Calliope gasped and rose to assist, but he pushed her down with his injured left arm and urged the horses on.
"It’s fine. I need to find a distraction and I don’t need it to be you."
The sticky smell of blood overpowered the London air.
She looked at Jenkins’s head, bouncing near her. A bullet had nicked him on the side of his skull. Blood was flowing from the wound. She tore two pieces off her shirt and held one tightly against the wound while binding the other to hold it in place. Looking up at James, she ignored his command and reached up and unfurled his neckcloth in one swift tug. She was very glad he favored simple styles. Calliope knew her head was in the line of fire but she pushed her fear aside. She tried to open his shirt but he shook his head.
"If you aren’t going to listen to me, then just bind the wound and get back down."
She quickly complied and he shoved her to the floor. "Grab Jenkins and hold tight."
They were close to the Government Offices and nearing the Houses of Parliament. Before hitting the floor, she had seen the rows of empty vendor stalls by the square. He was going to ram them. Calliope held on to Jenkins and prayed.
The horses were balking, but a second before they reached the stalls, James gave a sharp left jerk on the reins and urged them on. The tired beasts responded and turned. The rear of the carriage skidded outward, hitting the stalls and sending wood and materials into the air. Calliope managed to hold on to both Jenkins and herself. Terrified that James had slipped off the side, she glanced up, but he was confidently spurring the horses forward. Blood pounded in her ears.
She looked back at the carnage. Stalls and beams were strewn across the street. The riders couldn’t pass. She breathed an audible sigh of relief.
He gave her a sharp look. "We aren’t home yet."
She grabbed the small gun and looked around, but the tired horses carried them the short distance to James’s townhouse without further incident.
A small army of servants appeared and carried off Jenkins. Finn mumbled under his breath about his employer taking off without him.
"Finn, take care of Jenkins, post guards and get someone to rub down the horses." He pointed at Calliope. "Follow me."
Calliope shadowed him to the study. "What about your wound?"
"It’s merely a nick. Bullet passed through."
Templeton appeared in the doorway, anxiety on his usually calm face.
Calliope inspected James’s blood-soaked shirt for the second time that day. "Templeton, please get us hot water, towels and bandages."
Templeton, who was staring at his master’s shirt, didn’t question her right to attend his master or give directives. He ran from the room.
"Damn it, I said it’s just a nick. And give me that gun before you shoot yourself."
"I know what you said," she said soothingly, and placed the gun on the table. "Now please remove your shirt so I can attend to the scratch."
His brows drew together in a fierce scowl but he said nothing.
Templeton returned so quickly that Calliope wondered where he hid the bandages. She took the supplies from the butler and thanked him.
James sat, eyes closed. He crossed his arms and pain flashed across his brow. She put her hands on her hips. "Honestly, you’re acting like a child. Now take off your shirt."
He glared at her as she moved toward him. If he wasn’t going to take it off, then she would.
Calliope could have sworn he growled at her, but he acceded to her command and removed the blood-soaked shirt. She carefully checked his torso for other wounds, even peering under the patch covering the stab wound. She had seen his chest earlier in the day, but the intimacy of the act still moved her.
She snapped to attention, concentrating on the task at hand. Dipping a towel in water, she cleansed the colorful mess on his arm. The bullet had taken a fair chunk out of the side. A nick indeed!
After she bandaged the wound, she sat back on her heels.
Templeton, who had been anxiously hovering during the entire ordeal, relaxed. "I will be in the kitchen, ma’am. Please pull the cord if you or my lord require anything." He exited the study and closed the door behind him.
Calliope studied James as he stared at the ceiling. His eyes were dark and remote. What was he thinking? She had prodded the wound and knew it had hurt, but as earlier, he remained detached and distant.
"Are you all right?"
He refocused on her, an intense look on his face. "What the bloody hell did you think you were doing, climbing out of the coach?"
"I-I-I thought I could help." His stormy look had reduced her to stammering.
"It would have helped if you had stayed inside the carriage."
Her chin went up a notch. "Jenkins might’ve died."
"Yes, and so might’ve you." He heaved a breath and leaned back against the sofa. "As it so happens I would not have pulled that maneuver had you been inside the carriage."
She brightened perceptibly.
"But don’t ever do it again." His aristocratic mien was back in place and she wanted to smack him. She balled her hands into fists instead.
"You can’t return home tonight," he said.
"I know."
He nodded and closed his eyes.
A wave of pent-up emotion washed through Calliope and she fought a hysterical giggle. She lost. One eye peeked open and he looked at her. He repeated her earlier question. "Are you all right?"
Another shrill giggle bubbled out and this time his other eye snapped open.
Hysteria whipped through her and it must have shown, because he swept her onto his lap, disregarding any pain in his left arm.
"You’re safe. Let it go."
His gentle words were her undoing. She buried her head against his neck and let the tremors sweep through her. The fear uncoiled within and she held on to him tightly, tears running down her cheeks unheeded. The stress that had been building since the beginning of the masquerade burst forth, as if waiting for just this moment to be released.
James ran his fingers down her back and stroked her hair with his left hand, comforting her as if she were a child, and whispering soft, incoherent words against her hair. He was using his injured arm to comfort her and that made her cry even harder.
Calliope couldn’t seem to stop. James was murmuring about stressful campaigns, battle-hardened men reduced to tears, her needing this release.
Calliope finally reached the sniffling stage, feeling infinitely better than she had in a long time. And safe. Nothing harmful could happen as long as he continued to hold her this way. James pulled her head back and smoothed her hair away from her face. She knew her eyes were bloodshot and her face was mottled, but James’s eyes were the same mesmerizing black velvet as the night of the Killroys’ and Pettigrew’s balls. Energy sparked between them and it sent a shiver down her spine.
James twirled a ringlet of her hair around his finger, then curved his hand gently around the back of her head, slowly drawing her toward him, allowing her time to settle back against his shoulder or pull away. The gentle caress and the intensity in his eyes were her undoing. She lifted her left hand and traced a path from his cheek to his silk collar. She heard his sudden intake of breath and her eyes searched and held his for a long moment. This man had somehow lodged himself into her being. His eyes mirrored her own need and a rush of excitement pulsed through her veins.
His lips touched hers like a feather. Then another mere brush. The gentle pressure on her head ceased and he looked into her eyes once more. He was allowing her time to make her decision, and once made, there would be no interruptions. Her heart made the choice. She relinquished her rigid control, shed all guises and gave in to the dream.
"Make me whole, James."
Her words loosened a dam within him, as he stroked the back of her neck and claimed her lips in a searing kiss. Calliope felt a sunburst in her stomach and she kissed him back with a longing she didn’t know she possessed.