by Gayle Wilson
“Of course, he went beyond those bounds!” she declared, hearing the doubt in his voice. “I would never have allowed the liberties he took. He…” Her voice faltered, because she thought she couldn’t bear the humiliation of having to tell him.
“Then put him out of your mind. He’ll never bother you again. And I didn’t kill him.” I should have, Raven thought, trying not to imagine what Amberton had done to make her look like that. I should have broken his bloody neck.
Controlling his renewed fury, he gently removed her fingers from the material of his sleeve and, once free, proceeded up the grand staircase before he said all the things he wanted to say to her, things he knew he had no right to say.
Catherine stood a moment, feeling distinctly deserted and wondering what she should do. Then, remembering with sudden fear the vivid stain on the Chinese-style chair in her dining room below, she followed the path the tall, dark figure had taken to his small bedroom on the second floor.
Raven never kept his valet waiting up to undress him. So despite the fact that his left arm hung rather awkwardly at his side, he was struggling to remove the dinner jacket. His back to the door, he didn’t know that Catherine stood watching him.
“Let me get my scissors and cut the coat off,” she said.
Raven paused in his efforts, and then, deciding that her suggestion made a great deal of sense, he nodded. He leaned against the high footboard of the bed, willing the ringing in his ears to cease. He hated his weakness. He hated being vulnerable. He hadn’t wanted her to see him like this. He would never want anyone to see him like this, but especially not Catherine. She would surely despise his weakness, his inability to control the sensations the loss of blood was causing.
She ran to her room and rummaged among her embroidery silks for the small scissors. By the time she’d found them, her hands had begun to shake almost as much as they had after Gerald’s assault.
When she reentered his room, her husband was standing exactly as she had left him. His slumped shoulders straightened slightly, however, as soon as she began to cut up the back of his jacket. When she had finally succeeded, having realized very quickly that the tiny scissors were not the ideal tool for the task she’d undertaken, she slipped the relatively unstained half of the coat off his right arm, allowing it to fall to the floor. She began to ease the blood-soaked left half off, but his right hand lifted and, gripping the ruined material, pulled it over his shoulder and down his arm. She was not pleased to notice that he didn’t bend the left elbow, but held the entire arm as still as possible, given the nature of the operation.
The white, watered-silk waistcoat was far more revealing of the amount of blood he’d lost than the dark material of the coat had been. Resolutely forcing herself to grasp the bottom edge of the sodden garment, she quickly cut up the back seam and freed him of that, too, revealing the lawn shirt. It was covered with the same dark color that had marred the chair in which he’d sat tonight, casually exchanging pleasantries about horses and politics with people he barely knew, while his blood seeped through shirt and waistcoat and even through the heavy material of his jacket.
“I can manage the rest,” he said. He had been so silent throughout the ordeal that she jumped at the authority in his voice.
“What happened?” she asked, ignoring his suggestion that she leave him and beginning the struggle to cut the material of the shirt with the now-dull sewing scissors.
“I must have had my mind on something else,” he said, and she heard again the self-derision in his voice.
“Did he shoot you?” she asked, finding it difficult to conceive that even Gerald would shoot someone in the back.
“He had a sword. I didn’t notice it.”
“How could you not notice a sword?” she exclaimed, beginning to peel the soaked shirt off his back.
“I told you. My mind was on something else.”
“And he stabbed you in the back?” she whispered. Having removed the shirt, she could see the wound, finally revealed, a dark slit in the muscled brown shoulder, nastily oozing blood.
“No, to give him credit, he was quite straightforward about it. He went in under the collarbone.”
The import of what he’d said reached her brain. Catherine moved around him to find a wad of blood-soaked cloth covering what she guessed was a matching slit in the front of his body.
“He ran you through,” she said, her stomach heaving once at the thought of the cold steel of Amberton’s sword piercing the warm skin and cutting through the firm muscle of his chest.
“I believe that’s the term. I confess I’m not very familiar with fencing. However, I suppose I must now admit to more than a nodding acquaintance with the art.” Seeing the blanched features of his wife, Raven said, “It’s all right, Catherine. I’m all right. A trifle embarrassed that I let the bastard stick me.”
“But you weren’t armed,” she said, thinking how dastardly the honorable Lord Amberton had proved himself today.
“Not until I took his toy away from him,” he agreed with a trace of amused satisfaction.
She glanced up and found that small smile again playing about his lips. But his face was too pale under the bronze skin, almost gray under the tan, and belatedly she realized she had forced him to stand while she cut away the ruined clothing.
“Sit down,” she ordered, taking his right elbow, intending to help him to the small straight chair that stood near the bed.
He lifted his arm from her hand, smiling still.
“Feeling maternal, Catherine?” he asked softly, and she remembered his comment about the likelihood of that eventuality.
“Not aboutyou,” she answered with more spirit than she felt, thinking only of how secure in his masculinity he was and how reassuring she found his strength.
“Good,” Raven said, searching her eyes for any disgust that he’d let Amberton catch him off guard. Only when he had assured himself that there was nothing in the russet depths except a natural concern for his injury did he turn to the chair she’d indicated.
She followed, wondering what she intended to do about the wound. She had no experience with illness. Someone else always saw to those things. She supposed she should send for a surgeon.
“I’ll have Edwards send for Dr. Stevenson. He’s—”
“No,” Raven interrupted. “Surely you realize what would happen if word of this got out.”
“But I don’t know what to do. I could ask Edwards—”
Again he cut her off. “Just bind it up. There’s nothing else anyone can do. I couldn’t reach the back, and it seemed to have clotted. I can only suppose the wound reopened when I moved my shoulder. I’m sorry I ruined your chair. I’ll try to find a matching silk, or you can have the entire set redone.”
“You can’t really believe I care about the chair,” she said hotly. “It’s your house. You may bleed wherever you wish.”
“Thank you, Catherine,” he said, smiling. “I’m reassured by your consideration, but I don’t believe I shall avail myself of the offer. At least, not if you’ll bind this up. It’s not so very bad. I haven’t passed out on you yet.”
“Don’t you dare. Even Edwards couldn’t get you up. You’re too large,” she said unthinkingly, tentatively touching the stiffened wad of padding that covered the entry wound.
“I’m sorry,” he said. It was not the first time she’d referred to his size, so different, he knew, from the slim elegance of the London gentlemen she flirted with.
“What?” she asked, not even realizing he was answering her unthinking comment about his size.
“I should imagine,” he suggested, “that you might begin with the other. Itis still bleeding?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered, feeling very foolish. The slit he had covered with a pad before he’d come down tonight had apparently closed. She put her hand against the hard warmth of his shoulder, forcing him to lean forward enough that she could see the one in his back, still welling blood.
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��You’ll need something to make a compress and strips of cloth to bind it around my chest,” he advised.
She wondered if he could feel her fingers trembling against his skin as she studied the wound. “A sheet?” she asked.
“If you can find the linen press. I couldn’t. I’m afraid I was forced to make do with something less appropriate.”
She found it hard to believe that he could still mock himself, but the amusement was clear in his voice. “Of course I can find the linen press. Thisis my household,” she said.
Curious despite the situation, she turned at the doorway to ask, “What did you use?”
“One of the cravats my valet had laid out. He was very puzzled as to why there was one less than he’d prepared.” Raven was still leaning forward in the chair, apparently unwilling to take up her offer to bleed at will on her furnishings.
“He’ll probably leave you. Disappearingcravats and not being allowed to help you undress. You are really a most unsatisfactory gentleman.”
“I suppose Edwards will follow after the disaster tonight,” he said. “You’ll have your hands full keeping staff, but I promise I’ll try, from now on, not to scandalize your servants.”
“Concentrate on staying upright instead,” she said. “I don’t want to have to explain a husband who’s bled to death.”
“Then I suggest you hurry,” Raven reminded her quietly, but again he was smiling.
He had endured her inept nursing with a calm patience. Catherine had first cleaned the blood off his back as well as she could with the cool water in his bedroom pitcher. She had decided to leave the wadding he’d pressed into the entry wound because she didn’t want to start it bleeding again. He had lost quite enough blood as it was. She’d placed a thick square of cloth over the slit in his back and had bound it in place with long strips she’d torn from the remainder of the sheet. The white material she had wrapped under his arm and across his wide chest, covering both wounds, was stark against the dark skin. She had had to fight the urge to run her fingers caressingly over the reassuringly warm expanse of his chest as she’d worked.
Catherine had never before thought about touching a man’s body. And she was surprised, given the events of the day and Gerald’s behavior, that she should be attracted to the very masculine strength of Raven’s. He could far more easily bend her to his will than Amberton, but she wasn’t frightened by the latent power of Raven’s body, strongly apparent despite the injury he’d suffered. Instead she was fascinated by the way the muscle shifted under the golden skin when, in response to her direction, he moved to allow her greater access to the wound.
“I think that’s all,” she said, stepping back to view her handiwork. The bandaging didn’t look all that secure, and she hoped it wouldn’t shift in the night. With that thought she realized that she should probably help him into his nightshirt.
“Do you want me to help you finish undressing?” she asked, not really thinking of what her offer implied. Since he was wearing only his trousers, that didn’t leave much to remove.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Raven said. He hadn’t gotten up from the chair. He seemed to be waiting for her to leave before he disrobed for the night.
“Will you be all right?” she asked, feeling strangely reluctant to desert him. “I could ring for your man.”
“No, Catherine. Go to bed. And thank you,” he said, taking her hand in his. He pressed a warm kiss into her palm, then closed her fingers over the place he’d just touched.
Without her volition, her other hand was suddenly touching the raven gleam of his hair, smoothing back the dark strands. He didn’t move as her fingers stroked his head, then under his ear and along the strong line of his jaw. She took his chin in her palm, her thumb sliding along the thin bottom lip. She thought he might react in some way, but he was perfectly still, unmoving under what was, she admitted, decidedly a caress.
She applied enough pressure under his chin to lift his face so that she was looking down into his eyes. Very slowly, giving him the opportunity, if he wished, to avoid her touch, her mouth lowered to meet his. He allowed the brush of her lips over his, but he didn’t react in any way. He certainly didn’t open his mouth and move his tongue, as Gerald had done today, and she found herself wondering what the hard line of his lips would feel like pressed closely over hers. What his tongue would be like, moving inside her mouth, against hers.
Finally, realizing that she had certainly broken the terms of their agreement, she lifted her head. His eyes had been closed, the long, dark lashes lying against the small network of lines beneath, and for some reason she was pleased. They opened at the desertion of her lips. Again there was something in the crystal depths that she couldn’t read.
“I think you’d better go,” Raven suggested softly.
Embarrassed by her display, Catherine nodded and turned to walk to the door, her knees again trembling, but for a very different reason from before. He didn’t want her here, didn’t want her kisses, she thought with a touch of bitterness. He had made very clear what he wanted from her, and it wasn’t what she had just offered him. Idon’t need a mistress, he’d told her, and having been exposed to the beauty of his very masculine body, for the first time she was forced to think about what that declaration really meant.
The blue eyes of the man she had left in the small bedroom closed again, and he drew in a breath, so deep its force jolted agonizingly through the torn nerves and muscles of his shoulder.
It had been so difficult to let her go. She had kissed him, touched him, her fingers trailing across the darkness of his skin as if she found nothing to dislike in its color. And he had wanted to pull her down to him, to carry her to the narrow bed where he lay every night and dreamed of loving her, to finally make the temptations of those dreams a reality.
You made a promise, Raven, to give her freedom, his grandmother’s voice reminded him through the dizzying light-headedness.And no matter the consequences to yourself, you must keep it.
Silently, in the dim solitude of his lonely bedroom that night, John Raven made another vow, as binding as the first. Only this time it was a promise he made to himself— that Catherine would be his in every way intended by the covenant they had made over the smith’s anvil. Their souls would become one, the joining of the spirit as important in his heritage as the joining of the body. But with that thought, a harsh groan slipped past his control. He had ignored the pain, locking it away, during Catherine’s tender and touchingly inept nursing. This whisper of sound was an acknowledgment of a far different agony, one that clawed his guts every time his fingers accidentally touched hers or their eyes met over the dinner table.
Tonight she had kissed him. He couldn’t allow himself to hope that it had meant more than a recognition of the role he’d played in her rescue today from Amberton. But someday… Soon, my darling, Raven vowed again. Someday very soon.
Chapter Seven
For many reasons Catherine passed a nearly sleepless night. The longer she lay in her lonely bed, the more guilt she felt over the events of the previous day. She had allowed Amberton to put her in such a situation that her husband had been forced to defend her honor, suffering a serious wound for his efforts. And she had not even asked whether a challenge had been issued as a result of her foolish behavior.
She had reacted like a headstrong child to Gerald’s taunts, but there had been nothing enjoyable about the outcome of her daring this time. She wanted to explain to her husband the convoluted path that had led to the predicament in which he had found her yesterday. Then if, in response to that explanation, Raven wanted to chastise her, she really couldn’t blame him.
It was after eleven when she finally screwed up her courage enough to face him. She thought that discomfort from his injury might have prevented him from passing a restful night, just as her regret had interfered with her sleep, and so, she reasoned, he, too, might already be up. When she slipped through the partially opened door of his chamber, however, she fo
und only his valet, who was straightening the room. He looked up in surprise at her entrance. She knew that nothing was ever hidden from the servants, and the knowledge that John Raven and his wife did not share a bed would certainly have been bandied about below stairs.
“Mr. Raven is in his office, madam,” the valet offered.
She had enough presence of mind to take a quick inventory of the discarded clothing he’d gathered into a pile on the neatly made bed. There were no bloodstains visible on any of it, although the stack appeared to contain the requisite shirt and waistcoat and jacket along with the trousers. Raven must have gotten rid of the stained garments she’d cut off his body last night and replaced them with others from his wardrobe.
Apparently he intended to give the staff as little cause for comment as possible. Depending on Edwards’s discretion, the ploy might have some chance of succeeding. After all, the butler might properly have required the maids to clean up the stain on the chair, and the fact that he hadn’t seemed to indicate his concern that its origin not become common knowledge.
“Thank you,” she said and closed the bedroom door.
Without allowing her guilty conscience time to find a reason not to confront her husband, she made her way resolutely to the room where Raven spent hours engaged in the unending correspondence necessary to maintain a financial empire the scope of his. Although he traveled extensively, she knew he still carried on a great deal of his business through the mails.
She stood a moment in the doorway, reluctant now that she was here. Raven seemed unaware of her presence, and it was not until he had finished whatever he was writing that he looked up.
“Come in, Catherine,” he invited. “It’s not often this environment is graced with your presence. I don’t believe you’ve visited my office before.”