“Saving children,” Kathleen said, feigning scorn. “How dare he?”
“Yes,” West said with no trace of humor. He stared at the leaping fire, brooding. “Now I understand what you once said to me about all the people who depend on him – and I’ve become one of them. Damn him to hell. My brother can’t take arse-headed chances with his life again, or I swear I’ll kill him.”
“I understand,” she said, aware of the fear lurking beneath his caustic words.
“No, you don’t. You weren’t there. My God, I almost didn’t reach him in time. Had I arrived just a few seconds later —” West took a shuddering breath and averted his face. “He wouldn’t have done this before, you know. He used to have more sense than to risk his neck for someone else. Especially strangers. The numbskull.”
Kathleen smiled. Swallowing back the tightness in her throat, she reached out and smoothed his hair back. “My dear friend,” she whispered, “I’m sorry to have to say this… but you would have done the same thing.”
Sometime after midnight, Kathleen slipped out of bed to check on the patients. She buttoned a robe over her nightgown, picked up a bedside candlestick, and set off down the hall.
First she ducked her head into Winterborne’s room. “May I come in?” she asked Dr. Weeks, who was sitting in a chair by the bed.
“Of course, my lady.”
“Do stay seated, please,” Kathleen said before he could rise to his feet. “I only wanted to ask after the patient.”
She knew it had been a difficult night’s work for the doctor, who had needed the assistance of the butler and two footmen to help realign Winterborne’s broken leg. As Sims had described it to Kathleen and Mrs. Church afterward, the large muscles of the injured leg had contracted, and it had required great effort to stretch them sufficiently to restore the bone to its original position. Once the leg had been stabilized, Sims had helped the doctor to wrap the limb with strips of damp linen soaked with gypsum plaster, which had hardened into a cast.
“Mr. Winterborne is doing as well as can be expected,” Dr. Weeks murmured. “He was fortunate in that the fibula break was clean. Furthermore, after his exposure to the extreme cold, his blood pressure was so low that it reduced blood loss. I expect, barring complications, that the leg will heal well.”
“What about his vision?” Kathleen went to Winterborne’s bedside, looking down at him in concern. He was in a sedated sleep, the upper half of his face obscured by the bandages around his eyes.
“He has corneal scratches,” the doctor replied, “from flying glass. I removed a few splinters and applied salve. None of the abrasions appear to be particularly deep, which gives me good reason to hope he will recover his sight. To give him the best chance of recovery, he must be kept still and sedated for the next few days.”
“Poor man,” Kathleen said quietly. “We’ll take good care of him.” Her gaze returned to the doctor. “Will Lord Trenear have to be sedated as well?”
“Only if he has difficulty sleeping at night. I believe his ribs are cracked but not broken. One can usually feel a broken rib move when palpated. Painful, to be certain, but in a few weeks he’ll be as good as new.”
The candle wavered a little in her hand, a drop of hot wax splashing onto her wrist. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that.”
“I think perhaps I do,” Dr. Weeks said dryly. “Your affection for Lord Trenear is impossible to miss.”
Kathleen’s smile faltered. “Oh, it’s not affection, it’s only… well, my concern for the family, and the estate, and… I couldn’t become… fond… of a man when I’m still in mourning. That would be very wrong indeed.”
“My lady…” Dr. Weeks contemplated her for a long moment, his eyes weary and kind. “I know many scientific facts about the human heart – not the least of which is that it’s far easier to make a heart stop beating entirely than to keep it from loving the wrong person.”
Kathleen went to Devon’s room afterward. When there was no response to her soft tap, she let herself in. He was sleeping on his side, his long form motionless beneath the covers. The sound of his breathing was reassuringly deep and steady.
Coming to stand beside the bed, she looked down at him with tender protectiveness. His mouth was relaxed into gentle lines amid the bristle of his jaw. His lashes were long and as black as ink. Two small white plasters had been affixed over cuts on his cheek and forehead. The cowlick on the right side of his forehead had sprung up in a way he would never have allowed during the day. She tried as hard as she could to keep from smoothing it. Losing the battle, she stroked the tempting lock gently.
Devon’s breathing altered. As he came to the surface, his eyes flickered open, drowsy with exhaustion and opiate tonic.
“Kathleen.” His voice was low and raw.
“I just wanted to check on you. Is there anything you need? A glass of water?”
“You.” He caught at her free hand and pulled it closer. She felt his lips press against her fingers. “Need to talk to you.”
Her breath stopped. A pulse began to throb in every vulnerable place of her body. “You… you’ve been dosed with enough laudanum to sedate an elephant,” she said, trying to sound light. “It would be wiser not to tell me anything at the moment. Go to sleep, and in the morning —”
“Lie with me.”
Her stomach tightened in yearning. “You know I can’t,” she whispered.
Undeterred, he gripped her wrist and began to tug her toward him with pained determination.
“Wait – you’ll hurt yourself —” Kathleen fumbled to set the candle on the nearby table, while he continued to exert pressure on her arm. “Don’t – your ribs – oh, why must you be so stubborn?” Alarmed and anxious, she climbed onto the bed rather than risk injuring him by struggling. “Only for a minute,” she warned. “One minute.”
Devon subsided, his fingers remaining around her wrist in a loose manacle.
Lowering to her side to face him, Kathleen immediately regretted her decision. It was disastrously intimate, lying with her body so close to his. As she stared into his drowsy blue eyes, a bolt of painful longing went through her.
“I was afraid for you,” she said faintly.
Devon touched her face with a single fingertip, tracing the edge of her cheek.
“What was it like?” she whispered.
His fingertip followed the slope of her nose down to the sensitive verge of her upper lip. “One moment everything was ordinary,” he said slowly, “and the next… the world exploded. Noise… glass flying… things tumbling over and over… pain…” He paused as Kathleen took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “The worst part,” he continued, “was the cold. Couldn’t feel anything. Too tired to go on. Started to seem… not so terrible… to let go.” His voice began to fade as exhaustion overtook him. “My life… didn’t pass before my eyes. All I saw was you.” His lashes fell and his hand slipped from her face. He managed one more whisper before he fell asleep. “The last moment, I thought… I would die wanting you.”
Chapter 19
I
t was the laudanum.
That was the thought Kathleen repeated to herself last night until she’d fallen asleep, and it was her first thought upon waking. In the fragile gray light of dawn, she climbed out of bed and hunted for her slippers, which were nowhere to be found.
Blearily she padded barefoot to the marble-topped washstand in the corner, scrubbed her face, and brushed her teeth. Staring into the oval pedestal looking glass, she saw that her eyes were bloodshot and dark-ringed.
I thought I would die wanting you.
Devon probably wouldn’t remember, she thought. People seldom recalled what they had said under the influence of opium. He might not even remember kissing her beside the carriage, although the servants would gossip about it interminably. She would pretend that nothing had happened, and with any luck, he would either have forgotten it, or have the grace not to mention it.
Reaching
for the bellpull to summon Clara, she thought better of it and drew her hand back. It was still early. Before she began the complicated process of dressing and arranging her hair, she would look in on the patients. She pulled her cashmere shawl over her nightgown and went to see Devon first.
Although she hadn’t expected him to be awake, the door to his room was ajar and the curtains had been drawn open.
Devon was sitting up in bed, propped on pillows. The thick locks of his hair looked damp and clean, his skin gleaming from a recent shave. Even there in a sickbed, he looked robust and a bit restless, as if he were chafing at his confinement.
Kathleen paused at the threshold. As tense silence filled the distance between them, a wave of excruciating shyness caused her to blush. It didn’t help that he was staring at her in a way he never had before… bold and vaguely proprietary. Something had changed, she thought.
A faint smile touched Devon’s lips as he glanced over her, his gaze lingering at the colorful shawl.
Kathleen closed the door but hesitated, feeling nervous about approaching him. “Why are you awake so early?”
“I woke up hungry, and I needed a wash and shave, so I rang for Sutton.”
“Are you in pain?” she asked in concern.
“Yes,” he said emphatically. “Come here and make me feel better.”
She obeyed cautiously, her nerves stretched as tightly as piano wires. As she drew closer to the bedside, she detected a sharp scent that was out of place on him and yet oddly familiar… an effusion of pennyroyal and camphor.
“I smell liniment,” she said, perplexed. “The kind we use on the horses.”
“Mr. Bloom sent up a pot of it from the stables and demanded that we apply a poultice to my ribs. I didn’t dare refuse.”
“Oh.” Her brow cleared. “It works very well,” she assured him. “It heals the horses’ pulled muscles in half the usual time.”
“I’m sure it does.” A rueful grin crossed his lips. “If only the camphor weren’t burning a hole through my hide.”
“Did Sutton apply it full strength?” she asked with a frown. “That concentration was intended for horses – he should have cut it with oil or white wax.”
“No one told him.”
“It should be removed right away. Let me help.” She began to reach for him but paused uncertainly. The poultice was bound to him beneath his white nightshirt. Either she would have to pull up the shirt and reach beneath the hem, or she would have to unbutton the placket down the front.
Seeing her uneasiness, Devon smiled and shook his head. “I’ll wait until Sutton returns.”
“No, I’m perfectly able to do it,” Kathleen insisted, pink-cheeked. “I was a married woman, after all.”
“So worldly,” Devon mocked gently, his gaze caressing.
Her lips pressed together in a determined line. Trying to appear composed, she began on the placket of buttons. The garment was made of exceptionally smooth white linen, the fabric heavy with a slight sheen. “This is a very fine nightshirt,” she remarked inanely.
“I wasn’t even aware that I owned one, until Sutton brought it out.”
Kathleen paused, perplexed. “What do you wear to sleep, if not a nightshirt?”
Devon gave her a speaking glance, one corner of his mouth quirking.
Her jaw went slack as his meaning sank in.
“Does that shock you?” he asked, a glint of laughter in his eyes.
“Certainly not. I was already aware that you’re a barbarian.” But she turned the color of a ripe pomegranate as she concentrated resolutely on the buttons. The nightshirt gaped open, revealing a brawny, lightly furred chest. She cleared her throat before asking, “Are you able to lift up?”
For answer, Devon pushed away from the pillows with a grunt of effort.
Kathleen let her shawl drop and reached beneath him, searching for the end of the cloth binding. It was tucked in at the center. “Just a moment —” She reached around him with her other arm to pull at the end of the cloth. It was longer than she’d expected, requiring several tugs to free it.
No longer able to maintain the position, Devon dropped back to the pillows with a pained sound, his weight pinning her hands. “Sorry,” he managed.
Kathleen tugged at her imprisoned arms. “Not at all… but if you wouldn’t mind…”
Recovering his breath, Devon was slow to respond as he took stock of the situation.
She was torn between amusement and outrage as she saw the glint of mischief in his eyes. “Let me up, you rogue.”
His warm hands came up to the backs of her shoulders, caressing in slow circles. “Climb into bed with me.”
“Are you mad?”
As she strained to free herself, he reached for the loose braid that hung over her shoulder and played with it idly. “You did last night,” he pointed out.
Kathleen went still, her eyes widening.
So he did remember.
“You can hardly expect me to make a habit of it,” she said breathlessly. “Besides, my maid will come looking for me soon.”
Devon moved to his side and tugged her fully onto the bed. “She won’t come in here.”
She scowled. “You’re impossible! I should let the camphor burn a few layers of skin off you.”
His brows lifted. “I would think you’d treat me at least as well as one of the horses.”
“Any one of the horses is better behaved than you,” she informed him, reaching into his nightshirt and around his back with one arm. “Even the mule behaves better.” She tugged at the end of the bandage until it came free. The mass of the poultice and bindings loosened, and she managed to pull it off and toss it to the floor.
Devon lay still beneath her ministrations, obviously pleased with himself.
Looking down at the handsome scoundrel, Kathleen was tempted to smile back at him. Instead, she gave him a reproving glance. “Dr. Weeks said you’re supposed to refrain from movements that put pressure on your ribs. No pulling or lifting anything. You have to rest.”
“I’ll rest as long as you stay with me.”
The feel of him was so clean and warm and inviting that she felt herself weakening. Carefully she eased into the crook of his arm. “Is this hurting you?”
“I’m feeling better by the minute.” He pulled the covers over them both, enclosing her in a cocoon of white sheets and soft wool blankets.
She lay against him front to front, shivering with pleasure as she felt how perfectly the hard, warm contours of his body fit against hers. “Someone will see.”
“The door’s closed.” Devon reached up to toy with the delicate curve of her ear. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
She shook her head, even though her pulse was racing.
Devon nuzzled against her hair. “I worried that I might have hurt or frightened you yesterday, in my…” He paused, searching for a word. “… enthusiasm,” he finished dryly.
“You… you didn’t know what you were doing.”
Self-mockery thickened his voice. “I knew exactly what I was doing. I just wasn’t able to do it well.” His thumb grazed the edge of her lower lip, teasing the full shape. She caught her breath as his fingers slid across her jaw, nudging the angle upward, stroking the soft skin beneath her chin. “I meant to kiss you more like… this.”
His mouth covered hers with tantalizing pressure. So hot and slow, his lips coaxing a helpless response before she could think of withholding it. So gentle, his mouth firm and teasing, sending ticklish pangs down to parts of her body that she didn’t even have names for. The kisses went on and on, a new one starting before the last had quite ended. Beneath the covers, one of his hair-roughened legs brushed against hers. Reaching around his neck, she let her fingers sink into his silky dark hair, shaping to his skull.
His hand drifted along her spine until he had molded her hips against his. Even through the layers of flannel and linen that separated them, she felt their bodies conform intimately, softness yiel
ding to hardness. He kissed her more aggressively, his tongue probing, searching deeper, and she moaned at the pleasure of it.
Nothing existed outside of this bed. There was only the sensuous friction of tangled limbs and gently wandering hands. She whimpered as he cupped her bottom and brought her against the hard ridge of his aroused flesh. He guided her hips in a slow rhythm, rubbing her sensuously against him until she began to moan with each stroke. The soft place he teased began to swell and twitch with sensation, and she flushed with shame. She shouldn’t feel this way, she shouldn’t want… what she wanted. No matter how close she pressed to him, she needed more. She could almost have attacked him, the desire was so acute.