The Reluctant Reformer

  His gaze raked over the table again as he listened to the murmur of voices from the next room. He couldn't hear what was being said, but the calm tones made him think that there was still time. Maybe he would hear a hint as to what to expect before he burst in to save Maggie. He wanted to be well prepared when he did so, as he had no desire to get Maggie killed by making a mistake.

  The room had little else to tell. The single chair and cup suggested a single guard. The cards suggested the man had been waiting for someone--perhaps whoever had hired him. James wouldn't mind getting his hands on that person either, he decided. Easing back out of the room, he crept to the side of the next open door. His ears strained to make out the words being spoken.

  "And you sent him to fetch..."

  That was definitely Maggie speaking. James breathed a sigh of relief at the calm, strong tone of her voice. She didn't sound injured or weak, or even scared, he thought with relief. But then he heard the answering voice say, "Yes," and he stiffened. It was a woman answering her!

  In all the time he'd had Johnstone looking into this mess and who might be after Maggie, he'd never considered that a woman might be involved. He'd assumed it must be one of the men she had written about, someone who had been embarrassed or ruined by one of her articles. He had never even dreamed a woman would be responsible!

  James was so startled by the sound of the woman's voice that his arm jerked, the pistol he held bumping against the wall. It was the smallest sound, but seemed loud in the silence that had just fallen.

  "What was--" he heard the female begin sharply; then there was a scuffling, promptly followed by a gunshot. That sound made him freeze, but the horrified shriek of "My lady!" that came directly afterward sent blood rushing through him. Horrified, James swung into the room, his pistol at the ready.

  The first thing he saw were the backs of two people--a large, wide shouldered man and a petite, cloaked woman--but beyond them he caught his first glimpse of Maggie. What he saw both enraged and terrified him. She was in the process of falling backward, her pale face filled with shock and pain as blood squirted through her fingers from her chest. He watched in horror as she slid down the wall, then drove his gaze back to the couple standing between them. He had expected the man to have the gun, so he was surprised when he realized the woman held it, but that didn't give him pause for long.

  Striding forward, James grabbed the weapon from her startled hands. He swung then to plow it into the face of the man. Taken by surprise, the ape stumbled backward. James pursued him, his fists flying, the heavy pistols he held inflicting more damage than did his knuckles. He didn't stop until the man was unconscious.

  Chest heaving, James straightened and turned to confront the woman--only to find that she had slipped out while he'd been busy with her compatriot. He took a step toward the door, but paused when a moan drew his attention to the floor. Banks sat holding his mistress close, supporting her with one arm, the other hand pressed against her wound as if he were trying to keep more blood from spilling out into the pool already growing on the dirty wooden floor.

  "Please don't die, my lady." The butler moaned, tears streaking down his old face. He rocked her gently.

  Changing direction at once, James moved to kneel beside them. Banks raised sorrowful eyes to him. "She is bleeding badly, my lord. Very badly. I fear she isn't going to make it."

  "The hell she won't," James answered. Scooping her into his arms, he stood and turned to the door, leaving the old man to find his feet on his own. He moved down the hall with her quickly, Banks scrambling after them, running to catch up, and promptly applying pressure to Maggie's wound from the side as he accompanied them down the stairs. Despite the awkwardness it caused in trying to descend, James didn't make him stop. He doubted the action was doing much good, but the man obviously needed to feel he was doing something.

  He hardly even cared when he spotted Johnstone approaching, the woman who'd shot Maggie firmly gripped in his hand.

  "What do ye want me to do with her, m'lord?" he asked as James hurried forward.

  "Wring her bloody neck," he said in a cold snarl.

  Johnstone jerked to a stop in shock as he recognized Maggie's pale face, then saw how she was bleeding. Alarm covered his face, and he dragged the blonde along as he followed them to the coach. "What happened?"

  "That bitch shot Maggie," James answered through gritted teeth. They reached his carriage. "Her man, the scarred bastard, is upstairs. He is unconscious right now, but probably won't be for long."

  "Jack!" Johnstone shouted, bringing the other man running.

  "Yes sir?"

  "The scarred man's upstairs. Go get him." Johnstone turned back as Crowch opened the carriage door. The driver had scrambled down from his perch on first seeing their approach, and now he held the door open as James got inside. Ramsey did his best not to jar Maggie as he did, but it was impossible not to altogether, and he winced at every little moan of pain that slipped from her lips as he settled her on his lap.

  "Get us to Lord Mullin's, Crowch," he ordered. Banks clambered in after him and returned to applying pressure to her wound.

  "Straightaway, m'lord," the coachman assured him, slamming the door. The carriage swayed as he hurried back up onto his seat; then the vehicle was off, leaving Johnstone to watch them go.

  Crowch rode the horses full-out, careening wildly through the narrow streets in a way that would have alarmed James if Maggie weren't growing paler with each passing moment. He stared at her face, unaware that he was alternately cursing God for letting this happen and praying to him to save her. And he was begging Maggie not to die.

  When the carriage at last stopped, James waited impatiently for Banks to push the door open, then scrambled out. He led the way to the door of Robert's town house, paused there, and, hands full, began kicking it. Using his free hand, Banks promptly added his imperious knock while Crowch began shouting, "Here! Here!" through his cupped hands at the windows above. Between the three of them, they were causing enough racket to disturb the whole street, and much to James's annoyance other doors began to open while Robert's stayed closed.

  "It is about bloody damned time!" he said in a snarl when the door finally opened to reveal a startled and slightly annoyed butler. Furious that it had taken the man so long to answer, he pushed forward, forcing the servant back into the hall.

  What is it, Mills?"

  James turned at that voice, peering over the butler's shoulder to see Lord Mullin himself standing in a room off the entry. Relief rushing through him, Ramsey quickly moved toward his friend, Banks stumbling to keep up.

  "James!" Robert recognized him with obvious surprise then glanced down at Maggie whom James held in his arms. "What? Dear God, what has happened?"

  "She's been shot," he answered tightly.

  Robert brushed Banks's hand away and lifted the blood-soaked cloth that was pressed to her wound. James had known it was bad--the amount of blood had told him so--but the way Robert blanched confirmed his fears. He felt his heart shrivel.

  "Get her upstairs," the younger nobleman ordered, replacing Maggie's bandage. "Show them to the spare room, Mills, I'll collect my things."

  James followed the servant silently, his eyes shifting back and forth between Maggie's pale face and where he was going. The clomp of footsteps on the stairs behind him signaled that Banks and probably Crowch were following, though he couldn't fathom why. They would be of little use here. He would be useless, too, he knew. Only Robert could help. There was nothing he could do for her now.

  But then, he had been little use to her since they'd met, he berated himself. Look after my sister, was all Gerald had asked in exchange for James's life...and James had failed him. Miserably.

  First he had mistaken the woman for a prostitute. A terribly stupid mistake. Foolish. Idiotic. Who could believe sweet, innocent Maggie a ladybird? Only an idiot like himself. Then he had failed time after time to keep her safe. True, he had managed to pull her out from in front of
one carriage, but he hadn't managed to draw her from harm's way. He hadn't saved her from being pushed in front of the second crash, or from having her hat shot, or from the fire. Dear Lord, he hadn't even protected her from himself, taking her there in his aunt's library as if she were some common strumpet. And not just once, but twice! Gerald had entrusted him with his sister. He had been foolish.

  And now he hadn't protected her at this most critical moment. He had stood just feet away and let her get shot. If he had moved more swiftly, acted more quickly...

  "You can lay her down, my lord."

  James stopped his self-recriminations long enough to notice that they had reached a bedroom, and that Mills had spread a rough woolen blanket over the bed. Even now, he was brushing out the last few wrinkles so that Maggie could be laid upon it. James scowled at the sight of the prickly-looking material. "Get that off. She will lie on the sheets."

  "It is to save the linens from the blood, my lord," the man explained. "Once Lord Mullin has cleaned and sewed up the wound--"

  "Get it off!" he roared. "I shall replace the damn linens, and the damned bed, too, if I have to, but she shall not spend her last moments on that damn piece of--"

  "Do as his lordship asks and take it off, Mills."

  James paused midsentence, and glanced over his shoulder. Lord Mullin entered the room, his hands full of implements. He was followed by two more servants, one carrying fresh white bandages, the other dragging a bucket of steaming water.

  "Lay her down, please."

  At Robert's order, James turned back to the bed. Mills had whisked the ratty woolen blanket away and was now tugging the clean top linens down on the bed. Seeing the fresh white bottom linen for her to lie on, James grunted in satisfaction and laid Maggie down. He hesitated, then knelt at the bedside, taking Margaret's small hand in his own.

  The doctor moved around the bed to the other side. He paused to murmur something in the ear of his butler, then tentatively lifted away the blood-soaked cloth to get a second look at Maggie's wound.

  "Well?" James asked anxiously.

  "I shall have to cut her gown away." Robert lifted his head, looking around at the hovering servant. "Do you wish your men to remain?"

  James turned to scowl at Banks and Crowch. The two men immediately scuttled to the door, though Banks moved more reluctantly than the driver. Satisfied, James glanced back as Robert began cutting away Maggie's gown. He started at the neckline, working downward in a curved pattern that left nearly half her chest bare. Maggie moaned as he pulled the material away, that little action alone seeming to pain her. The sound drew James's eyes to her face, and he felt his heart stop beating in his chest when he saw that her eyelashes were fluttering. Then he felt her hand twitch, and he held it a little tighter. She had been so silent and still since he had lifted her, he had almost feared her already dead. These new signs, terrifying as they were, were also encouraging.

  He peered at her face hopefully and whispered, "Maggie?"

  Her eyelashes fluttered once again before opening. They remained open this time. "James?"

  She seemed confused, and James squeezed her hand, then rubbed his thumb over her small fingers. He frowned at how cold they were. "Yes. I have brought you to Robert. He will heal you, love."

  If she understood him, she didn't show it. Her eyes began to slip wearily closed; then she forced them open again as if remembering something of importance.

  "James," she said softly, trying to sit up. Both he and Lord Mullin pressed her back down.

  "Rest. Save your strength," Robert urged quietly.

  "What, Maggie? Don't talk. Save your strength. What is it?" James murmured. Picking up her hand, he pressed it flat to his face, trying to warm the cold flesh. He wasn't even aware that he was contradicting himself, urging her to rest while asking what she wanted to say. All he could think was that she was as cold as death, and that he was losing her.

  "But...have to...tell you," she got out breathlessly, then winced and sucked in a breath. Pain knifed across her face as Mullin began to probe gently at her wound.

  "You're hurting her!" James shouted.

  "Yes, I am," Robert said quietly, then spoke to Maggie and not him as he said, "And I am sorry for that, Margaret. But I have to get the ball out and clean the wound. It will hurt a great deal. Mills is bringing something to ease your pain, but I fear I can't wait. You have already lost a lot of blood."

  "Yes." Maggie managed a grimace of a smile, then closed her eyes briefly and said, "I just...have...to tell..."

  "Maggie." James almost moaned her name, agonizing over the pain she was suffering. He dropped his head, desperately squeezing her hand.

  "I love...you," she managed to get out. Her voice was faint, but James heard her declaration for all that. Tears welled in his eyes, stupefying him. He hadn't cried since his parents' deaths. Shocked, he squeezed her hand and, wiping away his tears, he lifted his face.

  "Mag--" Her name died in his throat as she squeezed his hand viciously and cried out. In the next moment, her grip loosened and her body relaxed, too. She fell silent.

  "What have you done?" James roared, rearing to his feet.

  He was about to rush around the bed and throttle Robert when a hand fell on his shoulder to stop him. James turned to see Mills standing behind him, a pitying expression on his face and a glass in his free hand. A bottle of some medicinal was caught between his arm and chest.

  "She has just fainted," Robert assured him. Glancing up to nod toward the glass the butler was holding out, he said, "Now drink some of that down and go pray."

  "Pray?"

  "Yes, pray. She'll need it," Robert said grimly as he continued to work.

  James downed a good portion of the drink Mills had poured him. His hand clenched on the glass as he lowered it, his expression turning hard. There was so much blood. She was so pale. He couldn't lose her. "You are the one who had best pray. If you let her die, I--"

  James paused as Robert raised his head. He blinked in confusion, unable to believe he had been about to threaten his friend. He was obviously losing his head. Which was nothing new around Maggie.

  "You have it bad, my friend," the other man announced almost mournfully. Then he turned from James's tortured face to Maggie's wound.

  Ramsey winced as the other man worked, grateful now that Maggie was not conscious to feel anything. "I have it? What? I am not the sick one."

  "Yes, you are. Lovesick. I wondered before, but this is one of the worst cases I have ever seen. You have it bad." Glancing up to see his friend staring at him blankly, Robert explained, "You love her, James. It's why you're acting like such an unbearable ass. You weren't even this bad when I was working on Gerald. Now get the hell out of here and go finish that drink so that I can work on her--else you'll be loving a corpse."

  James stood frozen for a minute, then staggered away from the bed when Mills urged him toward the door. His head was reeling. Was this love? Was that what this panic was? If so, the books lied. Love was not a happy, joyful feeling that made everything seem lovely; it hurt like hell and turned one into a panicked ninny. Damn. Love wasn't heaven; it was hell.

  A moan from the bed made him pause at the door. He turned back, despite Mills's best efforts at keeping him from doing so. He couldn't leave Maggie. She needed him.

  For once, Maggie found herself waking up without a headache. Unfortunately, her chest was paining her instead. Every breath seemed an effort, but she agonizingly opened her eyes, gritting her teeth as she tried to bring the room into focus. When she was finally able to make anything out, all she could do was blink in confusion. She didn't recognize the room at all. This wasn't her bedroom in her town house, she knew. And neither was it the chamber she had been given at Lady Barlow's.

  She was in a small, bright yellow room, lying in a narrow bed she had never before seen. Her gaze slid over the pleasant furnishings, and she tried to puzzle out what had happened. She was still doing so when the door to the room opened moments l
ater, and Lord Mullin stepped into the room.

  "My lord." She tried to greet him, but her mouth and throat seemed terribly dry. She was unable to do naught but mouth the words.

  "Ah. You are awake, I see," Robert murmured, moving to her bedside and pressing a warm hand to her forehead. "And completely fever-free."

  Maggie's eyebrows rose at the combination of satisfaction and relief in his voice, but he noticed neither as he picked up a mug from a nearby table and seated himself on the side of the bed; he then helped her sit up enough to sip from it. It wasn't worth the effort, Maggie decided as pain shot through her chest. Still, she dutifully took another sip of the liquid when he pressed her, enough to wet her mouth and throat. She was thankful when Robert allowed her to lie back down again, and she sighed in relief as the pain in her chest eased.

  "I imagine you feel just awful," he commented, moving to replace the mug on the table. He turned back in time to see Maggie nod. "Well, you are very very lucky to feel anything. You nearly died, Margaret. If James had not gotten you here so quickly..." He shook his head to finish the sentence, but Maggie understood well enough. She would have died. His words had the beneficial effect of reminding her what had brought her here. She quite suddenly recalled the dark room, the scar-faced man, Banks, and Lady X. She also vividly recalled the moment when Lady X had shot her. It was a most unpleasant memory.

  She also recalled opening her eyes to find James's worried face hovering over her. She remembered being surrounded by yellow, hearing his soothing voice telling her everything would be all right. Or had that been a dream? she wondered now. His voice had seemed...different. It had been full of something, some emotion she had never heard from him.

  "Where...?" she croaked, unable to finish.

  Fortunately, Robert understood. He smiled wryly before answering: "I had to throw him out."

  She felt shock at that pronouncement, and it must have been evident. Robert nodded and said conversationally, "James was quite devoted. He didn't leave your side from the moment he brought you here. He held your hand throughout my work on you, then bathed you during your four days of fever--neither eating nor sleeping until your temperature lowered and the danger passed. That was last night," he added. "Of course, James was quite disruptive in his...attempts to help."