by Lisa Kleypas
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But we have to apply pressure to slow the bleeding.”
“I don’t need your help,” he said testily. “Let me have it.”
Taken aback, Phoebe let go of the folded pad. Mr. Ravenel refused to meet her gaze, his thick dark brows knitting together as he held the cloth against the wound.
She couldn’t help stealing a covert glance at the exposed part of his torso, the flesh so firm and tanned it appeared to have been cast in bronze. Lower down near his hip, the satiny brown skin merged into a line of ivory. The sight was so intriguing—and intimate—that she felt her stomach tighten pleasurably. Leaning over him as she was, she couldn’t help breathing in the dusty, sweaty, sun-heated scent of him. A stunning urge seized her, to touch that brown-and-white borderline with her fingertip, trace a path across his body.
“I’ll have your men fetch a horse and cart to convey you back to the estate,” she managed to say.
“There’s no need for a cart. I can walk.”
“You’ll worsen the bleeding if you exert yourself.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“A deep one,” she persisted. “You may need stitches.”
“All I need is salve and a bandage.”
“We’ll let a doctor decide. In the meanwhile, you must ride in the cart.”
His voice was low and surly. “Are you planning to use bodily force? Because that’s the only way you’ll load me into the damn thing.”
He seemed every bit as riled and menacing as the bull had a few minutes ago. But Phoebe wasn’t about to let him make his injury worse out of pure male stubbornness.
“Forgive me if I’m being tyrannical,” she said in her most soothing tone. “I tend to do that when I’m concerned about someone. It’s your decision, naturally. But I wish you would indulge me in this, if only to spare me from worrying over you every step of the way home.”
The mulish set of his jaw eased. “I manage other people,” he informed her. “People don’t manage me.”
“I’m not managing you.”
“You’re trying,” he said darkly.
An irrepressible grin spread across her face. “Is it working?”
Slowly Mr. Ravenel’s head lifted. He didn’t reply, only gave her a strange, long look that spurred her heartbeat until she was light-headed from the force of its pounding. No man had ever stared at her like this. Not even her husband, for whom she’d always been close and attainable, her presence woven securely into the fabric of his days. Since childhood, she’d always been Henry’s safe harbor.
But whatever it was this man wanted from her, it wasn’t safety.
“You should humor my daughter’s wishes, Ravenel,” Sebastian advised from behind her. “The last time I tried to refuse her something, she launched into a screaming fit that lasted at least an hour.”
The comment broke the trance. “Father,” Phoebe protested with a laugh, twisting to glance at him over her shoulder, “I was two years old!”
“It made a lasting impression.”
Phoebe’s gaze fell to Justin, who stood half hidden behind Sebastian. His small face was tearstained and woebegone. “Darling,” she said softly, wanting to comfort him, “come here.”
Her son shook his head and retreated farther behind his grandfather.
“Justin,” she heard Mr. Ravenel say in a gruff tone, “I want to talk to you.”
Phoebe shot him a wary, wondering glance. Was he planning to scold her son? A few harsh words from him would devastate Justin.
Sebastian nudged the child forward.
Justin trudged reluctantly to Mr. Ravenel’s side, his lower lip trembling, his eyes glassy.
As the man surveyed the crestfallen boy, his face gentled in a way that reassured Phoebe there was no need for her to intervene.
“Listen to me, Justin,” Mr. Ravenel said quietly. “This was my fault. Not yours. You can’t be expected to follow the rules if I haven’t told them to you. I should have made certain you understood not to go inside one of the enclosures or pens by yourself. Never, for any reason.”
“But the cat . . .” Justin faltered.
“She can take care of herself. She’s over there, with at least eight lives left—you see?” Mr. Ravenel gestured to a nearby timber post, where the cat was grooming the side of her face delicately. The outer corners of his eyes tipped upward as he saw the boy’s relief. “Regardless, if an animal is hurt or in danger, don’t go near it. Ask an adult for help next time. An animal is replaceable. A boy is not. Do you understand?”
Justin nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir.” The grace of forgiveness, when he’d expected harsh judgment, left him glowing with relief.
“Ravenel,” she heard her father say, “I’m in your debt.”
Mr. Ravenel shook his head immediately. “I deserve no credit, sir. It was all pure idiot reflex. I jumped in with no plan or forethought.”
“Yes,” Sebastian said reflectively, “that’s what I liked about it.”
By the time Mr. Ravenel had made it to his feet, the horse and cart had been brought around. The combination of pain and fading excitement had left him too weary to quarrel. After a testy comment or two, he climbed slowly into the vehicle. To Justin’s delight, Mr. Ravenel invited him to ride in the cart as well. They settled on a stack of folded blankets, with Justin tucked against the man’s good side. As the cart began to roll toward the manor house, the black cat leaped into the vehicle’s open back.
Walking back with her father, Phoebe smiled ruefully at the sight of her son’s beaming face in the distance. “Justin worships him now.”
Her father arched a quizzical brow at her tone. “Is that a problem?”
“No, but . . . to a young boy, Mr. Ravenel must seem like a fantasy of a father. His own personal hero. Poor Edward Larson has little chance of competing.”
Although her father remained relaxed, she sensed his sharp interest. “I wasn’t aware Larson was in the running for such a role.”
“Edward and I are fond of each other,” Phoebe said. “And he’s fond of the boys, too. He’s known both of them since they were born. The last time he came to visit Heron’s Point, he made it clear that he would be willing to assume Henry’s place.”
“Willing to assume Henry’s place,” Sebastian repeated with slow emphasis, his face darkening. “Is that how he declared himself?”
“It wasn’t a marriage proposal, it was a prelude to a deeper conversation. Edward isn’t one to rush things. He’s a gentleman of courtesy and delicacy.”
“Indeed. He doesn’t lack for delicacy.” Suddenly her father’s voice was caustic enough to dissolve granite.
“Why do you say it like that?” Phoebe asked in surprise. “What do you have against Edward?”
“I can’t help but question how my spirited daughter could fix her choice, once again, on a tepid Larson male. Is your blood really so thin that it calls for such milk-warm companionship?”
Phoebe stopped in her tracks, while outrage raced through her like wildfire. “Henry was not tepid!”
“No,” her father allowed, stopping to face her. “Henry did have one passion, and that was you. It’s why I eventually consented to the marriage, despite knowing the burden you would have to shoulder. Edward Larson, however, has yet to evince any such depth of feeling.”
“Well, he wouldn’t in front of you,” she said hotly. “He’s private. And it was never a burden to take care of Henry.”
“Darling child,” he said softly, “the burden is what you’re facing now.”
Chapter 12
By the time Phoebe and her father had entered the house, servants were running along the hallways with toweling and cans of cold and hot water, and the housekeeper was directing a footman to carry her medicine case up to Mr. Ravenel’s room.
“I’m going to speak to Lord and Lady Trenear,” Sebastian murmured, and headed for the stairs.
Nanny Bracegirdle stood in the entrance hall with Justin, who held the blac
k cat against his chest. The half-wild feline should have shredded him by now, but she rested passively in his grasp, gazing around in bewildered curiosity at her strange new surroundings.
“Nanny,” Phoebe exclaimed, hurrying over to them. “Have you heard what happened?”
The older woman nodded. “Master Justin told me, and so did the cart driver. The household’s all in a tither.”
“Did you see Mr. Ravenel when he came in?”
“No, milady. They said he was a bit gray faced, but steady on his feet. They sent for a doctor even though he said not to.”
Justin looked up at her with a grimace. “His scratch wouldn’t stop bleeding. The handkerchiefs you gave him are all ruined, Mama.”
“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “Poor Mr. Ravenel—he’ll definitely have to be stitched up.”
“Will he have to stay in bed? I’ll bring my cat to visit him.”
Phoebe frowned regretfully. “Justin, I’m afraid you can’t keep her.”
“Oh, I already knew that.”
“Good. Well, then—”
“—but you see, Mama, she wants to keep me.”
“I’m sure she does, darling, but—”
“She wants to come live in Essex with us.”
Phoebe’s heart sank as she looked into his hopeful face. “But this is where she does her job.”
“She wants to work for us now,” her son informed her. “There are mice in Essex. Big, fat ones.”
“Justin, she’s not a house cat. She won’t want to live with a family. She’ll run off if we try to make her stay with us.”
His brows lowered in a determined expression that was pure Challon. “No, she won’t.”
“It’s time for a wash and a nap,” Nanny intervened.
Phoebe seized gratefully on the pronouncement. “You’re right as usual, Nanny. If you’ll take Justin and the cat up to the nursery—”
“The cat can’t come to the nursery.” The nanny’s face was dumpling soft, but her tone was unyielding.
“Even temporarily?” Phoebe asked weakly.
Nanny didn’t even dignify that with an answer, only prodded Justin to hand the cat over.
Justin gave Phoebe an imploring glance. “Mama, please don’t lose my cat—I want to see her after my nap.”
“I’ll look after her while you rest,” Phoebe said reluctantly, reaching out for the bedraggled creature. The cat mewled in protest and scrabbled for purchase, anxious not to be dropped. “Galoshes,” Phoebe swore beneath her breath, fumbling with the squirmy parcel of fur and bones.
Justin twisted to look back at Phoebe skeptically as Nanny towed him away.
“I have her,” Phoebe assured him brightly, while the cat tried to use its back feet to climb the ridges of her corset like a ladder. She clamped the furry, skinny body against her shoulder, holding it firmly. After a moment, the cat surrendered and conformed against her, claws still needling into her bodice.
Phoebe carried the cat upstairs, struggling to manage it with one arm while holding up her skirts with her free hand. Finally, she reached her room.
Ernestine, who was sitting by the window with some mending, set aside her sewing basket and came to her immediately. “What’s this?”
“An undomesticated barn cat,” Phoebe said. “Justin acquired her during our farm tour.”
“I love cats! May I take her?”
“You can try.” But as Phoebe tried to lift the cat away, it hissed and dug its claws into the bodice of the dress. The harder she tried to pry away the cat, the more tenacious it became, growling and clinging desperately. Giving up the battle, Phoebe sat on the floor near one of the windows. “Ernestine, would you run down to the kitchen and fetch something to tempt her? A boiled egg, or a sardine—”
“Right away, my lady.” The lady’s maid dashed out.
Left in silence with the stubborn cat, Phoebe stroked her back and sides. She could feel the grooves between her tiny ribs. “Would you mind retracting your claws?” she asked. “I feel like a pincushion.” In a moment, the little needles withdrew, and Phoebe sighed in relief. “Thank you.” She continued to pet the silky dark fur and encountered a little knot beneath one of her arms. “If this is a tick, I’m going to start screaming like a lunatic.”
Fortunately, further investigation revealed that the knot was a clump of some resinous matter, like pinesap. It would have to be cut out. Slowly the cat’s body relaxed, and a resonant purring began. She clambered up to the sunny windowsill behind Phoebe’s shoulder and reclined on her side. Surveying the room with a bored, queenly air, the cat began to lick one paw.
Phoebe stood and tried to straighten her clothes, discovering the front of her gray dress was hopelessly frayed.
Soon Ernestine returned with a plate of shredded boiled chicken and set it near the window. Although the cat flattened its ears and viewed the lady’s maid with slitted eyes, the chicken was too compelling to resist. After jumping to the floor, the feline slunk to the plate and devoured it ravenously.
“She’s not such a wildling as the usual barn cat,” Ernestine commented. “Most of them never purr or want to be held.”
“This one seems at least half tame,” Phoebe agreed.
“She’s trying to rise above her station,” the lady’s maid suggested with a laugh. “A barn cat with dreams of being a house cat.”
Phoebe frowned. “I wish you hadn’t put it like that. Now when I take her back to the barn, I’ll feel terribly guilty about it. But we can’t keep her.”
A few minutes later, dressed in blue summer serge with a white silk bodice, Phoebe made her way to the wing of the house where the Ravenel family members resided. After asking directions from a maid who was sweeping the hallway carpet, she approached a long, narrow passageway. At the far end of the passageway, she saw three men conferring at the threshold of a private suite: Lord Trenear, her father, and a man holding a doctor’s bag.
Phoebe’s heart quickened as she caught a glimpse of West Ravenel, wearing a dark green dressing robe and trousers, just inside the threshold. The group talked companionably for a minute, before Mr. Ravenel reached out to shake hands with the doctor.
As the men departed, Phoebe backed away and went into a small parlor, staying out of view. She waited until the group had passed and the sound of voices had faded. When the coast was clear, she headed to Mr. Ravenel’s room.
It wasn’t at all proper for her to visit him unaccompanied. The appropriate thing would be to send a note expressing her concern and good wishes. But she had to thank him privately for what he’d done. Also, she needed to see with her own eyes that he was all right.
The door had been left ajar. Bashfully she knocked on the jamb and heard his deep voice.
“Come in.”
Phoebe entered the room and stopped with a head-to-toe quiver, like an arrow striking a target, at the sight of a half-naked West Ravenel. He was facing away from her, standing barefoot at an old-fashioned washstand as he blotted his neck and chest with a length of toweling. The robe had been tossed to a chair, leaving him dressed only in a pair of trousers that rode dangerously low on his hips.
Henry had always seemed so much smaller without his clothes, vulnerable without the protection of civilized layers. But this man, all rippling muscle and bronzed skin and coiled energy, appeared twice as large. The room scarcely seemed able to contain him. He was big-boned and lean, his back flexing as he lifted a goblet of water and drank thirstily. Phoebe’s helpless gaze followed the long groove of his spine down to his hips. The loose edge of a pair of fawn-colored trousers, untethered by braces, dipped low enough to reveal a shocking absence of undergarments. How could a gentleman go without wearing drawers? It was the most indecent thing she’d ever seen. The inside of her head was scalded by her own thoughts.
“Hand me a clean shirt from that stack on the dresser, will you?” he asked brusquely. “I’ll need help putting it on; these damned stitches are pulling.”
Phoebe moved to
comply, while a thousand butterflies swirled and danced inside her. She fumbled to retrieve the shirt without overturning the stack. It was a pullover style with a half-placket, made of beautiful fine linen that smelled like laundry soap and outside air. Hesitantly she moved forward and dampened her lips nervously, trying to think of what to say.
Setting down the water goblet, Mr. Ravenel turned with an exasperated sigh. “Good God, Sutton, if you’re going to be that slow—” He broke off as he saw her, his expression turning blank.
The atmosphere in the room became still and charged, as if lightning were about to strike.
“You’re not the valet,” Mr. Ravenel managed to say.
Phoebe held out the shirt clumsily. To her mortification, she was staring at him openly, ogling, and she couldn’t seem to stop. If the back view of West Ravenel was fascinating, the front was absolutely mesmerizing. He was much hairier than her husband had been, his chest covered with dark fur that narrowed to a V at his midriff, and there was more hair on his forearms, and even a little trail below the navel. His shoulders and arms were so powerfully developed, one had to wonder why he hadn’t simply wrestled the bull into submission.
Slowly he came forward to take the shirt from her nerveless hands. Bunching the garment awkwardly, he pushed his hands into the sleeves and began to lift it over his head.
“Wait,” Phoebe said in a suffocated voice, “let me help.”
“You don’t have to—”
“The placket is still buttoned.” She moved to unfasten the short row of buttons while he stood there with his hands caught in the gathered sleeves.
His head bent over hers; she could feel the rush of his unsettled exhalations. The hairs on his chest were not flat and straight, but softly curling. She wanted to brush her nose and lips across them. He smelled of soap, male skin, clean earth and meadow grass, and every breath of him made her feel warm in places that hadn’t been warm in years.