Undone By The Duke

by Willingham Michelle

  “Pour me a drink,” he said. “It seems I’ll need it.”

  She clutched the bottle of brandy, and glanced down at his leg. “That isn’t why I brought the spirits. I thought I should”—her words broke off, and she looked embarrassed—“pour it on your wound. To clean it.”

  “And where did you get that idea?”

  “From a… book I read once.”

  He’d heard of such things, too, but the idea of anything touching his leg made him wince. He preferred to wait for the doctor to arrive.

  “It’s expensive French brandy,” he noted. “It would be criminal to waste it on my leg. Your husband would be furious.”

  “My father,” she corrected in a low voice. “And he’s fighting in Spain.”

  “All the more reason not to steal his brandy.” He studied her, wondering aloud, “Where is the rest of your family?”

  She didn’t answer, but lifted the stopper from the brandy. He realized, with some alarm, that she truly intended to use it. “Don’t you think we should wait a little longer?”

  “There’s a bad snowstorm. I don’t know how long it will take Dr. Fraser to get here, and you’re bleeding badly.” Her face showed her discomfort, and she looked as though she were about to be sick. “I wouldn’t want you to die while we’re waiting for him.”

  “Even so, I wouldn’t—” His voice broke off, and he let out a yell as an unholy fire burned through him.

  Chapter Three

  THE BRANDY soaked through his wound and into the sheets beneath him. Victoria hadn’t realized it would hurt him that badly, and she wished she’d taken a bit more care.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” he demanded, before letting off a string of curses. “Don’t you know anything about tending wounds?”

  “No. I don’t.” She handed him the clean linen, and crossed the room to stand by the piano. Yes, she’d made a terrible mistake. But he didn’t have to bite her head off for it. Heated tears burned at her eyes, but she would not cry in front of him. Weeping wouldn’t do either of them any good.

  “Come here,” he ordered. Victoria ignored him, huddling beside the piano against the wall, as though she could melt through it.

  “I don’t want to.” The idea of taking even a single step near this man was impossible. “I’ll just wait here for the doctor.”

  “I might be dead by the time he arrives. And I need you to properly bandage my leg.”

  She glared back at him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was only trying to help.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “Were you?” He rolled to his side, propping his head up on one hand. The white sheet slid down his torso, and though he was fully clothed, he reminded her of a man who had just awakened from sleep. Her gaze was caught by the rumpled neckcloth. It exposed a hint of male skin, and she wondered what the rest of him looked like.

  “Come here, Miss Andrews,” he repeated. The use of her name made her swallow hard. The resonant tone of his voice was like a siren, beckoning her toward something forbidden.

  “I’d rather stay here. You can hold the bandage to your wound yourself.”

  “You’d make a wounded man suffer by forcing him to wrap his own wound?” he queried. “When he could have a beautiful woman tending him instead?” Though she recognized he was teasing her, she didn’t miss the edge of pain within his voice. But she shied away from him, embarrassed by his words.

  “I’m not beautiful. And I shouldn’t be touching you… there.”

  A wicked glint came into his eyes for a moment, making her blush. Then he closed his eyes, as if trying to block out the pain. “I’m bleeding,” he reminded her, “and I really do need your help.”

  “I don’t make a habit of touching strangers,” she hedged, stalling for the doctor. Where was he? Or Mrs. Larson? She couldn’t understand what was taking them so long.

  The man hesitated, as though he didn’t want to tell her his name. There was something in his expression that held a world of distrust, as though a simple name would give her power over him. But then he offered, “You may call me Jonathan.”

  The idea of using his first name was completely inappropriate. She suspected he was hiding something from her about his identity. Was he one of the Strathlands? She prayed it wasn’t true. The last thing she wanted was to be harboring an enemy.

  Keeping her voice brisk, she said, “I cannot call you by your first name.”

  “I think we can dispense with formalities. You’ve already seen me without my breeches.”

  “Not all of you.”

  Dear God, had she actually said that out loud?

  A slight smile pulled at his mouth, though his lips were tight with pain. “I suppose that would offend your maidenly sensibilities.”

  “Indeed.” Right now, she wanted to go upstairs and pretend none of this was happening. But that wasn’t possible, was it? “I would prefer your family name, please.” She wanted the distance, needed it. Somehow, she had to assert herself and make him understand this. “I will call you Mr. Smith, if I must,” she continued, “but I will not call you Jonathan.”

  Even with her threat, he didn’t offer his name. Instead, he crooked his finger, beckoning to her. “I need you to fix the bandage.”

  She knew it. But a vain hope kept her in place, with the silent prayer that Dr. Fraser would walk through the door.

  His green eyes locked with hers in a silent battle. Then he gritted out, “Please.”

  There was no humility in his voice, but he was right. Likely he needed stitches to stop the bleeding.

  Victoria eased away from the wall and took a step toward him. Then another. Every inch forward was a mile, and she dared not take her eyes off him. It wasn’t right to watch him suffer, not if something could be done.

  He wasn’t at all courteous or refined, like the men she’d read about in stories. Strong-willed and forceful, this was a man accustomed to getting his own way. But he was also handsome, beneath the stubble of his beard. Something in the way he stared at her made her heart pound faster. He eyed her as though he wanted to touch her in a way that he shouldn’t.

  I don’t like him.

  The intensity of her reaction was like a kick in the stomach. Beneath her dress, her skin grew sensitive, and her cheeks were blushing. For Mr. Smith, despite his handsome appearance, was a threat. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t laid a finger upon her. His words were enough.

  She reached his side and realized that he’d fallen silent. And when she finally looked at him, she saw the crimson stain widening upon the sheets.

  Jonathan was losing his sense of awareness. The dull ache in his thigh drew all of his focus. Each breath merged with the next, while he fought to keep his body from shutting down.

  “Oh, dear God.” Victoria’s hand touched his sweaty forehead.

  Through the glaze of pain, he wanted to tell her not to be afraid, that he wouldn’t threaten her. But survival seemed more important than conversation just now. Instead, he took her hand and gripped it, as if he could hold on to life by touching her.

  With her other hand, Victoria pulled back the sheet, evoking a slight chill against his skin. Her complexion turned gray, and she stared at him, as if frozen. Then abruptly, she extricated her hand from his and jerked into action.

  He couldn’t see how bad the bleeding was, but he knew the linen she’d pressed against the injury wouldn’t stanch the flow. Beneath her breath, she murmured the Lord’s Prayer.

  Wouldn’t do a damned bit of good. His soul was already lost.

  Abruptly, she stood up. There was an odd expression on her face, one he didn’t like.

  “What are you—”

  “Just a moment.” She held up a hand, her gaze suddenly searching the room. “I think I know how to help you.”

  In the meantime, he was losing more blood. The clouded veil of consciousness was about to drop. A ringing noise resounded in his ears.

  He faded out for a moment, not knowing how long. Then something
stabbed his wound. “Jesus Christ!”

  “Don’t blaspheme. Hold still while I sew this wound closed.”

  “I am not a damned embroidery hoop,” he argued. “And you can’t sew me back together.”

  “You’re going to bleed to death if I don’t!” she snapped.

  So. The waif had a backbone after all. He hadn’t expected it. “See that you do a proper job of it, then.”

  Her reply to his gibe was to pierce his skin. Over and over, he endured her needle. First on one side of his thigh and then through the exit wound. He must have passed out at another interval, for when he awakened, she was sitting on the other side of room. The sheet rested at his waist.

  “Is it done?”

  “It’s done.”

  Jonathan pulled back the edge of the sheet and the linen bandage. “What the hell did you do?”

  She glared at him. “You’re welcome.”

  His wound now had a series of tiny, even stitches to keep it closed. And she’d used bright pink thread.

  Never in her life had Victoria imagined she would have to ply her needle to a man’s flesh. She shuddered. There were no words to voice what she felt right now. No, Mr. Smith hadn’t overtly threatened her. But his green eyes had stared at her in a way that made her skin sensitive beneath her gown. She didn’t understand why she was so aware of every move he made, every breath he inhaled. He’d gripped her hand before he’d lost consciousness, and she’d held on to him, letting him take comfort from her. The unexpected contact had seemed so forbidden.

  Even now, she trembled to think of it. No man had ever touched her before, and her cheeks burned bright red at the memory.

  She’d had to hold his thigh to stitch the wound closed. The hard, well-formed muscles were so different from her own leg. Worse, the sensation had awakened a dormant curiosity inside her. She’d found herself wanting to bring her hands over the hardened flesh, to explore his skin. Focusing on his wound had not helped alleviate the discomfort, nor the feelings rising up within her. It had shaken her deeply.

  At that moment, the front door opened, and Victoria hurried toward it. Mr. MacKinloch stood before her, snow dusted upon his shoulders. His expression was grim, and there was no sign of Dr. Fraser. “He’s no’ coming.”

  “What do you mean, he’s not coming?” Victoria demanded. “This man needs a doctor.”

  “He can’t. There were more fires last night on Strathland’s property. His factor, Mr. Melford, set the houses ablaze. Some of the crofters tried tae get their belongings out, and Dr. Fraser is tendin’ half a dozen who were burned.”

  “What of your family?” Victoria dared to ask.

  Her footman shrugged, his gaze stony. “My sister was nae among the burned.” But nothing else would he say about her.

  “Mr. MacKinloch, the doctor has to come,” she insisted. “I can’t do this alone.”

  The footman took off his hat and brushed off the snow. “It’s nigh impossible to get through the roads, with all the snowdrifts. Even if he wanted tae come, he couldn’t.” With a grim look, he added, “I found a horse and the body of another man farther away, toward Eiloch Hill. Might be a servant of the man we found, if I guessed rightly.”

  Her stomach sank with a desperate fear. She’d known of the rising anger of the crofters, but to be surrounded by murderers and fires… Amelia was right. It wasn’t safe here any longer. Now, more than ever, she wished she’d found the courage to accompany them to London.

  Mr. MacKinloch disappeared into the kitchen, and Victoria realized that Mrs. Larson had been absent for nearly an hour. When she followed the footman, she found the housekeeper preparing a tray of food.

  “I thought you were bringing hot water.” Victoria kept her voice steady, wondering what had kept the housekeeper in the kitchen for so long.

  “First, I walked around the house three times with a hot coal, driving the evil spirits off. I’ve done wha’ I could to keep Death away. Whether he lives is up to the good doctor when he comes.” Mrs. Larson folded a napkin upon the tray and ladled hot soup into a bowl.

  “You left me alone with him while you—”

  Indulged in your silly superstitions, she’d been about to say. But then, to Mrs. Larson, they were real. The Scottish housekeeper had been raised to believe in them, and no amount of reasoning would change her heart.

  “—while you cooked him dinner?” Victoria amended.

  Mrs. Larson turned embarrassed. “Now, Miss Andrews, he’ll be needing to eat, won’t he?”

  “Not if he’s dead.” Her voice revealed her frustration, as she rested both hands upon the kitchen table. “I needed you. I know nothing about sewing up wounds.”

  The housekeeper’s face fell. “I’m sorry, Miss Andrews, but I can nae abide blood.”

  Victoria sent her a look of utter disbelief. “And you thought it was appropriate to leave me alone with a strange man?”

  The older woman lifted her chin in a stubborn tilt. “Wouldn’t do ye much good if I was to bring my breakfast up for another look, all over Lady Lanfordshire’s fine carpet, now would it? I’m a housekeeper, nae a nurse.”

  Victoria clenched her hands together. “Neither am I. But I’m doing the best I can.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Andrews. Truly.” With flushed cheeks, Mrs. Larson took the tray of food and offered, “Is he… well enough to eat?”

  “If he lives through the next few hours, I suppose he’ll be hungry.”

  The housekeeper had the grace to look guilty. “I’ll say prayers for him, that I’ll promise. And… if ye want me t’look after him, I’ll try my best no’ to be sick.” She brought the tray into the parlor and set it down, her complexion turning waxen as she eyed their patient. Without another word, she went to the far side of the room and removed the only hanging mirror.

  Victoria sent her a curious look, and Mrs. Larson explained, “If a mirror falls off the wall, death isna far away. Best to take precautions.”

  It was clear that the older woman and her superstitions would be of little use. “Please, just send Mr. MacKinloch,” Victoria insisted. “In the meantime, our guest will need some new clothing. Will you bring something of my father’s? I’ll alter it to fit.”

  The housekeeper bobbed her head. “I’ll see to it.” Casting her a sympathetic gaze, Mrs. Larson added, “Dr. Fraser still might come tomorrow.”

  But that wouldn’t help her now. As the housekeeper departed, leaving the door ajar, Victoria brought the bowl of soup over to Mr. Smith. His face was pale, but at least he didn’t seem to be bleeding quite as badly.

  Her stomach twisted, for she’d had to sew up muscle, as well as skin. She’d never gone through anything so horrifying in all her life. But he was resting quietly, and he was still alive. The question was, what should she do with him now?

  The scent of roasted chicken broth drew him back into awareness once more. Jonathan’s stomach felt like razors had shredded the insides, and hunger roared inside him. Right now, he’d offer up a king’s ransom for beef. Or hot yeast rolls, dripping with butter. He struggled to open his eyes, but the lids felt too heavy.

  A spoon touched his mouth, coaxing him to eat. Warm broth slid against his tongue, only arousing his hunger more. He drank until the spoon stopped coming. “I think I could marry whoever made this soup.”

  “She’s sixty-two and is widowed.”

  Jonathan forced his eyes open and saw Victoria seated beside him. There was a tray of more food, and he wondered what he’d have to do to get the rest of it.

  She broke off a piece of toast slathered with strawberry jam and lifted it to his mouth. He caught her wrist, guiding it forward. The jam was sweet, but he found himself studying her hand. Her palms were soft, but her fingers were rough and callused.

  “Are you really a member of this family,” he asked, “or are you a servant here?”

  She pulled her hand back. “I’m not a servant. My hands are this way because I sew. I prefer to spend my time in useful pursuits.”


  He watched her, noticing the soft blue of her gown, the sweep of her honey-brown hair. She wore no jewelry, but there was a natural beauty about her. Gray eyes eyed him with distrust, but it didn’t diminish the haunting quality of her face. Her cheekbones were flushed with embarrassment, and she nibbled the edge of her lip. He could imagine claiming that mouth, unraveling her proud sensibilities, until she stopped being so practical and kissed him back.

  The innocence of her entranced him, and he couldn’t understand why this creature had captivated him in such a way. Perhaps it was because she didn’t know of his rank. To her, he was an ordinary man.

  The idea appealed to him in so many ways. With her, he could be anyone. And she would never know differently.

  “I should go,” she murmured. “You can finish feeding yourself, I suppose.”

  He could, but he didn’t want to be alone. It made it too easy to concentrate on the throbbing pain. “Stay with me.”

  She handed him the last fragment of toast. “I shouldn’t.”

  “Probably not.” He let out a sigh and closed his eyes. “I’ll just lie here and die, shall I?” When there came no reply, he risked opening one eye. Miss Andrews had a faint smile upon her lips.

  Then he nodded toward a book he’d spied on the table. “Why don’t you read to me? Something tedious that will put me to sleep.”

  She picked up the book and reddened. “No, this one wouldn’t interest you. It’s The Breeding Habits of Animals.”

  “I can assure you, I’m quite interested in breeding.”

  She rolled her eyes and set it aside. “I should read to you from the Bible. Perhaps you’d learn something.”

  “‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth. For thy love is better than wine,’” he quoted.

  She stood and walked over to the family Bible, bringing it close. “I won’t be reading to you from Song of Solomon.”