subject of fascination. He had proven himself an honorable sort or he would not have risked his neck to save them.

Dropping down from the carriage, she turned to John, relieved to see he was sitting up, his expression only mildly dazed. Astrid and Coral each took an arm and assisted him inside the carriage.

With both men secured, Astrid propped her hands on her hips and faced the carriage, head falling back to eye the driver’s perch.

“Coral,” she began.

“No, my lady,” the maid rushed to say, following Astrid’s gaze. “I simply couldn’t. Never. I wouldn’t know how to drive this contraption.”

Sighing, Astrid approached the stranger’s stallion, eyeing him warily. The beast eyed her in turn, and yet permitted her to take his reins and tie him to the back of the coach.

Snatching her cloak from the road, she reclaimed her reticule and then clambered up to the driver’s seat.

Looking down at Coral standing in the middle of the road, a dubious expression on her birdlike face, she advised, “Secure yourself within and keep an eye on the men.” With more assurance than she felt, she added, “I’ve driven a gig. Many times.”

Although not in years. And never on a road that looked like something a team of oxen traversed in biblical times. And a gig was certainly not as large as this four-teamed carriage.

Grasping the reins, she drew a steadying breath and reminded herself that the next village wasn’t far. And Bertram. She inhaled deeply, fingers tightening around the leather.

She would have her say at last. If in fact Bertram was in Dubhlagan, posing as the prosperous Sir Edmond Powell of Cornwall. For some reason, she knew he was there. She could not explain it, but she knew she would find him in Dubhlagan. She knew. She would confront him and have her say. And stop him from ruining another woman’s life.

With a snap of the reins, the impatient team surged forward, throwing her back on the seat. Balancing herself, her thoughts turned to the man inside the carriage. Again, her lips tingled.

She wondered at him. What manner of man is he? With his strange speech and appearance? With his unusual speed and dexterity with firearms?

Astrid shrugged. It mattered naught. She would never know. She would see to his care—it was the least she owed him—and move on. He bore no consequence and she would do well to remember that.

“Here you are.” Molly, a serving maid at the Black Hart Inn, set a basin of warm water on the bedside table. Plopping a pile of linens down, she faced Astrid with an expectant arch of her brow. “Shall I help you undress him, then?”

Astrid blinked at the servant from where she stood several feet from the bed, keeping a proper distance from the man who lay there. “Me?”

Molly nodded. “Of course. The doctor will want to examine him when he arrives.” The older woman’s lip curled. “I don’t think that girl of yours will be much help. She’s downstairs now asking after the next coach.”

“Yes. Of course,” Astrid agreed as if it were commonplace for her to undress a strange man.

And yet she found herself unable to move as Molly set to work, removing first one heavy boot and then another, each dropping to the inn’s wood floor with a thud. She stared at the man’s bare feet against the stark white linens.

Surprisingly attractive feet. Long with clean lines.

Molly cleared her throat. “Are you going to help or just stare?”

Mumbling, Astrid stepped forward. With Molly’s help, they forced him into a sitting position and removed his buttery-soft jacket from broad shoulders. She winced at his low groan. She hated that he was in pain, that he suffered…all because of her. She blinked, alarmed at the sentiment. Unusual of her. This caring for a stranger. Even if he had helped her, she did not know him. Why should she care so much?