The Viscount's Kiss. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ had also kissed a handsome stranger who seemed to feel genuine, heartfelt remorse for that action, despite her obvious—and incredibly foolish—response.

      She must be jinxed, born under some kind of ill omen. What else could explain the difficulties that had beset her recently? Her employment as companion to Lady Sturmpole had seemed a stroke of good fortune, then turned into an unmitigated disaster. She had been relieved to catch this coach at the last minute, only to have it overturn. She had been glad she would have to share the journey with only one other traveller, and he was asleep—but look how that had turned out.

      As abruptly as he’d departed, the young man’s head reappeared in the opening. “It seems the axle has broken. It will have to be fixed before the coach can be righted, so we shall have to find an alternate means of transportation. If you’ll raise your hands, I’ll pull you out.”

      She nodded and obeyed. “I’m afraid your hat is ruined and the spider dead.”

      “Ah,” he sighed as he reached down for her. “Poor creature. Perhaps if I had left it alone, it would have survived.”

      Or perhaps not, she thought as she put her hands in his.

      He pulled her up with unexpected ease, proving that he was stronger than he looked. It seemed his apparel, unlike many a fashionable young gentleman’s, was not padded to give the appearance of muscles he didn’t possess.

      Once she was out of the coach, the soft light of the growing dawn illuminated the burly coachman, dressed in the customary coachman’s attire of green coat and crimson shawl. He was lying on the verge, a bloody gash in his forehead and his broad-brimmed brown hat a short distance away. His red coat splattered with mud, the guard held the reins of the four nervous horses that had already been unharnessed from the coach. He also held a rather ancient blunderbuss. One of the horses had clearly broken a leg, for its left rear hoof dangled sickeningly. Thankfully, no passengers rode atop the mail coach; if they had been in a crowded stagecoach, people might have been seriously injured or killed.

      The young man climbed off the coach painted maroon on the lower half, black above, with a red undercarriage, and the Royal cipher brightly visible on the side, then reached up to help her down.

      She had no choice but to put her hands on his shoulders and jump. He placed his hands around her waist to hold her, and again she felt that unaccustomed warmth, that inconvenient lust, invade her body.

      He quickly let go of her the moment she was on the ground, suggesting he was no lascivious cad and had been truly distressed by his kiss in the coach.

      “Since you’re not hurt, I should see to the driver,” he said, giving her a short bow that wouldn’t have been out of place at Almack’s, before going to the driver and kneeling beside him.

      After the young gentleman removed his soiled gloves, he brushed back the driver’s gray hair and examined the wound in his scalp with a brisk, professional manner.

      Perhaps he was a doctor.

      “Am I dyin’?” the driver asked anxiously.

      “I very much doubt it,” the young man replied with calm confidence. “Scalp wounds tend to bleed profusely with very little provocation. Have you any other injuries?”

      “Me shoulder. Just about twisted off when I was trying to hold the horses.”

      The young man nodded, then proceeded to test the area around the coachman’s shoulder, making him wince when he pressed one particular spot.

      “Ah,” the young man sighed, and the driver’s eyes opened wide. “What?”

      The young man smiled. “Nothing serious, Thompkins. You’ve strained it and shouldn’t drive a team for a while, but I don’t believe there’s been any lasting damage.”

      “Thank God,” the driver muttered with relief.

      Then he frowned, anger replacing anxiety. “There was a damn dog in the road. I should have just run the bloody thing over, but I tried to turn the horses and hit a rock and—”

      “Thompkins, there is a young lady present, so please refrain from profanity,” the doctor gently chided as he got to his feet.

      The driver glanced her way. “Sorry for my choice o’ words, miss.”

      “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, not the least offended by his words, given the circumstances.

      The young man untied his cravat and held it out to her. “You can use this to clean the wound, if you will—provided the sight of blood doesn’t make you ill?”

      “Not at all,” she replied, taking the cravat, which smelled of some exotic scent she couldn’t name.

      “Then I’ll see to the horses,” the young man said as he absently unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, exposing his neck and some of his chest. Both were as tanned as his face.

      Perhaps he was a doctor on a vessel.

      The driver started to sit up. “Maybe I’d better—”

      “No, you should rest,” the young man ordered. “Enjoy having such a charming and pretty nurse, Thompkins, and leave the horses to me. Tell her about the time I tried to drive your team and we wound up in the ditch.”

      The driver grinned, then grimaced. “Aye, my lord.”

      My lord? A noble physician? That was very interesting…except that she should be thinking about how they were going to get to Bath and what she should do when they got there.

      “First, I need a few words with your nurse,” the nobleman said, taking her arm and drawing her a short distance away.

      Concerned the driver was more seriously injured than he had implied, she ignored the impropriety of his action and tried to ignore the sensations it engendered, like little flames licking along her skin.

      “Is the driver seriously hurt after all?” she asked anxiously.

      “No, I don’t believe Thompkins has a serious concussion,” he said, to her relief. “However, I’m not a doctor.”

      “You’re not?” she blurted in surprise. His examination had certainly looked like that of a medical man.

      He gravely shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. I have a little medical training, so I know enough to be aware that he should be kept conscious, if at all possible, until we can fetch a physician. Can you do that while I see to the injured horse and ride to the next inn on one of the others?”

      “Yes, I think I can keep him awake.”

      The young gentleman’s lips flicked up into a pleased smile that again sent that unusual warmth thrumming through her body. As she returned to the driver and tried to soothe her nerves, he started toward the guard holding the horses.

      She heard the nobleman ask the guard where the pistols were as she began wiping the blood that had slowed to a trickle.

      “Under my seat,” the man nervously replied, glancing at the high backseat at the rear of the coach, for mail coach guards generally carried pistols as well as a blunderbuss, to fend off highwaymen.

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