The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [59]
Nesbitt nodded and whispered, “Yes.”
“If anyone else comes after Mrs. Chernov’s most treasured necklace or hurts anyone I care about, I will destroy your shop and you. I have more resources in more places than you can imagine, and I will use every one of them to find and kill you. And I promise you, the magistrate will bless me for it.”
Nesbitt gulped and said, “Aye.”
Chase removed his sword and waited until the beaten man struggled to his feet. Nesbitt began to back down the alley, apparently afraid that Chase would save himself the trouble of hunting him down and end it now. When Nesbitt was beyond the reach of Chase’s sword, he turned, hurried out of the alley and out of sight.
The pain in Chase’s arm sang out then, and he almost dropped his sword as a wave of light-headedness overtook him.
“Mr. Chase, you are hurt!”
Chase shook his head, unable to speak for the moment. He scooped up his walking stick and sheathed his sword on the second try and then remembered that he had not cleaned the blade.
Lydia was beside him now. She reached out to touch his arm but then stopped.
“You hurt your arm?”
“Broken.” He gasped as his vision began to darken.
“Do not faint,” Lydia commanded. “I cannot carry you. Come inside and I will give you some vodka and send for a bonesetter.”
Chase groaned at the thought of anyone handling his arm, but her urgent tone reached him and his need to collapse faded just a little. Lydia took his good arm and much of his weight. They moved through the outside door. He paid no attention to the route she followed but an eternity later he was sitting on what felt like a very soft chair—or was it a bed?
“I will be back in a minute with some vodka.”
Chase leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. At least it was his left arm. He would not be completely helpless.
“Mr. Chase?”
He opened his eyes a little to find Lydia seated beside him, a small glass in her hand.
“This is vile but as good a medicine as I have right now. Shall I help you with the glass?”
He shook his head, took the small glass, and downed the vodka in one gulp. It burned, but the taste was not vile, just different. Very Russian, he decided, and laughed a little.
“There is nothing funny about this situation.”
He turned to her. She was pale—or was it just the weak candlelight that made her look so lost? She was clutching her chain, which left him in no doubt of her upset.
“I will be all right.” Eventually, he added to himself.
“How badly is it broken?”
“It did not break the skin.”
“Thank God, Mr. Chase. I suppose it could be worse.” She stared at the sleeve of his coat. Lydia looked as ill as he felt, her hand now tightly gripping the charm at the end of her necklace. When she looked up at him, her eyes were filled with tears.
“As gallant as your defense was, I so wish you had not broken your arm.” She spoke with such urgency that he found himself forgetting the pain as he tried to think of a way to comfort her.
“I cannot think of a more worthy reason to risk life and limb.” He closed the small space between them and pressed his mouth to hers. It was hardly a kiss at first, but the feel of her lips, soft and willing, the warmth of her breasts pressed against his chest, fired his blood so that he wanted more than sweetness. Even as the feeling raced through him, truly less than a thought, he felt her mouth open to his, her response given willingly with, he hoped, the same welcome impulse that had him pulling her into his arms. A light enveloped them, so bright he saw it through his closed eyes, followed by a warmth that surrounded them until the heat made Chase draw back to see if she felt the same.
Lydia’s dazed expression changed in a blink to one of concern. “Your arm, sir, your arm. It must be paining you awfully to have me pressed so close.”
“The pain is gone.” He wasn’t lying or trivializing the injury. His arm could not have been broken, not if it felt so pain free now.
They both looked down at his arm. He was no longer cradling it protectively