Page 32 of Too Wylde To Tame
At the sound of Frederick’s voice, Jameson whirled around, his pistol raised high. He never had the chance to fire. Frederick had already taken aim and the sound of the pistol firing in that low ceilinged, small room was deafening.
Jameson sank to the floor, clutching his arm, his pistol falling from his grasp and landing on the hearth with a thud. Moving quickly, Charity kicked the fallen weapon far from his reach and rushed away from him, directly into Frederick’s arms. He caught her to him, both of them staggering a bit. He from the lingering weakness of his injury and her from the shock of all that had just occurred.
“You’re unhurt?” He asked.
“Nothing of note,” she said.
He reached up, touching her cheek which was already beginning to bruise. “It is of note. To me. I would never wish to see you hurt because of me.”
“I wasn’t. I was only hurt because of him,” she insisted. The commotion had woken the house. Raised voices and footfalls could be heard in the distance as everyone came rushing. “And you should not be up. You must go back to bed at once.”
“When Jameson is secured, then… but I won’t leave you until I know you are safe,” he insisted. Turning her around, he went to work on the knotted cravat about her wrists.
At that moment, Phinneas entered the kitchen, Felicity and Cordelia right behind him.
“Phinneas can take care of all that. Can’t you?” She nodded toward the bleeding Lord Jameson who still clutched his arm and moaned piteously. Considering that the wound he suffered was no greater than and very similar to the very one he had inflicted upon Frederick, she doubted anyone gathered would have any degree of sympathy for him.
Her brother in law nodded. He could not do more as he was already hoisting Jameson up. When he had the younger man on his feet, he asked, “Welbey, what do you want done with him?”
“No trial. We have enough scandal already,” Frederick said. “But England is no longer your home. There is a plantation in the West Indies… you may go there and make your fortune, Jameson, or you may go there and run it into the ground. It will be deeded to you and it will be the last thing you ever receive from anyone in the Dartwell family. Whatever you make of it, is on your head and yours alone and you will never set foot on these shores again.”
Jameson glowered at him.
“Or you can hang,” Phinneas added. “Because I know that if it comes down to choosing between scandal or Charity’s safety, Charity will always come first.”
“Just so,” Frederick agreed. “Just so. Are you in agreement, Jameson?”
Finally, the man gave a jerky nod, his face still petulant.
“I’ll see him to a ship myself,” Phinneas offered. “And I’ll provide incentive for the captain to be certain he stays onboard.”
Cordelia and Felicity came forward, taking her hands and leading her to the scarred wooden work table. A maid was rummaging through the cupboards and eventually joined them with an assortment of remedies.
“For your marks, miss,” the maid said. “Twill help with the bruising.”
Charity became aware then of all her many aches and pains. Her cheek throbbed where he’d struck her and her scalp still tingled from his brutal grip on her hair. There were others still, their causes less immediately apparent. Suddenly she felt very, very tired.
“Can we have a moment alone, please?” Frederick asked.
The room went quiet. Cordelia and Felicity looked to her and she nodded. There was nothing she wanted more than to be alone with him. She wanted to have his arms around her, to feel safe for just a moment.
As Felicity began ushering everyone back to their chambers, Phinneas carted Jameson away. Frederick moved toward the table and sat down facing her in one of the heavy wooden chairs. Taking the jars and bottles of remedies, he examined them carefully before choosing one. Then he took her hand and began massaging some of the pungent mixture over the abraded skin there. She couldn’t even recall how that particular injury occurred.
“He hurt you,” Frederick said, his voice low and gruff. “He terrorized you… and all of it is my fault.”
“No,” she denied firmly. “I’ve come to realize that is part of Jameson’s problem. Everyone else has assumed responsibility for his actions for so long… he’s never had to. The only person at fault for any of this is your brother.” It dawned on her then that she was not the only one who needed comfort. He would have been terrified when he saw Jameson holding a gun to her head. Heaven knew she would have been terrified had the situation been reversed.
He nodded. Then took more of the mixture on his fingertip and began applying it to the bruise forming on her cheek. “You are likely right. I am afraid I do not know how not to take on the blame for his misdeeds. I’ve been doing it for so long.”
Charity pulled his hand from her face and held it in hers. Leaning forward she pressed her face into his shoulder and sighed contentedly. “This is all I require to feel better now. I simply need to be close to you.”
“I will see you back to your room,” he offered. “And assuming that no one is lurking in the corridor to prevent such an action, I will stay with you tonight. Just to hold you… to watch over you. I fear neither of us is up for much else.”
She laughed a bit at that. “I will be quite happy to have you slip into my bed chamber under the cover of darkness. Or in the day time. Or any time at all.”
TWENTY-THREE
The morning of their wedding dawned a week later than when they’d initially hoped to wed and also quite inauspiciously. Marguerite had adamantly refused to allow her to walk down the airless with a blackened eye. Rain had rolled in through the night, leaving a sodden landscape under gray skies. But there was little that could dim Charity’s anticipation of the day’s events. They would be married in the village church, return to Ranford House for their wedding breakfast, and they would depart by midday. It was only a four or five hour journey to Hamden Court, so she would spend her wedding night in the home that she would share with her husband. What could be more perfect?
