Tom, a thin and gawky sixteen, jigged beside the door. “There’re horses, miss, tethered to the gatepost. Shall I take them around?”
“Yes, do.” Abby looked down at the man prone at her feet. “Knowing Dere, they’ll be worth a small fortune.”
“I’ll take care of ’em…” Tom went to slip out the door.
Abby lifted her head. “Just take them around to the stable and then come straight back here, Tom. We’ll need your help to get these two upstairs. We’ve no time to lose in warming them up.”
“Aye, you’re right there.” Agnes straightened from examining Bolt’s head. “This one’s got a nasty gash on his head on top of being frozen stiff.”
“I’ll put the kettle on.” Esme set off for the kitchen. “Bring their clothes down and I’ll put them in front of the fire.”
Agnes turned to Abby. “So where’ll we put them? Can’t hardly strip his lordship in the hall.”
Abby whirled. “Brandy—that should help.”
She was tempted to take a sip herself. Dere, here, and chilled to death. She couldn’t take it in. Grabbing the decanter from the sideboard in the parlor, she hurried back to the hall. Agnes had disappeared. Easing out the decanter’s stopper, Abby tried to make her lungs work so she could draw in a proper breath. Her gaze roamed the large body spread-eagled in her hall, making it seem cluttered and close. Little rivulets were trailing off him, soaking into the rug and pooling on the polished boards.
“Here.” Agnes reappeared with two medicine glasses. “Easier to get it down if you use one of these.”
Abby sloshed a healthy dose into each glass, then set the decanter by the wall. While Agnes ministered to Bolt, Abby knelt again by Adrian’s head. Setting the glass down, she slid her hands beneath his shoulders. Hefting and wriggling, she managed to get his head into her lap. Leaning over him, she carefully coaxed a little brandy between his frozen lips. It seemed to go in; she tipped in a little more, then tugged at the folds of his cravat. The linen was frozen stiff, but where the impregnated ice was thawing, it was limp and damp.
“No luck here.” Agnes straightened. “Right out of it, he is.” She turned to Abby. “So which rooms should we use?”
“I think the box room next to your room for Bolt—we could move the old trestle bed in there. And Lord Dere we’d better put in the room next to mine. We’ll have to check on them through the night.”
“True enough.” Agnes turned to the stairs. “I’ll make up the beds.”
Abby nodded, her attention on Adrian. She administered a little more brandy, then wrestled again with his cravat—and was rewarded when he swallowed.
“Here—have some more.” She pressed the glass to his lips again. This time they parted. When she removed the glass, his tongue came out and gingerly dampened his chapped lips. When she offered the glass again, he drank more definitely, then his lids flickered.
Grabbing the end of his cravat, Abby gently wiped the shards of ice from his eyes and brow.
His eyes opened. He looked up, into her face. “Abby?”
It took a moment to gather her wits. Seven years it had been since she’d last seen those eyes this close—close enough to feel their power. Amber eyes—predator’s eyes; they still held that primeval pull. “Yes, it’s me,” she finally managed. Then, realizing the cause of his befuddlement, she added, “I live here now.”
She offered the brandy again and he accepted another sip. “Can you sit?” Without waiting for an answer, she pushed and heaved, uncaring of the water splotches darkening her woolen skirt. She helped him raise his shoulders until he was sitting, but he was too weak to sit without her support.
Abby frowned. “We need to get you out of your greatcoat.” Much of it was still heavily encrusted with ice.
Hands and arms and shoulders went everywhere, but with his help, clumsy though he was, she finally pulled the long drab coat, heavily adorned with capes, from him. She flung it aside, balancing him with one hand. His morning coat was also impregnated with ice. “This will have to come off, too.” All of his clothes were affected—all would have to come off.
“Give me some more of that brandy first.”
She obliged. He took the glass from her, but she had to prop him up, her shoulder against his back, one arm around his chest as he sipped. She knew what he—his body, his muscled torso—should feel like; his deeply iced flesh sent a chill of fear through her.
Tom came clumping in; Abby waved him to the stairs. “Get a fire going in the room next to mine. Build it high.”
Tom hurried off; Abby turned back to Adrian.
He handed her the empty glass. “All right. Let’s try it.”
Removing his elegant, closely fitted coat was a much harder task than removing his loose greatcoat. Despite the tussle, Abby was grateful that he was awake enough to help—they would never have managed to get it off him otherwise. When she made the perfectly sensible suggestion, when he was stuck half in and half out, that they should cut the coat from him, he curtly retorted, “Schultz would have my head.”
“I don’t give a damn,” she replied. “Whoever Schultz might be.”
Adrian half laughed. “Sacrilege.” He struggled harder.
They got him out of the coat without ripping it, but the effort drained him.
“Here.” Abby pushed and pulled and shuffled him until he was close enough to the wall to lean back against it.
He did, closing his eyes. “Thank you.”
Abby was seriously alarmed. He was so icy cold, so pale. So uncharacteristically weak. “Have some more brandy.” She grabbed the decanter and filled the glass again, then pressed it into his hand. “I’m going to fix your room.”
She raced up the stairs, chased by a vision of his deathly pale face. She warmed the pillows by the fire as she made up the bed, then hurried up the attic stairs to find Agnes. Tom had just finished building a fire on the small grate in the box room. Agnes pushed the bed as close as she dared. “Have to watch we don’t burn them.”
Abby cast a swift glance about the room and nodded. “Let’s bring them up, then.”
The three of them clattered down the stairs. “I think,” Abby said, her gaze locked on Adrian as they descended the last flight, “that if you two carry Bolt, I can manage to guide Lord Dere up.”
Agnes glanced his way, then nodded. “Right you are. Just you be careful he doesn’t fall down the stairs. Nor you, neither.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Abby left them to heft Bolt between them and went to Adrian’s side. He was leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, the empty glass at his side. His linen shirt was damp and clinging, displaying the powerful muscles of his chest. As she crouched beside him, he murmured, “How’s Bolt?”
“He’s still unconscious. They’re taking him upstairs.” Abby squeezed his arm gently. “If I help, do you think you can manage the stairs?”
His lids slowly lifted. He met her gaze, then looked past her to the stairs. “Hmm.” His lips twisted slightly, his brows drew down, but his face was too stiff for him to frown properly. “We can but try.”
Getting him on his feet was the first hurdle—it nearly proved insurmountable. Only when Abby ducked her shoulder under his, wrapped his arm over her shoulders, then reached her other arm around him and held tight did he manage to get upright. The instant he did, they swayed and staggered. Abby was glad there was no one about to see them waltz drunkenly about her hall.
As they stumbled to a stop before the stairs, Adrian looked down, into her face, and smiled. “Never waltzed with you, did I, Abby?”
She looked down. “No, you never did. Now concentrate on the stairs.”
She steered him to them, relieved when he grabbed the banister and took some of his weight as they negotiated the first step. It was clearly an effort. Abby was dismayed. There were ten steps to the landing, then ten more to the first floor.
He paused on the first step. “I’m on my way to Bellevere, y’know.”
“You said you were going home.” Abby tried to tug him on, but without his cooperation she couldn’t shift him.
“Hmm—s’right. Home.”
He deigned to take the next step. Abby shot him a sharp glance as he paused again.
“Had enough, y’know.”
“Enough of what?” She paused, too, accepting that he’d go at his own pace.
“Them.” It was with evident difficulty that he focused on her face. “You know what they call me?”
“I know you’re called ‘Scandalous Lord Dere.’”
The smile that twisted his lips was bitter. “The scandalous part’s all they care ’bout—you know that?”
“I assumed that might be the case.” Abby managed to propel him into another step. Then another. She was starting to hope he’d continue on without pause when he abruptly drew back, nearly falling out of her arms. Only his grip on the banister saved him.
“Harpies! The lot of them.”
He flung out an arm—Abby had to duck, then she grabbed him again, more tightly. His shirt had come free of his breeches; he looked thoroughly wicked and definitely wild.
“I daresay, but you must come upstairs—”
“That’s ’xactly what they all tell me.” With totally spurious sobriety, he nodded, and consented to climb another step. “Come upstairs—to my boudoir, my bedroom, my bed. Come into my arms, come into my—”
“Adrian!” Abby felt her cheeks heat. “You don’t need to tell me about that.”
Tilting his head, he looked down at her, the expression in his eyes puzzled. “But I always tell you everything, Abby.”
There was a lost look in his eyes that, entirely unexpectedly, wrenched Abby’s heart. “That was then,” she said gently, “this is now—and we have to get you upstairs.”
She urged him on; after an instant’s hesitation he went. Through his fine shirt she could feel the deep chill investing his muscles. Despite the fact he was moving, he was terribly stiff, not supple as she knew he should be. They reached the landing and she steered him on to the next flight. They were halfway up it when he abruptly halted, turning to look at her, pulling out of her hold and leaning back—half over the banister!
Abby gasped and grabbed him. He caught her in his free arm and hugged her to him. For an instant they teetered, then steadied.
“You’re not like them, are you, Abby?”
Her heart was in her throat—she couldn’t answer. She prayed the banister was strong enough to hold their weight.
“You’re my friend—you always have been. You don’t want anything from me, not like they do.”
Her forehead against his shoulder, Abby closed her eyes and clung, too shaken to reply.
Then she felt him nuzzle the hair coiled on the top of her head, then trail lower to dip his nose behind her ear. He breathed in, deeply.
“You smell of the moor—all wild and free and open.”
Abby pulled back, out of his arms, hands locked in his shirt, arms braced for balance. “Up the next steps—come on, you can do it.” She pushed and prodded, harried and bullied, filling his ears with exhortations, giving him no chance to make any further observations. Finally gaining the first floor, she blew out a breath, then staggered as he did.
“Adrian!” If he leaned too much on her, she’d collapse, and then they’d both end on the floor. “It’s just a little further.”
Like a pair of drunken seamen, they tacked side to side along the corridor. When they fetched up against the desired bedroom door, Abby paused to catch her breath. She studied his face. His lids were heavy, almost shut. “Don’t fall asleep on me yet, Adrian.”
His lips twisted, but his eyes remained closed. “Never ever fall asleep before a lady’s satisfied. Carnal rule number one.”
Abby humphed. “In this case, I’m not going to be satisfied until you’re out of those damp clothes and tucked up in bed.” She set the door swinging wide.
“Out of my clothes, tucked into your bed—you’re sounding like them, Abby.”
“Well, I’m not—Adrian!”
He pulled out of her arms and went lurching into the room. Abby shut the door, then ran to push him away from the fire. Another push had him reeling toward the bed. She rushed along beside him, trying to guide him—he careened past the end of the bed, but she grabbed him and slowed him, then turned him. With a sigh, he sat down.
Abby regarded him, frowning. “Adrian, when last did you eat?”
He settled on the bed, sitting straight, and frowned back at her as he thought. It was a slow process. Then his brows rose consideringly. “Breakfast?”
He looked at her hopefully. Abby humphed again. “No wonder! You’re half drunk.”
He tilted his head and considered, then sighed. And closed his eyes. “Tired. So tired…”
His voice died away, and he fell back across the bed.
Abby looked at him, but he didn’t stir; with another humph, she bent to pull off his boots. Once she had them and his stockings off, she chafed his feet, worried to find them still as cold as ice. She added more logs to the fire, building it into a blaze, then she returned to the bed.
“Adrian.” She shook his shoulder. “Come on—wake up.”
He lay like one dead.
Abby frowned. Climbing up on the bed, she lifted one lid.
Her charge was unconscious.
“Damn!” Sitting beside him, she glared at him. “How am I supposed to get you undressed?”
The answer was obvious. She considered getting Agnes to help, but she was no doubt busy with Bolt. Summoning Esme, frail spinster that she was, was out of the question. Heaving a sigh, Abby crossed to the door and snibbed the lock. She didn’t want Esme or Tom walking in at the wrong moment.
Returning to the bed, she surveyed her charge, then pushed and tugged until he lay straight in the middle of the wide bed. She’d left the bed-curtains looped back and the room was warming nicely. Earlier she’d spread an old coverlet over the bed, so the fact that his hair was dripping and his clothes were damp didn’t matter. What did matter was that he was still icy to the touch and pale as a ghost.
The thought that he’d expended his last ounce of strength in climbing the stairs for her spurred Abby on. She yanked his cravat free, then fell on his shirt. The material was thoroughly damp, the buttons difficult to shift. Cursing beneath her breath, she tried to rip them free but couldn’t muttering more direfully, she feverishly worked on. When the last button slid free, she pushed the shirt wide—and paused.
An instant later, she swayed—she’d forgotten to breathe.
She sucked in a breath, then started stripping the shirt from him. “You’ve seen it all before, you ninny!”
But she hadn’t. Eight years it had been, and eight years made a difference. Her senses insisted on pointing out each change—the depth of his chest, the heavier muscles, the alterations in proportions. She was an artist after all, and her eyes couldn’t stop seeing. She’d thought him an Adonis eight years ago; now…
She shook her head again and looked away.
She got one arm free, then the other. Without giving herself time to think, she reached for his waistband. As she pushed and prodded, straining to pop the buttons free, she prayed he wouldn’t choose that moment to wake up.
He didn’t. With his breeches open, she wriggled them down a little, then scooted to his side, reached under him, and pushed. And pushed, until he rolled onto his stomach.
With a sigh of relief, she flung his shirt aside. Straddling his legs, she grabbed his damp breeches and wriggled and pulled until she got them down. Freeing his feet, she shook the breeches out and tossed them to join his shirt, then grabbed a towel and set to, briskly rubbing him all over.
To her dismay, although she dried his back thoroughly, his flesh remained pallid and icy cold. There was no warmth in him; not even when she pressed a hand under his stomach could she feel any hint of human heat.
Her heart started to feel as cold as his skin.
“Miss?” Tom knocked at the door. “I’ve brought hot water.”
Abby flung the bed-curtains closed, swiped up Adrian’s wet clothes, and ran to open the door. “Thank you—have you taken any to Agnes yet?”
“Just about to, miss.”
She exchanged the clothes for a ewer. “Take those down to Esme. After you’ve taken water to Agnes, set some bricks by the fire. Once they’re warm, wrap them in flannel and bring them up—Aunt Esme knows where the old flannels are.”
“Miss Esme’s already got bricks warming.”
“Good.” Nudging the door shut, Abby carried the steaming ewer to the basin on the chest of drawers. She splashed water into the basin, then tested it. She added cold water until the temperature was right, then, picking up one of the washcloths she’d left ready, she drew back the curtain and climbed onto the bed, settling the basin beside her. Adrian hadn’t stirred.
She washed his face first, then washed the ice from his hair and rubbed it dry, then quickly worked her way down his back and long legs, covering him with dry towels as she went. She spent some time trying to coax some color into his feet, but got no reward for her efforts.
Setting the basin aside, she spread towels beside him, then rolled him onto his back again. She flicked a towel over his naked loins, then added more warm water to the basin and quickly set to, washing away any residual ice, briskly buffing his skin dry as she went.
By the time she reached his hips, all modesty had flown—she was far too worried to care about propriety. There remained no sign of life in his body; fear tightened its grip on her heart.
Besides, she’d seen him naked before, touched him before—her memories were crystal-clear. But when she held him again and found him so cold, it nearly broke her heart. She’d taken that part of him inside her—it had been so hot, so strong. He was presently so icy and so small—she didn’t like his state at all.
Her worries escalated as she finished with his legs and found his feet still blue-white. His hands were no better; no matter how hard she tried, she could raise no blood under his skin.
With a greater sense of urgency, she rolled him again, this time onto the clean, dry bedsheet. Pulling the old coverlet from beneath him, she tossed it aside and spread the down-filled quilt that had been warming by the fire over him.
Secrets of a Perfect Night Page 2