The Dangers of Doing Good (Arrangements, Book 4) Page 2

  She tried to move backwards, but again found the creek there. She faltered and was going to tumble into the creek. Duncan lunged for her and seized her arms, pulling her safely away. She released a panicked yelp at his touch, crying out louder when his grip on her wounded arm tightened. He set her a safe distance away, then released her and sat back. She scurried further away still, and her wide, terrified eyes went back to his as she clamped down on her bottom lip.

  He halted at once, his breath coming out in visible clouds as he panted. “I will not hurt you, I give you my word as a gentleman. I only want to help. Will you let me see to your wound?”

  She blinked her large eyes, a single tear leaking its way out and running down her frozen cheek. Then, just when he thought she would refuse, she slowly released her clenching hold on her wrap and held her injured forearm out.

  The rush of elation that coursed through him was nearly embarrassing. He walked the few steps to her and went to his knees as he took her arm gently in his hand. She jerked noticeably at his touch, and he met her eyes.

  “Easy,” he murmured softly, as if speaking to a skittish colt. “It’s all right.”

  Her eyes darted down to her wound, and his followed.

  Her sleeve had already been rolled back to her elbow with ease, the fabric both loose and worn. Halfway down the forearm was an angry cut that was not so very deep, but was nearly a hand span in length. Her skin was cold to the touch, and bore the faintest pink color.

  “Did you put snow on this?” he asked, his fingers grazing the edges.

  She nodded. “Mama said cold slows bleeding and takes away pain.”

  His brows rose just a touch, surprised that she had spoken a complete sentence to him. Encouraged, he nodded in return. “Yes, she was quite right. She is a very intelligent woman.”

  “She’s dead.”

  A boulder seemed to fall into his stomach and his breath caught rather awkwardly. “Sorry,” he finally murmured, keeping his eyes focused on her wound. The margins were clean, and the blood was turning sluggish.

  “Have you cleaned this yet?” he asked, keeping his voice businesslike.

  “Just water.”

  He frowned and looked up at her. “From this creek?”

  She only nodded, her eyes darting to the water.

  Duncan followed her gaze, humming a noise of uncertainty. He leaned over and cupped a hand into the freezing depths, then brought the little water to his mouth. Bits of water dripped from his thickly stubbled jaw, and he winced as he remembered that he had not shaved in some time. No wonder the girl was afraid of him, he rather resembled a bear at this moment.

  “Bad?” she asked in a worried voice.

  He turned to look at her with a reassuring smile. “No, no, the water tastes clean. I’m sure you won’t be harmed from it. I would like to wash it once more, and then see if I can help to stem the bleeding some.”

  “It’s not that bad,” she said softly as she looked at it.

  “No, it’s not,” he agreed, smiling again. “But it does seem to have bled quite a bit. How did you injure it?”

  She stiffened and looked away quickly. “I fell.”

  He did not believe it for a second. He tried to hide his frown, but knew he would not be entirely successful. “And did you fall on a sharp object?” he asked, regretting instantly the bite in his tone.

  Her emerald eyes clashed with his and he saw the briefest glimpse of spirit, but then it was gone and the hollow gaze returned. “No.”

  He gave her a serious look, and she held his gaze steady. She might have been afraid of him, might have been the size of a twig, but she was no weakling. She had strength within her. However dampened and hidden away it was.

  He sighed and cupped water in his hand once more, then poured what little remained onto the wound. She hissed and bit her lip, looking away.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured as he scooped yet another handful. “That must sting.”

  She nodded, still clamping down on her lip.

  He poured water on yet again, then reached into his coat pocket for a handkerchief. As gently as he could manage, he wiped the older blood from her arm. Some of it had been there a while, if the crusting was any indication. That worried him.

  He trained his attention now to the wound, which looked better for having been rinsed, at least. He sponged it with his handkerchief, murmuring “Hold still,” to her, though it was unnecessary. She hadn’t moved in some time. She was as still as a statue during his ministrations, her eyes fixed back on him in apparent fascination.

  He felt her gaze upon him like fire and was oddly unnerved by it. She was so steady, so calm, though her entire being was tense, as though she would flee at any minute. Who was this winter creature that struck his manner so?

  “There,” he said as he removed the now bloodied handkerchief. “That seems better, doesn’t it?”

  She did not reply, did not even look at it. Her eyes were still on him.

  He swallowed nervously. “How are you going to agree with me if you don’t see for yourself?”

  Her eyes darted down, then looked back at him. “It does.”

  He tried not to smile and nodded at her. “Thank you. I think we should apply some pressure to it, as it is still bleeding and might for a bit. May I use my handkerchief?”

  Her smooth white brow furrowed briefly. “You already did.”

  One side of his mouth quirked up in a wry grin. “Ah, but a true gentleman always carries two handkerchiefs at all times.” He reached into his inner pocket and produced another with a bit of flourish.

  That coaxed a small smile from her and it was as if the morning had dawned anew.

  He swallowed back his surprise and folded the handkerchief crisply. “Now, we will set this over the wound, and apply pressure for a time. May I?”

  She nodded immediately, that small, maddening smile still fixed upon her lips.

  He laid the fabric on her skin, and gently took hold of her forearm, which fit easily in one of his massive hands. He tightened his hold, keeping his eyes fixed on her so she would see he was not threatening. She looked right back at him, eyes still hollow and yet so impossibly alive.

  “What is your name?” he asked softly, unable to help himself.

  She blinked, her face tightening with discomfort.

  He cleared his throat, anxious to make amends. “I apologize, I should have asked you before. In fact, I should have introduced myself. My name is Duncan Bray. I come from London.”

  “London?” she asked slowly, her tone confused.

  Poor thing had likely never left this area. Might not have even been aware of the world outside of it. “Yes, London. Do you know it?”

  “Of course,” she said simply.

  Oh. Well, that made him look a right idiot.

  She tilted her head ever so slightly. “London is far away. Why are you here?”

  He grinned up at her. “You never answered my question.”

  Her lips came together in a line, and her eyes narrowed just a touch. As if she were assessing him. Determining his worthiness. She had what he wanted and she knew it.

  “Your name,” he said with a shrug. “Then I will tell you why I am here.”

  The corners of her mouth quirked, tickled the edges of her cheeks. Really, she needed to stop smiling so delightfully; he was not immune.

  Perhaps it was the light, perhaps he was only now paying proper attention, but the smudges on her cheeks caught his eye. They were not on the surface of the skin to be brushed off, as he had previously thought. They were beneath it. Deeper. And the coloring was wrong.

  He looked a little closer, and saw her smile fade as her eyes grew worried.

  “Are these… bruises?” he asked in surprise, reaching a hand out to touch her cheek.

  She jerked back so quickly and with such force her arm was ripped from his hold. Her eyes were wide and terrified, as if she had never seen him before, as if he had brandished a knife, as if…


  As if he would hit her.

  “Have you been hit?” he asked, his voice rising.

  She skittered backwards, clutching her forearm tightly. Her wrap fell down around her shoulders, revealing long golden hair that was matted and tangled, yet still managed to glitter in the light of the day. Her breath escaped in foggy pants, and her entire frame shook again. She was still beautiful and it hurt him somewhere deep inside.

  She should not be this frightened, she should not even know this fear. She should not fear anything.

  “Are you being hit at home?” he asked in a softer tone, taking one small step towards her.

  She shifted uneasily, and looked away, unconsciously displaying more of her cheek to him, where the bruises seemed to glow against her pale skin. Some of them were relatively fresh, but some were older. Much older. He sucked in a breath, wondering where else she was bruised, how many injuries her body bore. No wonder she moved with such hesitation, she was in pain!

  “Let me help you,” he pleaded, wishing she would let him take her hand. “I can help you. You should not have to endure this. Please. Trust me.”

  Her eyes widened, and in them he saw the faintest pooling of tears.

  It nearly buckled him.

  “Please,” he said again, holding a hand out to her.

  She looked at his hand for a long moment, and shifted the slightest bit towards him.

  A rifle shot exploded in the silence of the morning. Duncan jumped at the sound, but the girl screamed, then clamped the injured hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes tightly shut.

  “Annie!” an angry male voice shouted. He sounded far away, far enough that he may not have heard the scream.

  The girl flinched and looked up at the hill behind them with no small amount of apprehension.

  “ANNIE!”

  She dropped her hand, and took a slow, steadying breath. Then she looked back at Duncan, her eyes completely unreadable.

  He shook his head, and held his hand out further. “Please. Please, let me help you.”

  Her jaw quivered.

  “ANNIE! BLOODY IDIOT, WHERE ARE YOU?”

  She whimpered, and then took off running towards the hill, towards the sound, towards the man yelling.

  Duncan stood there for an unconscionably long time, hand still outstretched. His chest was tight and breathing was difficult. He was not even sure what had happened to him. But that shy little thing had struck him more deeply, more thoroughly, than anything else in his life. And he did not even know her name.

  It could have been Annie, if the man yelling was any indication. But it might not have been. He knew nothing about her except that she was injured, and was being beaten, if her bruising and behaviors were any indication.

  All he really knew was that he would have moved heaven and earth to help her.

  And the thought terrified him.

  He was a generous man, he knew. His friends joked with him about being hard and burly on the outside, yet soft on the inside. Perhaps he was so. He helped his fellow man as often as he could, willingly and without judgment or expectation of a return. It was simply his nature.

  But this… This was different.

  This was entirely different.

  Heart heavy, chest aching, he turned and walked back towards Balthazar, clenching and unclenching his hand.

  It was not until much later that evening he realized he was no longer in possession of his handkerchief.

  Chapter Two

  Annie Ramsey was a thief.

  Not intentionally, of course, for no girl of sense would ever intentionally steal anything unless positively desperate. Which she was not.

  Not yet, at any rate.

  She ran her fingers over the stitching on the handkerchief… his handkerchief… and released the smallest of sighs. She hadn’t meant to steal it. She had never stolen anything in her life and had never had the desire to. But now she had it, she couldn’t say she minded very much.

  Her fingers absently traced the monogram. D.B. Duncan Bray. Even his name sent a warm tingling sensation down her back and into her toes. Which was a silly, nonsensical thing for her to be feeling. The man had been very kind, tending to her wound and wanting to help her, but he could hardly have meant to give her his handkerchief. Even if he did carry two.

  She smiled to herself as she remembered his brandishing of the second. It seemed absurd that a man should ever have two handkerchiefs, let alone ones of such high quality. She might be a bit of a simpleton, but she did know quality fabric and handiwork when she saw it. And his handkerchiefs had been the very best of fabric she had ever seen.

  She studied the stitched monogram for a moment. It was done with such delicacy, such intricate work. The dark green contrasted so beautifully with the crisp whiteness of the fabric. It was beautiful work.

  Had it been stitched by a loving wife at his home in London? Did he have children whose tears he had wiped with this very handkerchief? Was it a treasured possession?

  Or would he even miss it at all?

  It made no difference, either way. She would never see him again. He could have searched high and low to get it back and he would never have found her. No one ever did.

  She had been shocked at being discovered at all yesterday by the creek. Her only focus had been to hide from Frank and to clean her arm off. No one had ever come that way before. She was not even sure Frank knew that spot. It had been Annie’s refuge for years, the only place she could find any kind of quiet or peace.

  Until yesterday, it had been her secret place.

  It would always be secret. Duncan would never come looking for her. Why should he? She was just a pale, pathetic creature with no sense and no hope of anything. He was a fine gentleman from London, a real life knight aiming to aid a poor girl in need, only to ride off into the sunset for greater adventures and fair damsels in real distress.

  He would not think of her at all. Ever.

  She sat back against her rough wooden chair and glanced over at the fire where her pot of soup was cooking. Frank would be home soon and he would be starving. He was always starving after hunts, and if she did not have food ready and waiting…

  She jerked a small shudder of apprehension.

  Her brother had a temper. And it only got worse when he drank, which he always did. She had made it her life’s work to avoid angering him, but there always seemed to be something. And if it was not anger, it was boredom. He did not like boredom.

  He did not like her.

  Which made no difference, really, because she didn’t care for him much either. But he was her brother and her mother had asked that they stay together after she died. And even if that had not been the case, where would Annie go? She had no friends, no other family, no money, and no skills.

  She rolled her eyes at herself. Well, all right, she could cook a little and mend a little, and she had learned to read years and years ago, even if she was so out of practice she only remembered letters and very small words. But her very limited skills and abilities would make it impossible for her to get any sort of employment. Unless she became a laundress.

  That was a possibility. She had gotten very good at getting even the most stubborn stains to fade so much they were no longer noticeable. Her brother’s frequent drinking had given her ample opportunity to practice, considering his difficulty to even bring his drink to his mouth when in such a state.

  She had managed to clean Duncan’s handkerchief almost completely. It had taken a good deal of work, and she had been forced to do it in secret, but now it was done and she was rather pleased with it. One would never know that this fine handkerchief had once been used to stem her bleeding.

  She glanced down at her forearm now, turning it over. The bleeding had stopped last night, and she had kept a rag of hers tied on it ever since. It still stung, but it was really nothing. It would heal.

  They always did.

  Frank had been in a foul mood yesterday, even crueler and meaner than normal. He blamed her f
or the dinner being burned and cold, though it had been he who had insisted she leave the food in the fire and tend to his horse. When she came back to it, it had burned. So she had taken it of off the fire and set it before him, only for him to order her to feed the horse before they ate. She generally did not mind feeding the horses, but she had not eaten all day and was starving. When she asked if she could eat first, he had taken her out by the hair and watched as she fed the horses.

  When they did finally eat, his first bite of dinner sent the entire plate into the fire and he roared how she was useless and he would teach her a lesson. They had gone out into the snow and he had suddenly aimed his rifle in her general direction. He was an excellent shot and they both knew it. Something snapped inside of Annie and she took off running. He yelled after her, and fired once, the bullet hitting a tree near her. He called her again, but Annie knew better than to stop.

  Then he shot again, and fire shot across her forearm. She had cried out between clenched teeth, but kept going. She did not stop until she had reached the creek, where she had collapsed in a pile of tears.

  She huffed a sound of irritation now as she looked at her wound again. She had been so terrified the entire time Frank had been shooting at her, but was unable to show it or allow herself to truly feel it until she had been alone. She ought to be used to being afraid by now. She knew when she was about to be hit, and the same jolt of fear shot through her every time.

  She feared everyone these days. Frank brought men to see her, to look at her, his so-called friends and associates, all talking about her like a horse or a dog, and they all laughed when he threatened her or when he hit her. The others never touched her, it was not permitted, but none of them ever stopped Frank from his actions. It was all a game to them.

  It was why she didn’t trust anyone. It was why she had reacted so strongly to Duncan’s approach.

  It was why she could not let him touch her.

  She was not a brave person, she never had been, but something about the fire in his blue eyes had strengthened her, and told her to try, just this once, to not be so afraid. And so she had offered her arm to him, a small part of her mind screaming it was a horrible idea. But, she reasoned, it could not get any worse than it already was.