Wishes in the Wind (Kingsleys in Love 2)

He had his work cut out for him. Winning Nicole over, convincing her that his motives were as decent as hers, was going to be a mammoth task, especially given her denigrating view of his reputation. Still, he’d achieved his initial victory: persuading her to accept his visits. Two victories, he amended silently. Not only had Nicole invited him back, so had her father.

Recalling the uncertainty on Aldridge’s face, the warring emotions in his eyes, Dustin felt a wave of compassion. The man obviously adored his daughter. ’Twas no wonder he felt reluctant to place her in the hands of a notoriously wanton aristocrat.

Well, those misgivings would vanish soon enough.

“Here we are, sir,” Dustin’s driver called out, bringing the carriage to a halt.

Snapping out of his reverie, Dustin shoved the list back in his pocket and, without waiting for assistance, opened the carriage door and climbed down.

At first glance, the half-timbered cottage looked to be deserted. Dustin scowled. Aldridge had said nothing about Sullivan traveling elsewhere after Newmarket. Assumedly, he was home. That being the case, Dustin had dispatched a rather cryptic message late last night, advising Sullivan of the pressing need for them to meet early this morning. It should have been enough. After all, though the man wasn’t aware of Dustin’s role in all this, he did know Aldridge was living at Tyreham. Therefore, he had to have guessed that the subject of the meeting pertained to his friend.

So where the hell was he?

Dustin raised his fist and knocked.

The door, of its own accord, swung open.

A warning bell sounded in Dustin’s head, and he stepped inside. “Sullivan?”

No answer.

Puzzled, he glanced about the narrow hallway, plagued by the nagging feeling that something was amiss. Other than the partially opened door, there was no evidence to support his suspicion. The furnishings, so far as he could see, were intact, showing no evidence of an intruder. Still …

“Sullivan!” he called again.

Was it his imagination, or had he heard a rustle from farther within?

He hesitated, knowing he was trespassing, weighing his options.

A low moan reached his ears.

Tossing caution to the wind, Dustin stalked the sound, which led him into what appeared to be the cottage’s sole bedchamber.

“Sulliv—” He broke off, seeing the crumpled form lying in the center of the room. “Dammit.” He reached the man’s side in an instant. Kneeling, he eased him gently to his back to assess the extent of the jockey’s injuries.

They were bad.

Blood covered much of his face and head, his clothing torn, his eyes swollen shut. The only sign of a struggle was the lamp overturned alongside the bed and the pile of bedcovers Sullivan had apparently been clutching when he went down. Evidently, he’d been either surprised or overpowered. The latter, at the very least, Dustin guessed. If the assailants were the same burly hoodlums who’d visited Tyreham, Sullivan’s slight jockey’s build would be no match for their strength.

“Sullivan, can you hear me? It’s Tyreham.”

With the greatest of efforts, one eye slitted open. “Tyre … ham.”

“You’re badly hurt. Lie still. I’ll do what I can.”

Rising, Dustin searched the cottage until he found the kitchen. Once there, he promptly located a pitcher, filling it with cold water and carrying it back to Sullivan’s chambers. Next, he unearthed a pile of clean handkerchiefs, several of which he soaked in the water, the remainder of which he set aside to serve as bandages.

Sullivan groaned at the first contact of the cold cloth against his skin, but he didn’t—or couldn’t—fight Dustin’s efforts. With a black scowl, Dustin confirmed that whoever had done this had been thorough as hell, inflicting injuries that were severe, but not fatal. It didn’t surprise him. His guess was that the assailants wanted Sullivan alive enough—and frightened enough—to tell them Aldridge’s whereabouts. Or, in the event he refused to cooperate, to alert Aldridge to the attack the instant he was able, thus leading them straight to Tyreham. Even if Sullivan were smart enough to do neither, the bastards would undoubtedly make sure Aldridge got word of the beating, knowing that loyalty would compel him to rush to his friend’s side. At which point, they would descend upon him like a pack of wolves.

Dustin finished bandaging Sullivan’s major wounds, then slipped a pillow beneath his head and covered him with a blanket. In truth, the jockey was light enough for one man to lift. But Dustin didn’t dare hoist him onto the bed, for fear of worsening the injuries. Especially if there were broken bones or internal bleeding.

“Tyreham,” Sullivan muttered again.

“I’m here.”

One arm reached up weakly, plucked at Dustin’s sleeve. “Don’t … tell anyone.”

Dustin nodded, understanding far more than Sullivan realized. “I know Aldridge is living at Tyreham,” he said quietly. “Along with my new jockey. I’ve told no one. I intend to tell no one. I’m guessing that whoever did this to you suspects you know Aldridge’s whereabouts and tried to