Scandal with a Sinful Scot. Karyn GerrardЧитать онлайн книгу.
eyes lit on a familiar form. Aidan lay on a mattress, wearing nothing but frayed trousers, with a young man curled up to one side of him and an older woman curled up on the other. The young man stroked the front of Aidan’s trousers, as the woman trailed her tongue across Aidan’s nipple. An opium pipe lay on his nephew’s chest. Aidan looked ghastly, hollow-cheeked, haggard, and near death’s call from months of debauchery.
“Here,” Garrett called out. Edwin rushed to his side, and together they brought Aidan to his feet. He mumbled incoherently, limp in their grasp.
“Move out,” Edwin bellowed. They hurried toward the door, dragging Aidan, as he was semiconscious and not able to place one foot in front of the other. The stench of him made Garrett’s nose twitch and his stomach roil.
The older woman screamed, “They’re takin’ our luverly Aidan! Stop ’em!”
Some of the people on the pallets stirred, but the men were out of the room and down the stairs before any of them could take action.
“Head to the carriage,” Edwin commanded. Two men stepped in their path, as if to halt them, but Edwin’s men felled them with clubs before Garrett could even blink. Thank God Edwin could navigate the twisting lanes. They made it to New Oxford Street, the main thoroughfare that ran through the middle of the rookery. Since it was under construction, confusion reigned, making escape easier to achieve. Here they parted, with Edwin and Garrett bundling a moaning Aidan into the carriage while the other men splintered off, running in different directions.
Edwin thumped the roof of the carriage. “Move!” he shouted. With a snap of the reins, the conveyance lurched forward.
Aidan lay across Garrett’s lap, limp, with eyes closed.
Edwin grabbed a blanket. “We’d best wrap him in this; he no doubt has fleas and worse. Plus the cold chills will start soon enough.”
“I hardly recognize him,” Garrett whispered worriedly. “He’s lost too much weight.”
“Opium will do that. It leeches the good right out of you.” Edwin sighed. “I’ll not sugarcoat this: he’s in a bad way.”
Garrett nodded as he assisted in covering Aidan in the woolen blanket.
“I’ve sent word to Dr. Gethin Bevan, the physician that I told you about. I informed him to expect us later today. If we keep up a brisk pace, we should arrive just before the sun sets. He’s offered us a room for the night. I gave the name Aidan Black. You said your other nephew used Black when he accepted the schoolmaster position?”
“Yes. It’s their mother’s maiden name. Smart to use an alias, wish I’d thought of it.” He pulled Aidan close, and Garrett’s eyes glazed with unshed tears. Damn it all, they should have found him sooner. Never should have allowed him to descend into the darkness alone. The family should have locked him in the attic until this wave of destructive behavior passed.
He could only hope that this Welsh doctor could work miracles.
Chapter 2
As Abigail Wharton Hughes gathered her cloak, bonnet, and gloves, she mulled over her plans for the day. Very little happened in Standon, Hertfordshire, and she reveled in the serene quiet of the small country village. Living here the past fourteen years had brought contentment to Abbie.
She’d been a widow for more than two years, and seeing as her late husband, Dr. Elwyn Hughes, had been the local physician, she held a position of respect. Living in her tidy brick and wood bungalow on the outskirts of the village gave her the quiet privacy she needed. Since Elwyn had died, she spent her days toiling in her garden or volunteering at her late husband’s clinic.
Mrs. Jones would be by later to clean the house, so she must return by four o’clock. It gave her ample opportunity to shop at the small bakery. Well, it was not much of a bakery; a woman sold goods out of her front parlor. Then Abbie would stop in to the medical clinic and assist Dr. Gethin Bevan and his daughter, Cristyn.
Gethin Bevan, a colleague of her late husband, was a friend but nothing more. Although he’d hinted more than once that they could marry, seeing as he was a widower and she a widow. At thirty-two, Abbie was young enough to find another husband, only she did not want one. She was not looking for companionship or a lover. Living a quiet, contented life meant she could avoid any messy dramas that often accompanied most relationships. She’d never find another amiable partner like Elwyn—they were all too rare.
Stepping outside, she inhaled the crisp January air. A dusting of snow clung to the ground, but the temperature was not too cold for a brisk walk. The semi-frozen soil crunched under her boots as she headed to the village proper.
Once she’d purchased fresh rolls and a currant cake, Abbie made her way to the clinic, or as Gethin wished it to be called, the Standon Sanatorium. Being alone most of the week suited Abbie fine, though she was looking forward to her daughter Megan’s visit Friday afternoon. Megan attended Miss Bartley’s School for Young Ladies in nearby Little Hadham. Megan was not Elwyn’s, but he’d accepted and loved her as if she were.
Abbie smiled softly as she thought of her late husband. A kind and gentle man close to twenty years her senior, she grew to adore him, if not exactly love him. He had assisted her out of a tight spot, and because of it, she would be eternally grateful and cherish his memory.
At the tender age of eighteen, she found herself in a frightening predicament: unwed, alone, and pregnant. Until a friend of her father’s, the kindly Dr. Hughes, came to her rescue. It was another reason to esteem her late husband. Her heart ached that she could not love him as he deserved, but he often said he would take what she had to offer and be glad of it.
Striding along the lane, the sound of thundering horses’ hooves filled her hearing. A black carriage whizzed by her at a rapid pace, nearly spinning her like a child’s toy top and running over a couple of sheep grazing lazily on bits of grass visible on the snow-covered ground. What on earth?
Curious, Abbie hurried along the lane until the sanatorium came into view. Three men emerged from the carriage. Two of them were assisting another, who looked to be unconscious or close to it. Her blood stilled, and she dropped her basket. No. It couldn’t be him. Not here in this tiny village. Not after all these years.
But there was no mistaking the breadth and height, or the shoulder-length hair the shade of a fire blazing in the hearth. He seemed bigger than life, larger than she remembered. But then they were both barely eighteen when last they spoke. Curling an arm about her stomach to stem the nausea, she shook her head as if to convince herself that it was not Garrett Wollstonecraft heading into Gethin’s medical facility. They stood near the door, and the large man turned slightly.
Dear Lord, it was him. There was no mistaking the handsome perfection. She stumbled, her vision turning hazy as if she’d been pulled into a heavy mist. The memories she’d buried broke free and roared to the surface. Along with it came the intense emotions, whether she wanted them or not. For years she’d packed them neatly away, to the point she wondered if what had transpired between her and Garrett that summer had been merely a dream.
A younger version of Garrett stepped into the mist of her mind, tall, leaner, handsome beyond measuring. She’d first encountered him in the woods riding a large stallion. When he pulled up on the reins and smiled warmly at her, time stood still.
As it did now. Blood thundered in her ears, her heart racing. More memories flickered through her dizzying brain, of stolen kisses and fumbling in the hayloft and weeks of heated, clandestine meetings where they had taught each other about love and passion. The glorious moment when he had first entered her. A doleful sob escaped her throat with the remembrances.
It had all started with a summer visit to Alberta Eaton’s uncle’s small estate in Kent. The holiday had changed her life. Her future. She and Alberta were dear friends, and they had kept in contact through the years. Alberta and her brother-in-law, Jonas, had visited her in Standon twice. They exchanged long, gossipy letters, so Abbie was aware of Uncle Keenan’s death and Alberta’s inheriting the small manor house. But during those visits