by Sophia Nash
Begging yer pardon sir, but I’m for the village to look in on the missus who’s feeling poorly and staying with her sister. I’ve left the larder and animals in the barn well stocked. Don’t know if you’ll arrive on the day you wrote in yer letter but I’ll look in—in a day or two. I’ve left our eldest, Timmy, in the room above the stable.
Yours respectfully,
Bertie Lattimer
Well. The day was bringing nothing but good news, he thought dryly. He ducked his head and negotiated his way up the long, creaking staircase before nudging open the first door along the short hall. At least the bed was made up and wood lay in the grate. Carefully placing the woman on the bed frame, he turned his attention to the fat wood and flint box to nurse a fire.
There was a host of surprises awaiting him as he removed his fur-lined gloves, peeled off his wet coat, and rolled up his sleeves to unwrap the many-layered mystery of the beautiful woman before him. Beneath the dull blankets, Michael encountered a ragtag assortment of shawls. His calloused hands snagged the delicate silks, some marked with blood, until he removed the last impractical outer garment.
She truly was an ethereal creature. In the glow of the lantern light, she was a study in pink-hued femininity. Her cloak gave way to a rose silk gown stitched with silver thread. Four lengths of pearls lay draped in a heavy tangle around her delicate neck and entwined in her pale blonde hair.
Who in hell was she?
His gaze hooked on the red stains on her gown and dread corroded his veins. There was too much blood.
Well, rich or poor, aristocrat or waif, a wound was a wound.
He cursed each of the tiny, silk-covered buttons of her gown as his brutish, scarred fingers worked past the impractical lacy tapes of her chemise. Drawing aside the flimsy fabrics, he sucked in his breath when a good portion of her exquisite breasts were exposed.
Her flesh was too smooth and unflawed, leaving him hesitant to mar her in any way. Pink silk swirled around the tiny rosy tips and he swallowed. He concentrated on removing the corset and remnants of the chemise underneath.
It was a maze of whalebone and lace and like nothing he’d encountered on the no-nonsense women on the other side of the ocean. He snorted in disgust at the impractical, torturous nature of the beast and retrieved a pocketknife from his bag. With a few deft moves, he sliced through the stained layers and pulled apart the contraption and chemise beneath. Blood gushed from a deep gash below her breast and she moaned once. He pressed a shawl against the wound. Well, at least the blasted overly tight corset had helped staunch the flow of blood. And the injury wasn’t mortal—but it would need stitching.
He would have to rouse her from whatever state of frozen exhaustion to which she had succumbed, for she would have to be near death not to feel the pinch of the needle when he stitched her.
He juggled between pressing against the wound and reaching for a small kit in his bag.
Michael covered her breasts with another shawl and stroked her hair. “Blue Eyes…hey, wake up.” It was no surprise there was no reaction. Hell, if she hadn’t woken from his cutting through her corset…“Come now, sweetheart.” He shook her shoulders and she inhaled harshly. “That’s it. Look, you’ve got to wake up.” He jarred her again.
Her eyes slit open slightly.
“Good. You’ve nothing to fear. You’re safe. We’ve arrived, but we’ve got to see to your injury.”
She closed her eyes.
He sighed, then spied the gleam of a flask within the folds of her velvet cloak. He pulled off the stopper and splashed some of the contents between her lips, cursing the fact he’d sworn never to swig a mouthful himself. He had enough to atone for without adding another vice.
She coughed violently and tried to rise.
“That’s it. No, no. Don’t sit up.”
Grace’s eyes watered from the brandy fumes in her tight throat. But at least, for once, when she could breathe, it was without difficulty. Ill ease growing with each second, she glanced down and realized her state of undress. With horror, she grasped the shawl tighter to herself. “Good Lord…”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Looks like you’ve hurt yourself.” The towering giant’s slumberous golden eyes contrasted with the harsh angles of his face. “I’m afraid we’ll have to stitch it.”
She tried to hold back a cough, her voice faint. “Did you undress me?”
“Yes. But, uh, I didn’t look.” A fleck of humor warmed his expression. “Well, perhaps I did look. Once.” His eyes flickered. “All right, maybe twice.”
He was immense, hovering over her, taking up all the space in the small room. And yet…Why was it that a man could possess a stubbled face and weary eyes combined with disheveled hair and lines of exhaustion, and it all served to make him supremely handsome in a beastly sort of way? If she hadn’t been in so much pain, and lightheaded to boot, she would have been mortified down to her stockings given the situation.
As she watched him rifle through his bag, the awful feeling of helplessness invaded her in the face of such overwhelming masculine vitality. She had been determined never to leave herself vulnerable again. Frailty was the trait she most despised in herself.
“So, what happened to you, sweetheart?”
“Please stop calling me that.” She tried to still her shivering limbs with no success. “I fell against the carriage lamp during the accident.” He was glancing at her clutched hands and the heat of a blush overtook her.
“There’s no need to be bashful.” He drew a needle and a length of thread from his kit.
“That’s easy for you to suggest when you’re sitting there fully dressed, Mr….?” She focused on the needle and a long shiver worked its way through her body. For some perverse reason, she was chilled to the bone now that she was out of the elements.
“Ranier. Michael Ranier. I’d offer to let you see me in the altogether, but then”—he winked—“I’m doubting that would make you feel less awkward, would it, Blue Eyes?” He deftly knotted the thread and leaned in closer. “Now then.”
“Now then, what? How do you know I need stitches? I could just bind it. I really think we should wait. Have you ever done this before? Surely there’s a surgeon, or even an apothecary we could send for…” An ancient, learned man who looks like a grandfather instead of a colossal, powerful archangel with enough distilled charm to steal the feathers off a chicken with nary a squawk. Her gibberish of questions slowed with each passing word when she realized he wasn’t going to argue. “Look, you already know I’m hen-hearted, so any attempt to goad me to your way of thinking won’t work, Mr. Ranier.”
“Perhaps you should call me Michael.”
“Absolutely not! In cases such as these, it’s vitally important to preserve every last measure of civility, sir.”
“Am I at least permitted to know your name?”
“Of course.” She sighed. “Grace Sheffey.” She tried to offer her hand but quickly lowered it when she saw how it fluttered.
“Such a lovely name, Duchess.”
“I most certainly am not a duchess.”
“Baroness?”
She shook her head, exasperated. “You may call me Mrs. Sheffey.”
He disregarded her. “Viscountess?”
“Does it matter?”
“I have it,” he uttered with a knowing grin. “Countess…” He placed his hand on top of her clenched one still shaking with cold.
When she didn’t reply, he smiled again. “No denial? Well, then. And your husband is the Earl of…?”
“Sheffield,” she replied, lifting her chin. She was not hiding anything from him. She had no reason to feel defensive and could not understand why she did. It was just that this man’s immense presence completely shredded her nerves.
“And where is the good earl?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You know, if you keep evading simple questions, I’ll start thinking there’s something you’re trying to hide, Countess.” He gathered another shawl and pressed it
against the wound more firmly. “I’m asking because I’d like to know if a herd of lordly relatives led by an over-wrought husband will come crashing in here at any given moment.”
She swallowed. “I’m a widow.”
He raised one slashing brow a fraction of an inch.
“I think I told you about my traveling companion, Mr. Brown. He’ll be very worried, and will come for me if he hasn’t met with disaster himself.” She stopped short, caught in misery at the thought of elderly Mr. Brown in peril. She watched the great chest of the man in front of her rise and fall steadily for a few moments and was abruptly worried about the appearance of impropriety. “My maid was not well and remained behind at the last village.”
He didn’t appear to believe everything she said. “Countess, I suggest you drink as much of this brandy as you can manage, and then I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“This is entirely improper. I can’t possibly allow you to—”
“Sweetheart, there was nothing proper about you traveling alone with this Mr. Brown fellow, or the way I rode to this house with you, or the way I hauled you up the stairs. And there was certainly nothing proper about the way I undressed you, or the fact that I will have to stitch you—no, I see that look. But I will be doing it. Look at it this way—all of it is insignificant to how you will feel if you waver longer and I’m forced to remove every last article of clothing on both of us and climb in this bed to take the chill from your bones.”
She shrank back, horrified. No one had ever spoken to her in such a coarse manner.
His eyes softened and he stroked her head. “I’ve had plenty of practice at this. I promise you.”
He must have learned on the battlefield. Lord knew he looked large enough to take the place of half a battalion. Grace grasped the flask he offered and drank two small sips before gasping. Then she loosened her hold on her favorite silk shawl, now quite ruined, and eased it up, keeping her breasts covered. A rush of pain flowed through her at the same moment she looked down to see a warm trickle of blood stream down her ribs.
He tilted her chin up. “No. Close your eyes or look at me, but don’t look down.” His tone and his eyes had turned serious. As serious and implacable as a man who knew what he was doing—and knew it well. “I’ll not lie to you. This will hurt. You may cry out if you’d like, but don’t move. You’d best take a deep breath.”
She did as he bade and sharp pain lanced her side before it changed to an awful pulling sensation.
“You may curse if you’d like,” he murmured, breaking the tension.
“I do not curse.” She exhaled roughly. “Ever.”
One corner of his mouth rose slightly. “All right, Countess. Now take another deep breath.”
Deep breath? Why, she couldn’t breathe at all, especially when he leaned over her again to peer at her bared flesh.
“That’s it,” he said after a moment. “I’m sorry, but there’s something imbedded. I’ll remove it now.”
She cringed, but then stilled when she saw the intelligence deep in his eyes. She nodded and a nearly unbearable probing pain engulfed her for long moments.
“Got it.” She heard the clink of a piece of glass hitting crockery. Another round of shivering wound through her body. She just couldn’t control the cold, which had seemed to take up permanent residence in her body.
Another stitch. More drawing up of the thread, and more concentration. The edges of her vision blurred, and blackened. She clenched her fists so tightly she was certain her nails would pierce the thin leather of her gloves.
“Steady now. Three more I think—just a little higher here.”
To her complete mortification, he raised the shawl and she could feel the chilled air on one breast. His bare forearm brushed the sensitive tip as he leaned in at an awkward angle. She had never felt so exposed in all her life.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his eyes trained strictly on the thread and her injury. She concentrated on his face, partially covered by the many layers of dark hair. One lock was a whisper away from her breast. The warmth of his breath bathed her bared flesh and she could feel the tip of her breast tighten involuntarily. The relentless tension in the room was leaving her lightheaded, until he casually broke the silence by low melodic humming.
She exhaled slowly.
Her vision cleared as his hands appeared to be tying a knot.
And then another.
And, blessedly, a last one.
“Finished.” He cut the last of the threads and tucked her shawl back into place. Placing the needle in the dish, he turned to her. The light of humor was gone from his face, and Grace spied something very like sympathy in his expression.
She closed her eyes against the feeling it evoked. From behind her eyelids, a shadow passed over and she felt him lean in again and stroke her hair.
Flustered, she inhaled, only to notice a potent woody scent. Ferns and moss, combined with a smoky pine fire, and mountain wind invaded her senses. He smelled of raw male essence washed clean in a crystal clear lake. It was the aroma of undeniable masculinity. She opened her eyes.
“You are a surprise,” he said quietly at her temple as he rearranged the pillow.
“How…so?” she whispered unevenly.
“You’re a fraud. Your avowed cowardice is outrageous. You could have at least thrashed a bit, or swooned, or at the very least shed a few tears.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
He cocked his head and revealed an irresistible smile, one corner slightly lower than the other. The stubble of his beard carved a dark pattern on his face.
“You’re the bravest patient I’ve ever had the privilege of serving, sweetheart. Of course, I suppose I had the benefit of reason in your case.” He chuckled. “My other patients almost always refused to do what I wanted until I brought out a twitch.”
She jerked away. “A twitch? Whatever are you talking about?”
“All my other patients were horses.”
“Horses?” she asked faintly.
“Or sheep. A cow or two on occasion. Went with the territory.”
“And what territory was that?”
“With smithing.”
“You’re a blacksmith?” Her voice sounded reedy and thin to her own ears.
“And most recently a farmer. Does that pose a problem?”
“Well, I would have liked to have known—”
“There’s one last thing I should do. Hold still.”
“Now wait a moment, Mr. Ranier. I must know exactly what—”
He uncorked Mr. Brown’s flask again with his teeth and his hand snaked out to snatch the shawl from her clenched fist.
“Don’t you dare—”
“I don’t have to find my twitch now, do I? Just when you were behaving so well, Countess.”
“I do wish you’d stop interru—”
He dashed some brandy on her injury and a splash of fresh pain washed over her side.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” she said hoarsely.
“Just a bit of Indian lore concerning firewater. A medicine man I once knew was a remarkably skilled healer as far as I could see.”
Indian lore? Dear God. Could her current world become any further removed from what she knew? “So now I am being treated in the manner of horses and pagan ritual?”
“I suppose you could say it’s your lucky day, Countess.” He deftly secured a bandage.
Grace wished she could conjure up a nice long faint. She closed her eyes and shivered involuntarily. While some people often thought they were dreaming when bad things happened to them, Grace had never mistaken her actual world for reverie.
It had happened too often.
“You’re too pale, angel. You’ve lost more than a little blood. We’ve got to get you warm.”
“W-w-w-would…” She clenched her jaw to stop her chattering teeth, and hissed, “Would it be too much trouble to ask for some tea?”
“I’m sorry, but I doubt there’ll be a
ny tea here—knowing its previous owner.” He crossed to the grate and added two logs to the fire, which crackled approvingly. “But, I do think we’ve got to face facts.”
“I think I’ve had about as many facts as I can stand for one day, Mr. Ranier.”
He continued without pause. “A cup of tea is not enough to warm you at this point. Let me see your hands.”
She stared at him.
“To check for frostbite.”
She couldn’t make her fingers work properly and he finally took over the job of unbuttoning the ivory heart-shaped buttons at her wrists and peeling off the sodden pink kid gloves.
Her hands appeared so small in his work-worn palms, the size of butter dishes. Faint streaks of scarlet marred her pale hands and fingers, which felt like wooden pins.
He shook his head.
“What?”
He muttered something that was probably an Indian curse. She winced.
He gave her his back and tugged off his boots. This boded ill. She couldn’t help but notice his massive shoulders strained against the seams of his roughhewn shirt. Grace wondered how tall he truly was. Surely, it was just her low angle of hazy vision that made him appear to stand at almost six and a half feet.
“Isn’t there another bedchamber, Mr. Ranier? I’m not in a position to complain, mind you. But, oh dear Lord, you’re not going to…Don’t you think it would be—”
“No.”
There was no clarification while he proceeded to strip off his damp shirt and woolen stockings and lay them near the fire. “Let me assure you, Countess, the effects of frostbite are too high a price to pay for modesty.”
Grace bit her lip and looked away. He wouldn’t dare take off all his articles of clothes.
Under her lashes she discerned he was sporting some sort of heavy buckskin leggings, low on his hips. She tightened her body to halt a long shiver. Perversely, she could not seem to stop shaking.
Mr. Ranier extinguished the flame in the lantern and advanced toward her by the flickering light of the fire, his bare chest fully revealed. Unlike her beloved husband, this man was a fortification of defined, corded muscle. A vast expanse of golden skin shone in the flicker of firelight with only a hint of dark hair that trailed to his leggings.