Chapter Five
Charlotte woke gradually as if she were surfacing from the bottom of a lake. Her mind was sluggish, and she could not filter through the jumble of her thoughts—some dreaming, some awake.
When she finally managed to peel her eyelids open, it took many moments to realise the deep green silk damask stretched over the canopy of the bed was wholly unfamiliar to her.
As she looked around, she saw that the other parts of the room were equally foreign.
The tastefully reserved yet clearly rich quality of the decor spoke to a wealth that she had never experienced herself.
Even at the height of their family’s finances.
Her sluggish brain took in the surroundings with detached admiration, as if she were watching from far off, somehow through someone else’s eyes.
After a few minutes of concerted effort, she began to take stock of her bodily sensations.
Her whole body felt stiff and sore, as if she had ridden a horse across all of England.
Then the true pain hit her. Her shoulder felt as if it had been lanced through with a hot poker.
She gritted her teeth against the immediate agony and closed her eyes, trying to focus on her breath.
That was when she felt something warm in her hand. She flexed her fingers gingerly, and the movement sent tremors of pain through her shoulder.
It was solid. Her hand was wrapped in something warm and solid. She flexed her fingers again, trying to make sense of the sensation.
Finally, she opened her eyes, blinking away the grit of bad sleep.
It was a hand.
There was a hand in her hand. Or, more accurately, her hand was held in another. Another hand that was, she realised belatedly, attached to a long, muscular arm, which was, in turn, attached to a grown man lying beside her, dead asleep.
Panic rocketed through her, and she shot up in the bed, the pain and fear making her swift but clumsy.
She jumped out of the bed, distantly relieved that her clothes seemed to be intact, though the neck of her tunic hung looser than she remembered.
Frantically, she grabbed the closest thing to her and flung it at the large sleeping man.
The sound of shattering porcelain echoed in the quiet room, and Charlotte felt a splash of cold water down her arms as the water pitcher connected with the man’s torso.
Within a single breath, the strange man was on his feet, vaulting over the bed toward her as he pinned her to the wall, a knife drawn and pressed into her neck.
In all this, Charlotte had not even managed to let out a scream. Fear knocked the breath from her lungs—or maybe it was the force of the towering man pinning her to the silk-lined walls.
He stood there for what felt like an eternity, chest heaving and eyes clearing as he shook off the remnants of sleep and battle instinct. All of a sudden, he stepped back, and Charlotte sagged against the wall.
She could not feel her face. That seemed strange. Then, a wave of fiery hot pain ripped through her shoulder, and she only just managed to grab the basin of the fallen water pitcher before she cast up her accounts.
∞∞∞
Benjamin stood watching Charlotte wretch violently, unsure of what to do. He felt off-kilter himself, still not totally sure if he was dreaming or awake.
She had attacked him! He felt absurdly impressed—maybe even proud. But the shame that followed those feelings quickly drowned them out. He had attacked her back.
Living on the streets all those years ago had honed a vicious animal instinct within him. It was either kill or be killed, and despite the years of living in relative safety and civility, it was clear that instinct had not faded with time.
Even though Charlotte’s drawn face as she leaned her head back against the wall drew him towards her with a tugging sweetness, he took another step back, pocketing the switchblade he kept on him at all times.
Something in him screamed to protect her, to comfort her, to wipe the beads of sweat from her brow.
Instead, he moved over to the window, looking out while she put herself to rights again.
The evening had set in the square below, and carriages rattled past, already ferrying their passengers to evening entertainments.
“What happened?” she mumbled, her voice weak.
“You were shot, Lady Charlotte. In a duel. You were brought back here to receive emergency medical treatment for the resulting bullet wound.”
Silence met his proclamation, and he looked over his shoulder in a gesture he hoped seemed nonchalant to check that she was still conscious. She was. And she was regarding him with wary, assessing eyes that made him turn back to the window.
“Who are you?”
He tried to ignore the twinge of disappointment he felt at her lack of recognition. It was just his pride. “Mr. Benjamin Scarsdale, at your service.”
He turned and sketched a vaguely mocking bow.
Whether he was trying to mock her or their circumstances, he was not sure.
In precarious situations such as this, it was vital to maintain the upper hand, and in all his years of pushing his way to the top, Benjamin had learned the power to be had in making one’s opponent feel small. Shame was a universal motivator.
It seemed, however, she had not registered his tone as she looked up at him with alert, intelligent eyes.
Those warm brown eyes were a shock. He would have thought a woman of her colouring would have light eyes—blue or green—but hers were a soft, honey brown that were even more enchanting in their unexpectedness.
“You shot me.” Her deadpan proclamation was almost enough to make him laugh.
“Ah, yes. Guilty as charged.” He raised his hands and gave a contrite smile, trying another tactic. “Though I also rescued you, I hasten to point out.” Perhaps charm would win him the upper hand.
“And brought me to your home,” she looked around the room, “and your bed chamber; I presume?” The comment was an accusation.
“Nothing untoward has occurred, I assure you, Lady Charlotte.” He was growing defensive. For God’s sake, he’d saved her life. A bit of gratitude would not go amiss.
“You attacked me with a knife,” she continued. “Was shooting me not enough for one day?” She was still sitting on the floor, and the gaping top of her tunic revealed her shoulders in a supremely distracting way. He hated himself for noticing it.
“You attacked me with a pitcher. While I was asleep and defenceless, I may add.”
Charlotte looked pointedly at his pocket, where he carried his knife, and arched a nearly invisible eyebrow. “Defenceless?”
How could she manage to be sardonic at a time like this? Benjamin wanted to laugh. Or kiss her.
No.
Where had that come from? Granted, she was uncommonly beautiful. But he needed to regain control of this situation. Thoughts like those led only to ruin. He would not be ruined.
∞∞∞
Charlotte was ready to throttle the man standing before her. He had the audacity to participate in a foolish duel with her idiot of a brother, shoot her, bring her to his bachelor home, hold her at knifepoint, and claim to have rescued her?
If her shoulder had not been screaming in pain, she might have just marched across the room and delivered an incredibly deserved slap. As it was, though, she could barely see straight. The lingering effects of what she assumed to be laudanum did not help matters much either.
All she really wanted to do was crawl back into this man’s bed and sleep forever. However, the powerful sense of self-preservation she had honed over the years since her father’s death was rearing its head, and she struggled to push herself off the floor.
In two easy strides, Mr. Benjamin Scarsdale was at her side, helping her to her feet with a surprisingly gentle touch. She tried to shake him off, but the movement caused a pain so acute that she just collapsed further against him.
He was only half a head taller than her.
Unusual. Most men of the ton could only just meet her eyes straight on.
He was also strong and sturdy in a way that made her want to lean in more and allow him to support her weight.
He smelled of warm spices and sun-dried laundry.
She wanted to press her nose into his shoulder and inhale.
With that alarming thought, she stiffened and held herself as far apart as she could without completely disengaging. She did, unfortunately, need his help to remain upright.
“If I could impose on your generosity,” she emphasised the word with obvious irony, “a little more, Mr. Scarsdale, I would request the loan of a carriage to return me to my home.”
Mr. Scarsdale shook slightly beside her, and she wondered if he was laughing at her. “I am afraid that is not possible. The doctor requested that you remain abed for at least a week, if not longer. You cannot risk getting an infection before the wound heals.”
At the mention of the wound, her shoulder throbbed, and her vision blurred again slightly. Her mouth tasted foul and tacky. She wanted nothing more than to drain a pot of tea and lie down. By sheer willpower, she remained upright.
As if reading her thoughts, he reached for a glass on the bedside table.
“Here, drink this. The doctor left it for you.” He handed her the tea, and she drank deeply, frowning as the liquid washed over the film on her tongue.
It was cold. How long had she slept here in this man’s chambers?
Did she stink of blood and sick? Why was the latter more concerning to her at this moment than the former?
She straightened her spine. “That being said, I would prefer to stay in my own bed for that amount of time. I can hardly remain here in the home of the most notorious bachelor in London.”
He did not need to see how out of sorts she felt standing there in the deceptively safe circle of his arms.
“Notorious, am I?” He seemed almost gleeful at the comment.
“I think you are well aware of your reputation. I imagine you have gone to significant efforts to cultivate it.” She did not mention the darker reputation she had heard tales of on the other side of town.
The one she suspected he had come by without need for cultivation.
The one that had street urchins and washing women whispering behind their hands and watching for shapes in the fog.
Charlotte allowed him to lower her back onto the edge of the bed.
“I would only like to preserve my own.” Her head felt fuzzy again, and the bed beneath her was soft and warm.
“I do not think any gentleman wishes to be notorious.” He had dropped his voice to a soothing tone and gently leaned her back onto the pillows.
“Pfft you ar’ hardly a gentleman.” Charlotte only just got the words out before her eyelids drooped closed again.
“Rest easy, Charlotte,” a soft voice said from all around her, and with that, she slipped back into the welcome embrace of sleep, full of indignation.