by Meara Platt
She stared up at him, those big, blue eyes of hers wide with fright.
He turned to leave, and then stopped and returned to her side. He planted a solid, possessive kiss on her lips that drew a gasp from Mrs. Gwynne. Hell. He probably shouldn’t have done that. “I’ll be back with Abner.”
CHAPTER 11
BY THE TIME Ian reached the innkeeper and his servants, they had already found Abner and were working to lift the carriage off his crushed leg. Ian added his strength to the endeavor, relieved when they managed to raise the carriage just enough to pull Abner out. The old man was unconscious, but traces of vapor that formed about his mouth meant he was still breathing. “How are we ta carry ’im, Yer Grace?”
Ian knelt beside Abner and checked him for broken bones. The old man’s neck and spine were what concerned him most, for he’d taken a nasty spill. Nothing appeared to be broken other than his leg. Abner was fortunate. The muddy grass had somehow cushioned his fall. “I’ll carry him. Help me lift him over my shoulder.”
The icy rain continued to pummel them. Mr. Gwynne held his lantern high, but it offered very little illumination against the unrelenting sheets of rain. Thunder rolled and another bolt of lightning struck too close for comfort. Ian quickly secured Abner on his shoulder and then he and the search party walked as fast as they dared in the treacherous conditions, no one uttering a word until they reached the safety of the inn.
One of the maids must have been on the lookout for them. She opened the door as soon as they entered the inn’s courtyard, ushering them in as they trudged up the two steps to the entry. “Lud! Is he alive?”
“Barely,” one of the searchers muttered. “Pray for ’im, Louisa.”
Ian shifted Abner off his shoulder and carefully stretched him out on one of the sturdy wooden tables in the common room close to the fire. He ordered Louisa to boil water and bring clean cloths. Then he turned to Mr. Gwynne. “I’ll need slats of wood to bind his leg. It’s easiest done down here. We’ll move him up to my quarters afterward.” He’d already given up his first room to Dillie and would give up the second to Abner.
Mr. Gwynne appeared surprised. “Yer quarters, Yer Grace? To a coachman?”
Ian frowned. “Is it a problem, Mr. Gwynne?”
“No, Yer Grace. Never ye worry. We’ll rearrange things.” Ian suddenly realized that all the rooms at the inn were likely occupied due to the foul weather, and he might very well be forced to spend the night in the common room, stretched out on a makeshift pallet by the hearth. Or rather, some poor sod who’d just made himself comfortable in one of those upstairs chambers would be tossed down here while he took over that sod’s quarters.
“You needn’t move anyone on my behalf,” he called out as the innkeeper was about to leave to gather the slats of wood he’d requested. “I doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight.” He also knew that the Gwynnes would give up their own bedchamber to accommodate him, if it came to that. He wouldn’t accept, of course. Even a duke could survive one night on a hard floor. He’d survived far worse.
After quickly stoking the fire, Mr. Gwynne scurried off to find pieces of wood suitable to fashion a splint. Ian took a moment to examine Abner again. His first attempt had hardly been sufficient in the dark, amid pelting ice and rain. He’d do a better job of it under the amber glow cast by the fire’s leaping flames.
He studied the old man lying so still upon the table and frowned. Had he suffered more than a broken leg? It didn’t appear so, but Ian couldn’t be certain, for he wasn’t properly trained. His medical knowledge had been gleaned over the course of many battles against the French during Napoleon’s war. The Peninsular battles had been particularly bloody. Lots of broken bones suffered by his soldiers.
Fortunately, Ian knew how to set and securely bind a break. Apparently, he was the only man in this establishment who did, for no one else stepped forward to volunteer for the task. He removed his oilcloth and wet jacket, rolled up his equally wet shirt sleeves, and took a step back while the innkeeper’s men removed Abner’s cloak and jacket. “Careful. Be gentle with him. Better cut open that left boot,” he instructed. “His foot must be swollen to twice its size. Don’t tug on it. Go easy. He’s an old man.”
Abner let out an anguished groan.
Ian heard a soft gasp come from behind him. He turned, as did the other men in the common room, and saw Dillie standing in the doorway, barefoot and wearing his nightshirt, with a blanket carelessly wrapped about her shoulders. Her dark hair was still damp, left loose and falling to her waist. His heart began to hammer within his chest. She was an intoxicating mix of waif and angel. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and... Bloody hell. “What are you doing down here?”
Her eyes began to tear. “Is he alive?”
Ian nodded, unable to take his gaze off her. She looked beautiful. Bedraggled, but beautiful. “Let me take you back upstairs.”
“No. Please. I must see him.” She began to hobble toward Abner.
Ian let out a soft oath and strode to her side, uttering another soft oath as he lifted her into his arms over her tepid protest. She felt soft and warm. He was soaked to the skin, but her blanket was between them and would keep her dry enough. “Put your arms around my neck.”
She did as ordered, and then leaned her head against him so that her cheek rested against his shoulder and her lips nuzzled his throat. Had he been cold a moment ago? Not anymore. His body was as hot as those flames blazing in the hearth.
“Sit quietly,” he warned Dillie, more annoyed with his body’s immediate and intense response to her nearness. Would it always be like this? He fervently hoped not. He hated this lack of control, wasn’t used to it at all.
“May I hold his hand?” She spoke against his throat, her lips achingly soft against his bristled skin. He hadn’t washed off the dirt from the long day’s ride, and wouldn’t shave until morning.
He settled her on the bench nearest Abner, almost dumping her on it, for his need to hold her was so strong it scared him. “May I?” she repeated, now casting him a devastatingly anguished plea.
“Of course.” Ian recalled the gentleness of her touch and how much he’d enjoyed having her close when he’d been stabbed and struggling to survive all those months ago. Dillie’s touch was something special and had meant everything to him at the time.
“Abner,” she said in a whisper, gently stroking his arm.
He didn’t respond.
She glanced uncertainly at Ian. “What have I done to him?”
“You?” Ian knelt beside her and lightly brushed a damp curl off her brow. “This isn’t your fault, Dillie. You were caught in a vicious storm. No one’s to blame.”
“I am to blame,” she quietly insisted. “It’s all my fault. I was so stubborn. So foolish. Will he die because of me?”
“No.” A lump rose in Ian’s throat. Those were the exact words he’d said after he and his brother had been pulled out of the icy pond and taken back to the manor. James had been revived and was breathing when put to bed. Later that evening, his mother had come into Ian’s room and stared at him with unmasked hatred, as though she wished he’d been the one trapped beneath the ice and not her precious firstborn. Will he die because of me? The answer had been yes. James had died later that night. “No, damn it!”
If Dillie was surprised by the vehemence of his response, she didn’t show it. Instead, she reached for Abner’s hand and squeezed it. “You have a broken leg,” she said in that soft, melodic voice of hers. “And a fat lump on your forehead.” She leaned forward. “It matches mine. See?”
Abner lay quiet.
She glanced once more at Ian, her expression swinging like a pendulum from anguish to despondency. “He can’t die.” Tears began to slide down her cheeks. “I couldn’t live with myself if he did.”
Ian wasn’t going to let it happen. Abner was going to live. He would make certain of it. Dillie was happy, gentle. He refused to allow any darkness into her life, refused to allow her to experien
ce the pain he’d endured when his brother had died, the haunting pain he still endured every damn day of his life, the tormented dreams that came to him every damn night. Sunrise did not bring relief, but the anguished reminder that he had lived another day while his brother had died.
It wouldn’t happen to Dillie.
Mr. Gwynne returned with a makeshift splint. The maid brought in fresh cloths and boiling water. Ian attended to Abner with renewed determination. He made quick work of binding his leg, and then ordered the innkeeper’s servants to carry Abner upstairs. “Get him out of those wet clothes. Cut his trousers off him. I don’t want you disturbing the injured leg. Place a warm brick between his sheets. Keep his fire well stoked.”
“I’ll stay by his side,” Dillie said, her voice little more than a rasp.
Ian frowned. “No. You need to get into bed yourself. Have you had your broth? Your lips are still blue.”
“I’m in the pink.” She shivered just then, but did her best to hide it.
“And your ankle is a vivid shade of purple,” he replied, since they were sparring with colorful descriptions. “Come on, I’ll carry you upstairs. You can look in on Abner in the morning. There’s nothing you can do for him this evening.”
“Is he that bad?”
Ian wanted to lie to her and tell her Abner would pull through, but that would only make her devastation worse if he didn’t. In truth, Ian didn’t know what the outcome would be.
“Let me stay with him if he’s going to die.” She let out a ragged breath, and then buried her face in her hands and began to cry in earnest.
Hell.
He turned to Abner, studying his limp form. Open your eyes, damn it! Don’t do this to Dillie.
He glanced up at the ceiling, wanting to rage. He had prayed so hard for his brother to survive all those years ago. His prayers hadn’t been answered, so he’d stopped praying from that time on, and stopped believing in goodness and hope. But Dillie still believed. Answer her prayers! You can’t destroy her. Do what you want with me. Don’t hurt her.
The servants carefully lifted Abner, preparing to carry him upstairs.
Ian took Dillie into his arms and kissed her on the forehead when she buried her head against his throat, still crying. Which explained why she didn’t immediately hear Abner call out to her. It sounded more like a mumbled groan, at first. “Miss... Miss Di... Dillie.”
Ian gave her shoulder a light squeeze. “Dillie, listen.” But she was too distracted, leaning her head against his chest and sniffling. “Hush, sweetheart. Do you hear him? He’s calling to you.” He ordered the men to put Abner back down on the tabletop. “Give us a moment,” he said, knowing Dillie needed to see that the old man had regained his senses.
He settled her on the bench beside Abner once again, her expression so hopeful it made Ian ache. “Abner? Can you hear me?”
“Where am I?” He tried to rise, but Ian held him down.
“Careful, you have a broken leg.”
Abner let out a snort. “So that’s what hurts like the devil.”
“You’re a fortunate man. Your leg appears to be the worst of your injuries. You have a few bruises and scratches, and a thick lump on your head. How does your neck feel? Don’t move it just yet. Let me see you wiggle your fingers first.”
He managed it quite easily. “How did I do, Miss Dillie?”
“Excellent. Perfect, as always, Abner.” She cast him a smile so bright it lit up the entire room. “I have a little bump on my forehead, too.” Of course, she’d neglected to tell him about her badly sprained ankle, but it didn’t seem important to mention it now.
“Wiggle your toes,” Ian said. “Just the right foot. Your left one is in bad shape. We’ve bound it, but the break is a bad one. You’ll be in pain for quite some time.”
“I’ll endure it,” he assured. “So long as Miss Dillie is all right.”
“She is.” Now that Abner was conscious, Ian took the opportunity to conduct a more thorough examination, or as thorough a one as somebody with his limited medical experience could manage. He had to be careful. Abner was an old man, and there was no telling what damage might yet be hidden.
When he glanced at Dillie, he saw that her eyes held hope but her lips were tightly pursed and chin quivering. “I’m so sorry, Abner,” she said with a noticeable ache to her voice. “It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t forced you to—”
“What? I’ll hear none of that, young miss.” Abner furrowed his bruised brow. “I ought to have known better. I would never ’ave forgiven myself if ye’d come to harm. Can ye ever forgive me?”
Ian allowed the old man and Dillie to trade recriminations a while longer. In truth, it was music to his ears, knowing they both felt horrid about what had happened to each other and were obviously relieved that they’d both survived. They were fortunate to be alive, only a little worse for wear. They’d taken a horrific spill.
He watched Abner, looked carefully at his eyes. Ian had been in the thick of Napoleon’s war and had learned more than he’d wished through experience. He’d seen all sorts of injuries, had come to know which ones would lead to death. He’d learned to tell by the look in a man’s eyes whether or not that man would survive.
Abner would survive.
Thank the Graces!
Dillie was now smiling through her tears. Smiling. Ian glanced upward, knowing Dillie’s prayers had been answered. Not his. Never his. Nonetheless, Ian was grateful. Thank you.
“I’ll engage one of the servants to tend to you through the night,” Ian said, interrupting their joyful reunion and motioning for the servants to resume carrying Abner upstairs. “I’ll have broth sent up to you.” He had no spare clothes to give Abner, but hot soup and a warm fire would keep him safe enough. The old man could sleep naked.
He tried not to think of Dillie naked.
Of course, that’s all he could think about now that the immediate danger had passed. Abner would survive. So would Dillie.
His own survival was in serious doubt. Dillie was out of her blanket and back in his arms, nestled against his wet shirt and wearing nothing underneath her nightshirt. He could feel the light heave of her breasts against his chest. He could feel everything.
The servants carried Abner to the second room that had been prepared for Ian, while Ian carried Dillie into the room he had turned over to her. She looked up at him with her big, blue smiling eyes. “Will you stay with me a little while?”
“As long as you wish.” He was soaked to the skin and hadn’t eaten a bite. He was cold, dirty, and fatigued. At the same time, he was fires-of-hell hot, lusting so badly for Dillie that every inch of him was in hard, throbbing agony.
“I suppose you ought to change out of your wet clothes. Where’s your room? Close to mine?”
“I don’t know. I’ll worry about it later. Time to get you to bed.”
He kicked the door shut with his booted foot.
They were suddenly alone in her chamber. He’d leave soon, but he just wanted a moment alone with Dillie. He didn’t quite know what he was going to say or do now that he had her all to himself. He knew what he wanted to do. Of course, he didn’t expect that to happen. He’d never take Dillie against her wishes.
Dillie’s arms were still wrapped around his neck. “Ian, you were splendid with Abner. Brilliant, wonderful, brave. With me, too.” She touched his cheek, her fingers light against the bristled skin. “I can’t believe you’re here, but I’m so glad you are. Was it an act of divine providence that brought you to me when I needed you most?”
Her lips were at his ear, her breath warm and sweet. He caught the scent of peaches on her skin. Not mud or ice or smoky common room, just sweetest peaches.
He loved her scent.
“I happened to be on my way to Swineshead when the storm broke. This inn is known to be the best around, so I made for it.” He shook his head and let out a mirthless chuckle. “I left London for your sake, to give you time away from me to think about my offer.�
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“And I was on my way to Coniston, to be away from you and my meddlesome family while I gave thought to my future.” He felt her lips curve into a smile against his neck. “But I’m glad you’re here. I know you were sent to me from heaven, so don’t even think to deny it. No one else could have done what you did for Abner tonight.”
“You were the brave one, sweetheart,” he said with a mix of gentleness and pride, “limping through the storm, determined to do whatever you had to do to save Abner.”
“And I found you,” she said in a whisper, her voice achingly ragged. “Latch the door. I don’t want us to be disturbed.”
Ian’s heart began to pound through his ears. He wanted to spend the night with her, hold her in his arms. He wanted to do much more, explore her body and understand the workings of her beautiful, generous heart. What did she intend?
Her smile slipped a little. “Stay with me, Ian.”
“Dillie—”
“I couldn’t bear it if you left me now.”
“Very well, a little while longer.” He settled her in the chair beside the fireplace, and then strode to the door and latched it, closing them in. This was madness. The two of them alone and cozy in this chamber while the storm whistled and howled outside. Scary how good it felt to be alone with her. What in blazes was he doing? Did Dillie understand what she was doing? She’d struck her head in the spill. Was she thinking clearly?
He certainly wasn’t.
He returned to her side, still soaked to the skin and not caring a whit. And though she was no longer in his arms—a problem he would soon remedy—the sensation of her perfect breasts rising and falling against his chest was etched into his memory. He could still feel those soft mounds, her taut, puckered nipples. Hot, buttered crumpets, as Dillie would say. He could still feel everything.
He started to turn away, but she protested. “I like the warmth of your body against mine.”
He shouldn’t have shut the door. Or latched it. Dillie hadn’t accepted his offer of marriage yet. If they spent another minute alone, there would be no turning back for Dillie. Lord help me! He couldn’t possibly spend the night with her. Come morning, she’d have no choice but to marry him or forever remain a ruined spinster.