Page 57 of Tempting the Marquess

The man quirked an eyebrow. “Oh aye? Who were you expecting?”

“Someone bigger. Redder. Cloven hoofs and pitchfork.”

“Ha! Connie lass, did you hear that? Our patient thought I was the dark one himself. Ah, but you Sassenachs are a bloody oddlot.”

“Stop laughin’, Dougal,” said a plump, silver-haired woman with an unmistakably cockney accent from the corner of the room. “It’s hardly surprisin’, the way you’ve been pokin’ and proddin’. Forgive my husband, sir, I know you ain’t a pincushion, but someone who’s been in some right bad trouble. And don’t you fret about us. We’ve been helpin’ the army for years, workin’ on the, ah, what do they call ’em, love?”

“Delicate matters,” said Dougal. “Like lads who get shot on beaches in the middle of the night. Just as well they got word to us in a hurry, the constable of Calais gets a giant pole up his arse about Englishmen. I reckon his family have been around since the dawn o’ time, and still hold a grudge about Joan of Arc. Your name isn’t Henry, is it? We can’t guarantee the safety of Henrys aroundhere.”

William’s lips twitched, despite his burning arm and aching head. “Not Henry. My name is…Will. And I don’t think a Scot can ever throw stones about holding grudges.”

“Ha!” chortled Connie, clapping her hands. “Right you are, Will. Must say, you sound posher than the boys we usually get. You hail from the WestEnd?”

“Guilty. Although I think the Home Office is trying to crush it out ofme.”

Dougal snorted. “The Home Office would crush the life out of anyone. Except me damned cousin. He loves it. Maybe you know him? Everybody there calls him White. He’s an odd rooster.”

A genuine laugh escaped. No wonder Dougal had seemed vaguely familiar. What White might look like if he improved his wardrobe and lost the last of his thinning ginger hair. “I have heard of White, yes. Odd rooster is about the best description possible. And don’t worry, I won’t ask his realname.”

“I’d only tell you if you were dying, laddie. But if you do see him, tell him Dougal and Connie send their regards. And that he still owes us five pounds, six shillings, and no, we won’t forget.”

“I promise,” he said solemnly, wincing as his shoulder began to throb.

“Oh, poor love,” said Connie. “That arm is goin’ to hurt for awhile. Dougal cut out two bullets up near your shoulder, and you got grazed further down by your elbow as well. Desk duties for you, I think. And plenty of rest. We gave you a little laudanum to help you sleep last night, and you can have some more this evenin’. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow mornin’, that’s when they are sendin’ a barge for you. Come along, Dougal, let’s leave the ladbe.”

William held up his uninjured hand. “My sincere thanks to you both for your care and discretion.”

“No trouble,” said Connie, squeezing it softly and giving him a warm smile. “My husband is a tailor, and does a far better job of stitchin’ than the army sawbones.”

Dougal shuddered. “Damned butchers. And they never use nearly enough spirits. You’ll be glad to know, laddie, you’ve been cleaned out with a nice single malt straight from the Highlands. I’ve not lost a man to infection yet, although it does make the weak ones scream.”

Christ. No wonder his flesh felt like it had been set on fire. “That is very reassuring.”

“Aye, well, Connie will bring some breakfast at dawn. Good night toyou.”

After the couple left the room, William attempted to settle himself on the bed. Hell, it was bad enough for him, and he had one wound site. How Robert had managed to speak, even smile, was a mystery. But at least now he would be home in London and receiving the best care and attention that Langley money couldbuy.

That was the one bright spot in this damned debacle.

Because the words that the bastard Frenchman had spoken just before he fired would be etched in his brain forever.

Mon dieu! She has succeeded even better than we thought. Did she whisper sweet words of love in your ear? Beg you not to go after she spread her thighs for you again and again? Ha! The women, they lure men to destruction with their bodies because it always works. And Lady Samantha spreads her thighs for everyone.

Every part of him rebelled against the thought that Samantha was a traitor, and had been a willing and central part to a plot to have him murdered. And yet here he lay with two bullet holes in his arm. Which in itself was a miracle.

He’d been lucky. Damned lucky, according to the two men from Robert’s unit who had returned to the beach when they’d heard the gunfire. Apparently the unexpected sight of two English soldiers with pistols had distracted his would-be French assassin, and the bullet meant for William’s heart had passed through just below his collarbone and lodged at the back of his shoulder instead. Another had gouged a deep path through the side of his arm. However, his rescuers had made no mistake with their shots. When the Frenchman lay dead on the beach with two bullets to the head, the soldiers had then half-walked, half-carried William to their horses and brought him here to Dougal and Connie’s. Which he would be forever gratefulfor.

But that still didn’t explain how the fake ambush had become a realone.

That had been planned. Carefully planned. They’d known when and where the rowboat to take them out to the ship would appear. More chillingly, they’d known exactly who he was. So it was no happy coincidence. Nor was it a ragtag group. They were smart and disciplined and patient. They would have to be, to track a unit like Robert’s. And they clearly had been fed some detailed information before their mission began.

Hell and damnation.

Samantha couldn’t be part ofit.

Couldshe?

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