He took a deep gulp.
She poured the remaining alcohol over her hand. Her fingers felt the bullet hole gently. When she pressed the wound apart with her fingers, the stab of pain prompted a sharp intake of breath. But he nodded for her to continue.
“You have tweezers in your kit as well?”
He nodded and watched as she lifted them out of the case. On his back, he felt a splash of alcohol and a sting, then something against the inside of the wound. He suddenly felt inexpressibly tired.
“I can see several pieces of thread, but I think I can get the whole string from here.” Her fingers probed the wound again, but this time the pain seemed more distant. More alcohol. Less sting. He drank another gulp.
She returned to the wound at his front. She folded a towel and placed it in his lap immediately under the bullet hole. Then she poured more alcohol over the wound. The whiskey ran down his belly and soaked into the cloth.
“That’s a waste of good whiskey.”
“Not if it saves your life. Stomach wounds, even one with as little damage as this one, can kill quickly.”
“Is that meant to be encouraging?
“Actually, yes.” She picked up a small decanter and poured its liquid into the wound on his front. “Now that I can see it, it couldn’t be a better wound. Bullet missed your ribs and your organs. You must lead a charmed life.”
He’d heard that before. It hadn’t made him feel any better then. “What is that?”
“This is the lavender water. It cools wounds and helps avoid the heat of fever.” She repeated her action at his back.
The water felt cold on his skin, and he shivered.
A tap at the door drew her away. Leaving the door open, she stepped into the second bedroom and returned with a blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders. She was observant, this nurse of his.
“There. That should be good.” She returned the tweezers to his dressing box. “The boys are bringing in your bath. After you bathe, I will dress your wounds with the calendula salve.”
“Are you going to aid me in the bath as well?
She looked up, startled, before she noticed the mischievous smile on his lips. “I’m sure Mark and Edward will be adequate help if you find yourself . . . incapable.”
Lord, he liked this woman, unwilling to be cowed, even when embarrassed. “Does this make us friends?” he teased.
“Why, sir?” Her inflection on sir was distant, even suspicious, as if their camaraderie and attraction had slipped out the open door. Then he remembered that her beauty had likely made her a target of unscrupulous visitors to the inn.
“The midwife called you Lucy. I would like to call you Lucy as well . . . a former officer to an officer’s daughter who cared for him when wounded.” He’d never thought to ask a servant for permission to use her given name. But somehow it seemed appropriate.
The suspicion in her eyes faded. “As an officer to an officer’s daughter . . . certainly, sir, you may call me Lucy.”
“Then, Lucy, you must call me Colin.”
* * *
The boys entered the room carrying a large bath basin, then pitchers of heated water to fill it. One stoked the fire, grown low in the fireplace, with new wood.
“Mark and Edward will help you with your other clothes.”
He was no longer alone with her, and he felt strangely bereft. Somehow the weight of the last months seemed lighter with her beside him, so he gave her his most innocent smile. “If you can help me out of my boots and stockings, I can manage the rest.”
Her brief hesitation pleased him, for it meant that she was tempted, and tempted meant she felt the desire between them. If he were a gentlemen, he would have let her go, and then asked the boys to help him with his boots and stockings and pants. But he did not want to be a gentleman. He wanted her with him. An officer’s daughter would understand the sacrifices he had made—still made—and his regrets.
She shook her head, clearly amused, and indulging him. “Certainly, sir, I can help you with your boots.”
Even his valet cursed the snug fit of Colin’s boots, but Lucy removed them skillfully. Whose boots had she removed often enough to be so proficient?
At his stockings, she took a deep breath as if drawing in courage, then untied the knee bands on his leggings. His legs were well muscled, so he wore no pads to give his legs more definition. But to remove his stockings, Lucy had to push the pant legs up, then draw the stockings down. There was no way to do it without her hands tracing the line of his muscles.
He felt her touch as a drug. But he closed his eyes, telling himself it was the effect of the laudanum. Never before while on a mission had he found himself so distracted by a lovely face. He had been right to tell Walgrave he was finished. Too much could go wrong, had gone wrong, when one lost focus. And he couldn’t seem to focus when the dark-haired maid was near him: it was a warning—he was sure—that he should no longer be in the field.
When his legs were bare, he opened his eyes to find her examining him. Were her eyes dark with arousal or some other emotion? Was that look of deep consideration a function of desire or just the concern of a nurse for her patient? He couldn’t tell. His mind felt fuzzy.
“If I asked you to share my bath, would you agree? You are very beautiful, Lucy.” He felt the syllables of her name in his mouth like silk—soft sounds, warm sounds.
“Does this strategy usually work?”
“What?” He feigned innocence.
“Taking a bullet to seduce the scullery maid.”
“I haven’t tried it before. Is it successful? I could make it worth your while.” He stumbled over the words. But even through the dizzy haze of his mind, he knew those were the wrong words.
Her back stiffened, and she drew back.
He stammered an apology, but she reached out her hand toward him. He held his breath, waiting for her touch on his arm or chest, but instead, she touched his forehead.
“We need to get you into the bath.”
She walked away, and he realized she was swimming before his eyes. Exhaustion, he assumed. He’d had less laudanum before this, so he must be exhausted. So tired, so cold.
She returned from the hall with both of the young men. He could hear her telling them what to do—light a fire, warm his bed. He did not correct her or insist on telling the boys himself. It felt good to let someone else make the decisions. His ministering angel would take care of him. He allowed himself to drift, to let consciousness go.
* * *
Damn, and double damn. Fever. And a blazing one. She was sure she’d cleaned the wounds well, but cloth could be trapped deeper in the wound than she could reach. And it had been at least an hour before the wound was cleaned. Likely, the fever was the result of being wounded and the aftermath of the attack on the road.
She tapped on the door to the bedroom where Nell and Alice cared for the laboring woman. Marietta, he’d called her. He had not offered his surname or the woman’s, but Lucy believed him when he said that the child wasn’t his.
Alice opened to the door and stepped into the hall.
“Should I call for the village women?” Lucy offered.
Alice frowned and shook her head. “No. We won’t be needing the help.”
“I helped at other births; this one seems wrong.”
“Nell sent for the doctor, but he is tending to the manor born, and unless he hurries, he will not arrive in time. The lass won’t last the night, but we’re hoping she can have a look at the babe.”
“Is it likely?”
“Och, sometimes she’s light-headed and a bit mad; others she’s frantic. In between she drifts, here and other places. But her heart is fading.”
“What of the child?”
“Josiah has gone to the village to fetch Jennie Osborne to wet nurse. Her own babe was stillborn, and her man’s long gone. Then, when His Grace travels on, Nell will ask him to take Jennie along.” Alice listened for a moment at the door. “What of him?”
“Stay by his side. He’s highborn, and we don’t want no trouble that we left him alone when he was all sick-like. Should I send the doctor, if he comes?”
“No, the doctor will want to bleed him, and he’s lost plenty of blood already. If we can, we should let the fever run its course.”
“That’s what Nell would do.” Alice nodded approvingly. “You know where she keeps her herbs.”
“I already have them.”
“Good.”
Marietta moaned, and Alice turned back to the door. “Let us know if he worsens.”
* * *
Once the boys had Colin undressed and in the bath, she returned to the room. His back was to her in the bathtub, so she stood inside the doorway. The boys had bathed barely conscious men before, and they moved efficiently. The smell of soap reassured her, as if it might clear away the poisons already causing his fever.
When she’d returned to England after her father’s death and moved into her great-aunt’s house, she’d hoped she would never have to care for another bullet wound again. Colin was handsome in that way that all the young officers had been handsome, and in many ways they hadn’t been. She could easily imagine him at a ball dressed in uniform, a jacket of vibrant madder red with gold-braided epaulets at his shoulders and polished leather Wellington boots. The white of his cravat crisp, the folds sharp. She could imagine dancing with him to a rousing country dance or to the more scandalous steps of a Bavarian waltz. She could not—did not—wish to imagine him as he would have appeared during the campaigns: his jacket faded to a ruddy brown, his epaulets tarnished, his boots scuffed, his white cravat turned grey or red, his face gaunt with the weariness of a siege or a long march.
His offer to share his bath had been unexpectedly tempting. She was no maid. Everyone in the camp had known that she and James were to marry, and she never understood why they hadn’t. He kept saying he didn’t wish to leave her a widow, that if he died it would be easier for her to find a husband if she had not married. But each day she had seen the young men of England dying, and she wondered just how many would be left if she ever returned.
Perhaps James, like her father, had had some presentiment of his death. She had agreed to marry in part to relieve her father’s mind and in part because James had been her friend for years. When she’d returned home, alone, with neither fiancé nor father, she’d told her great-aunt Aurelia she wished never to marry; and Aurelia, whose own love had died in the Seven Years’ War, had patted her hand and told her she would never have to. And then Aurelia had died as well.
The boys were ready to lift Colin from the bath and carry him into the adjoining bedroom. She stepped into the hall to keep from shocking them. No one who hadn’t been in the wars understood what she knew: that bodies lost their secrets when wounded or dead or maimed beyond recognition. Artillery was a cruel killer, blasting off a man’s arm and leaving him to bleed to death. Somehow, tending Colin’s wound had made the images come back fresh, just when she had started to believe they had faded for good. The memories isolated her, reminding her again how different she was from all the women of her class, and even from many of the men.
When they were finished, the boys opened the door to the bedroom, signaling she could wrap the wounds. Now the drawing room lay between her patient and Marietta’s labors. Perhaps it would be enough distance to muffle her cries. If the alcohol and laudanum were doing their work, he would have forgotten about Marietta’s labor. She did not wish for him to remember. She did not want to see that sorrowful look cross his face again. There would be time enough for sorrow tomorrow, of that she was certain.
When she entered the room, he was already in bed, his face slightly flushed, she hoped only from the pain of moving from the bath to the bed.
“Ah, my Panacea has returned, my goddess of healing.” Lines of pain creased at his eyes and mouth.
She crossed the room to feel his forehead. Hot. “You’re feverish. And Panacea is the goddess of cures, medicines. You need Aceso, the goddess of recuperation.”
“Aphrodite’s sister?”
“Yes,” she said, arranging the lavender water, the calendula poultice, and his scissors where she could reach them easily.
“Then you are also my goddess of love!” He held out his hand as an orator does when making a speech.
She shook her head, laughing. “Mark, get the whiskey for me and the basket with the bandages. I left them in the drawing room.” Then, turning back to Colin, she asked, “When I get to your back, can you sit up for me? Or will you need the boys to help you?”
“Let me decide when you get there.” He closed his eyes.
Mark returned with the basket. “Do you want me to pour?”
“Yes, please. Half-full.” She removed the bottle of laudanum from her pocket, and she counted out another twenty drops. “Drink again for me, my lord.”
“Colin.” He did not open his eyes. “I will not drink unless you call me Colin.”
She turned to Mark, lifting both palms up in question, mouthing, Fever. He responded with a shrug that said, Whatever the highborn want, however foolish.
“Then, Colin.” She emphasized his name as she had emphasized sir. “You must drink this. The laudanum will keep your wound from hurting as I bandage it, and afterward it will help you sleep.” He took the glass from her hand, but didn’t drink.
“Do not want to sleep.” He was growing restive. “Need to keep watch.”
“What if I keep watch for you? I’ll stay right here while you sleep.” She placed the back of her hand on his forehead, testing his temperature again. “I promise: I will not leave until you wake up.”
He caught her hand and kissed it. She looked around, concerned that the boys had seen his familiarity. But they were gone. Relieved, she let him keep her hand in the warmth of his. Such a little human contact seemed to comfort him.
“If you stay, I’ll sleep.” He opened his eyes, so blue, so tempting.
“If you act like a gentleman, I’ll stay,” she chided.
“I’m always a gentleman,” he promised, but his dimpled half smile undercut his words.
“Then be quiet, and let me dress your wound.”
He stopped arguing, but didn’t sleep. Instead, he watched her. She couldn’t tell if he was alert or just staring. When she finished filling one part of the wound with salve, he held the bandage to it, while she treated the other part. Then, when she needed to bind the poultice against his skin, he sat up to allow her to wrap the bandage around his waist.
When she finished, he fell back, exhausted from the effort.
“You really do look like an angel,” he insisted.
“Then you haven’t been to church lately,” she countered. “Angels are either imposing men with swords or infant putti with wings.”
“No”—he clasped her hand again—“they are dark-eyed, dark-haired beauties named Lucia. Saint of Lights. Saint of the blind because of her beautiful eyes . . . and yours are beautiful, such color. I can imagine you with a nimbus of stars.”
She started at her real name, but he didn’t appear to notice, only kept talking. He was drunk on spirits, laudanum, exhaustion, and fever. She realized she was still sitting on the edge of the bed, facing him, his hand clasping hers. “Colin,” she spoke gently. “Let me get a chair to sit by you. There’s one by the wall.”
“Only if you kiss me, Lucia, my star.”
She knew she could wait: he would be asleep in minutes. If someone found her sitting on his bed, it would create trouble, and, as Lady Fairbourne, she didn’t wish to force this man into marriage. Besides, she didn’t even know if he were free to marry. Marietta’s child might not be his. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have obligations to another woman. She turned his hand to see if he wore a ring.
“No wife, no mistress, no fiancée.” He was clearly
more alert than he appeared, or he was slipping in and out of consciousness. “So you have no fear. Kiss me.”
One quick look over her shoulder to the hall door told her it was shut. The door to the adjoining drawing room was ajar, but pulled to the jamb. She would hear if anyone approached.
And she wanted to kiss him. For all the wrong reasons, and none of the wise ones. He was handsome and funny, and the only man she’d ever kissed was James. As soon as she reached London, she would start the new life she and her great-aunt had planned. She would dispense her great-aunt’s funds with discretion and good sense, holding herself apart as her great-aunt Aurelia had done. And who would she kiss then? The fat country squire with more land than teeth? Or the thin parson with patches on his elbows? Before she began that life, she wanted one last kiss. Colin wouldn’t remember, and if he did, she could simply hide in the kitchen until he was gone or until she disappeared herself.
She leaned forward and pressed her lips softly against his, in the kind of kiss that she always shared with James—gentle, sweet. For a few moments he met her softly, tenderly on that ground.
But when she thought the kiss was over and began to pull away, he shifted the ground underneath her. His mouth opened against hers, pressing, still sweet but teasing her lips to open to him. He bit playfully the edge of her lip, then when she relented, he teased the roof of her mouth with his tongue.
Then he shifted the kiss again, from sweet and playful to something more, something tinged with such desire that she had not imagined she could feel for a man she had known less than a few hours. Still she wanted more, more of whatever passion this kiss evoked. She had thought herself experienced, but with one kiss Colin showed her a glimpse of a world beyond what she knew.
He raised one hand and pulled off her bonnet, allowing her curls to fall freely around her face, and he caressed her hair, twisting it between his fingers, and pulling her head closer to his lips. She knew she should stop the kiss. He was influenced by the effects of fever and laudanum. Without it, she told herself, he would not be so bold.
Chasing the Heiress Page 4