‘As long as it takes, mademoiselle,’ he assured her gravely.
Lisette gave him a grateful smile before she turned her attention to the now ashen-faced groom.
* * *
Christian awakened with a groan of pain, feeling as if he had been kicked by a horse and then his leg trampled upon by that same horse.
Every part of him seemed to hurt, but it pained him the most in his left thigh. He had no idea—
‘Do not attempt to move, Your Grace,’ a voice advised urgently in English.
Christian had no strength to struggle against the hand now pressing against his shoulder, and so instead he opened heavy lids to look up at a dishevelled François, the weak sunlight shining in through the window of his bedchamber showing him that the man’s coat was unfastened over a bloody shirt, his wig slightly askew on his bald head, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. A testament to lack of sleep?
‘I believe we must keep to Monsieur le Comte,’ Christian murmured weakly in French.
‘Of course.’ François nodded as he answered in the same language. ‘Do you remember being shot, monsieur?’ The butler looked down at him quizzically.
Christian frowned in concentration, trying to recall— Dear Lord, yes, he remembered now. His groom’s warning, followed by the sound of a shot being fired, the carriage coming to a halt and the door being thrown open, another two shots being fired, the arrival of the red-haired angel—
No, that last part was not right. It had not been an angel, but Lisette who had entered the carriage, before helping him outside so that they might both check on his groom, lying unconscious on the cobbled road.
‘Pierre?’ he prompted sharply.
François’s eyes avoided meeting his. ‘He is...not doing so well as you, monsieur, but Mademoiselle Lisette is doing all that she can for him.’
‘Lisette...?’
‘She is with Pierre now, Your Grace.’ François grimaced. ‘Once she had attended to you, she turned her attention to Pierre and has remained with him all night. In fact, she has refused to leave his bedside.’
Christian could hear the admiration for Lisette in the older man’s voice. Admiration fully deserved, if he was to understand the situation correctly; Lisette had not only doctored him last night but also Pierre. A task that would have sent most women of Christian’s acquaintance running in the other direction. With the exception of his sister and the wives of his closest friends, of course. But every other woman Christian knew in society would have shrunk away from being asked to perform such a gory task.
A task he realised he was responsible for asking of her, as he recalled that he had refused to allow a doctor to be called for to attend either him or Pierre.
He had his reasons for that, of course. But Lisette was not privy to those reasons and had simply acted as he requested without explanation.
There was also the matter of her revelation that she was Helene Rousseau’s daughter and not her niece to consider. Lisette’s earlier claim, of having lived on a farm with relatives until just weeks ago, would explain why no one had known of the existence of Helene Rousseau’s daughter before now.
A daughter Aubrey Maystone would have much interest in learning about.
‘Take me to her.’ Christian attempted to sit up.
‘You will remain exactly where you are, Christian, and not undo all my good work of last night, unless you wish to feel the sharp lash of my tongue,’ an imperious voice informed him firmly as Lisette stepped into the bedchamber.
Her own appearance was as dishevelled, if not more so than François’s: her hair had escaped its pins and was falling down about her shoulders in untidy wisps; there were smears of blood on her cheek and throat, her black gown showing several darker stains which were almost certainly more blood. Her face was also deathly white, no doubt from spending a sleepless night attending to first Christian and then his groom, and her bottom lip was still slightly swollen from where Helene Rousseau had struck her.
And this was the young woman Christian intended to take back to England with him with the intention of handing her over to Aubrey Maystone.
Shame washed over Christian at the betrayal of such an act in the face of Lisette’s selflessness last night. Not only had she brought them all home by driving the carriage then tended to both men’s wounds all night, but by doing so she must also have known that she would be further incurring her mother’s wrath, not only for having done those things but also by remaining out all night.
‘Pierre?’ he questioned softly.
She nodded. ‘He has a slight fever, but I do not believe he will become any worse.’ She placed a bowl of water and fresh bandages down on the bedside table.
‘God be thanked,’ Christian muttered gratefully; he already had enough on his conscience without the death of this innocent French groom.
All of the household staff were aware of his true identity, of course, were all loyal to the French Crown and aware of the danger they placed themselves in by working with him. But that did not mean that Christian wished to be responsible for the death of one of them.
‘You, on the other hand, will remain in bed for the remainder of the day.’ Lisette spoke firmly again. ‘And tomorrow too, unless you wish for me to send for the doctor you refused to have attend you last night?’
Christian did not remember the last time a woman had spoken to him in so imperious a tone as this; his grandmère, before her death, and his sister Julianna tried to do the same, but Christian had grown adept at avoiding confrontation by meeting those dictates with a charming disregard for their content.
The determined expression on Lisette’s face told him that the events of the night had stripped away all social politeness, and that she had no intention of being ignored nor charmed.
Besides, how could he possibly argue with the woman who was probably responsible for not only saving his own life but also that of the young French groom?
The young and handsome French groom, Christian recalled with a displeased frown, with whom Lisette had sat up most of the night.
Which was utterly ridiculous of him in the circumstances.
His own clandestine presence in Paris was responsible for Pierre’s injuries as well as his own, and also for Lisette’s present exhaustion from doctoring them both. How could he possibly now feel jealous of the attention Lisette had necessarily shown the groom?
There was no logic or reason to it; it was just there, inside him. And, unlike the wound in his thigh, it felt as if it might be festering.
He smiled up at her. ‘I have no intention of “going against doctor’s orders” and getting out of bed, now that I can see for myself that you have come to no harm. I do, however, believe that you have done enough for both Pierre and myself for now and need to take your own rest.’
Lisette was well aware of how bedraggled she must look, after a night spent tending to Christian and his groom, and she certainly did not need him to remind her of it. ‘It is my intention to break my fast before then returning to the Fleur de Lis to collect my things.’
‘You are still intent on leaving there?’
‘I cannot stay.’ She shook her head. ‘But first I will check your wound.’ She indicated the bowl of water and fresh bandages.
‘Is that necessary?’
‘My— When I lived on the farm with the Duprées, we found that if a wound was kept clean, with fresh bandages applied often, there was less chance of it becoming inflamed.’
‘I am sure François will be only too happy to do that for me.’
‘It is a little late for modesty now, monsieur.’ Lisette eyed him impatiently as her attempts to pull back the bedclothes were met with resistance. ‘I assure you, François and I have already seen all,’ she now added drily.
In truth, she was no more comfortable with in
specting Christian’s wound than he was in allowing her to do it now that he was fully conscious and aware of the intimacy. But she really had no choice in the matter. The wound must be looked at, and re-dressed if necessary.
The Comte’s jaw tightened even as he slowly released the bedclothes. ‘I believe you are enjoying my discomfort far too much, Lisette!’
Was she? Perhaps. It had been a long and eventful twenty-four hours, and she really had no patience, or strength, left to fight such a silly battle as this one.
Of the two, she was perhaps the most embarrassed as she and François carefully removed the bandage she had applied last night, Lisette’s cheeks feeling hot with that embarrassment as she inadvertently touched the warmth of Christian’s other inner thigh.
‘I am sorry,’ she muttered awkwardly as her hand instinctively pulled away, taking the bandage with it, which unfortunately was stuck to the wound at the front of his thigh. She winced as she saw a well of fresh blood instantly appear at the wound’s surface.
It looked clean enough though, and there was no redness about it, so hopefully there would be no inflammation if she kept applying clean bandages; her foster mother had sworn by this method of avoiding inflammation to a cut or wound.
Tears filled her eyes as she now thought of the couple who had brought her up as if she were their own, and these horrible weeks since Helene Rousseau had brought her back to Paris with her.
No doubt this weakness of emotion was brought about by her tiredness and exhaustion, but that did not stop the emotion from being real. She missed the Duprées, and the quiet and simple life she had led with them, more than she could say.
‘Lisette...?’
She brought herself back to her surroundings with a start—indeed, she was not sure how she could possibly have allowed her thoughts to stray in the first place, when she had a half-naked Christian Beaumont lying on the bed in front of her!
‘I am very tired, monsieur.’ She straightened. ‘Perhaps, for your own safety, François should finish applying the rest of this clean bandage?’ She looked questioningly at the butler, although he looked almost as tired as she did.
Christian frowned as he easily saw the signs of Lisette’s exhaustion, in the paleness of her face and the slightly glazed look in her eyes. Her hands were also shaking slightly.
He turned to his butler. ‘François, arrange for breakfast to be brought up to Mademoiselle Lisette in the blue bedchamber, followed by a hot bath, after which she is not to be disturbed for the rest of the day.’ He had no doubt Lisette had already incited the wrath of her mother again by not returning to the tavern last night, so he couldn’t see what further harm it could do if she did not return there for another day.
Her auburn brows rose. ‘I see you are back to being your usual dictatorial self, monsieur.’
‘Did I ever stop?’ He eyed her ruefully.
She seemed to give the matter some thought before answering. ‘No, I cannot say that you did.’
‘And I see that you have developed a sharp tongue overnight,’ Christian drawled.
‘I am too tired to be any other way,’ she admitted wryly.
‘François will now take you to the blue bedchamber, arrange for breakfast and a bath to be brought up to you,’ he decided briskly. ‘And then both of you are to go away and get some sleep. The household can run without you for one day, François, a maid or footman can see to Pierre, and I am quite capable of wrapping a fresh bandage about my own leg—’
‘Oh, but—’
‘You will go with François now, Lisette,’ Christian added firmly. ‘Eat, bathe, rest.’
‘If you undo all my good work—’
‘Then I can expect to feel a further lashing of your tongue.’ When he would much rather feel the soft caressing stroke of her hot, moist little tongue against any part of his anatomy.
Obviously, being shot in the thigh had not lessened his desire for this young woman in the slightest, Christian acknowledged self-derisively.
She nodded. ‘That is exactly what you will feel, yes.’
Christian gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Go, Lisette, and do not come back until you are completely rested and refreshed.’
Lisette really was too tired to argue any further as she followed François from Christian’s bedchamber a short distance along the hallway to the ‘blue bedchamber’, a room so luxurious, with its white ornate furniture and blue carpets and blue satin drapes, both at the windows and about the huge four-poster bed, that she felt positively overwhelmed.
She turned to François. ‘I do not need the use of such a lovely bedchamber as this—’
‘The Comte believes you do. And so do I,’ the butler added softly.
Lisette’s cheeks warmed at the compliment. ‘I do believe I might sleep for a week in such a comfortable-looking bed!’ It certainly looked nicer than the slender cot she had been sleeping on at the tavern these past weeks.
François smiled. ‘But first you must eat and bathe.’
Lisette looked at the dishevelled butler and then down at her own less than pristine appearance. ‘We are a sorry-looking pair, are we not, François!’
He gave a boyish grin. ‘We are merely battle-worn, Mademoiselle Lisette.’
Yes, ‘battle-worn’ correctly described how Lisette felt as she sank weakly down onto the stool in front of the dressing table once François had left to give instructions in regard to her breakfast.
She really had never seen such finery as the satins and velvets in this bedchamber, let alone thought she would ever sleep in such luxury.
But she had no doubt that, by leaving the tavern in the hurried way that she had last night, repugnant as returning to the Fleur de Lis was to her, if she did not go back to collect the few belongings she had, she now literally owned no more than the clothes she stood in—sat down in.
Chapter Six
‘I— But just yesterday, you said you had no plans to leave Paris as yet...’
Christian, having just told Lisette when she came to his bedchamber that evening that he had arranged passage for them both to go to England later tonight, could well understand her surprise.
He had kept his promise not to stir from his bed, but otherwise he had not been idle during the hours Lisette slept. Besides receiving continual updates on Pierre’s condition—which seemed to be improving, thank God—and arranging passage to England for himself and Lisette, Christian had also sent out for several gowns and other female apparel for her.
She had protested, of course, but Christian had then pointed out that she could not continue to wear the soiled black gown. He was, after all, the reason she did not have anything but that soiled—and unattractive—black gown to wear.
The ordering of three new gowns had also allowed Christian to choose colours for her other than black. The deep purple gown she now wore and the pale and dark grey of the other two gowns were also mourning colours, but so much less sombre than that funereal black.
A mourning which he now knew to be for her uncle, the French spy André Rousseau.
Much as he might wish it, Christian knew he could not ignore or forget that fact.
His mouth firmed. ‘You must know as well as I that the events of last night have necessitated changing my plans somewhat. As well as your own,’ he continued softly. ‘You already told me you intended leaving the tavern today anyway and it would perhaps be as well if you did not go back there at all. Unless there are things of your own there you cannot bear to be parted from?’
She grimaced. ‘I have very few personal possessions...’
‘Then leave them for now. There is no reason why you cannot claim them at a later date,’ Christian added as she still hesitated.
She frowned. ‘Even so, that does not mean I have any intention of travelling to England with you.’
&n
bsp; Christian would much rather that Lisette came with him willingly; after all that she had done for him, he did not relish the idea of forcing her into accompanying him.
He wished he did not have to take her to England with him at all, knowing what fate awaited her there. But after last night he could not see a future for her here in Paris either. And if Lisette was as innocent as he believed her to be, then surely, once Aubrey Maystone had questioned her and realised her innocence for himself, Christian might be able to find a place for her in an English household, as a companion or governess, perhaps?
Perhaps his sister Julianna, expecting her first child in a few months’ time, might even be persuaded into engaging Lisette as a nanny for the child?
‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ Christian asked her, to which she gave a firm shake of her head. ‘Then I shall have someone teach you the rudiments of the language once we are in England.’
‘Why?’
‘You cannot live in another country and not speak the language.’ He eyed her frustratedly.
Whilst Lisette looked totally refreshed after her rest, and the purple gown was most becoming to her creamy complexion and tidily upswept red hair, Christian was feeling decidedly tired and not a little bad-tempered after his busy day making the necessary arrangements for their departure from Paris. It was now early in the evening and his thigh throbbed like the very devil from his daytime exertions.
Lisette’s eyes widened. ‘Even if I were to agree to accompany you now, I would not remain in England longer than it takes to see you are safely returned.’
‘I doubt your mother will welcome you back when, to all intents and purposes, you spent the night here with me, before then travelling to England with me,’ Christian pointed out gently.
‘She is not my mother! Biologically, perhaps,’ Lisette conceded reluctantly as Christian raised surprised brows. ‘But I do not know her, had never even met her or knew of her existence until two months ago.’
‘That is...hard to believe,’ he murmured cautiously.
Christian Seaton: Duke of Danger Page 7