Chasing the Heiress (3 page)

He waited for the maid to notice the closed door, to realize that they were alone together. But, disappointingly, she seemed unaware of him in anything but that remote way that nurses are aware of their patients.

A tap at the hallway door drew her away. Despite her unappealing shape, her bearing was elegant, her spine straight, her carriage graceful. Perhaps a governess in disgrace.

At the door, one of Nell's sons held out a tray covered with linen. The maid set it on a low table to the right of the door, then turned back to the innkeeper's son, conversing in low tones. He could not hear the words, but she was motioning with slender hands. She wanted something large, with a handle, and something small, in a jar or bottle, kept up high. He watched her, mesmerized. When the blond boy left, she kept the door ajar. Ah, he thought with satisfaction, she
had
noticed being alone with him.

Bringing the tray to the table, the maid lifted the linen to reveal bread, a substantial portion of Stilton, and a small pot of honey. Beside it stood a decanter of dark liquid and a glass.

“Mark will return with bandages and salve. Since his mother and the cook are helping with your lady, he put together the tray himself. If you wish something more substantial, I can prepare it while you bathe.”

No “sir” or “my lord.” But he made no comment. Everyone else at the inn had made the mistake of calling him “Your Grace.” He hadn't corrected them, anticipating the error would spread to his advantage. What had made this maid realize the truth?

“Later. I'll eat later.” His stomach turned at the thought of eating.

She covered the food and unstopped the decanter. She poured, filling the glass almost to the top.

“Drink this.”

An imperative. Interesting. Suddenly, he wished to challenge her, to see her mettle.

“What if I refuse?” He accompanied the question with his most high-born glare. It was a gaze that never failed to succeed in getting him whatever he wanted from tenants or innkeepers and other servants. It only failed with his family—and of course he would never use such a look on a woman of his class. “And we are not equals, miss. I expect an appropriate courtesy from a maid—for myself and my . . . companion.”

“Then,
sir
, if you choose not to drink, it will hurt a great deal more than necessary when I clean your wound. But it is, of course,
sir
, your choice.” The sternness of her tone was belied by the hint of a smile that danced at the corners of her mouth.

It was a retreat, of sorts—but with no hint of surrender. This maid grew more interesting with each minute.

He took the glass from her hand and tasted it. Whiskey, and a good one. His bill would be exorbitant. But, for now, he didn't care. He held the whiskey in his mouth, feeling the warmth on his tongue and the back of this throat. He swallowed and felt the alcohol warm his throat and stomach, hoping it would dull both the sounds of Marietta's labor and his own pain.

* * *

Lucy could hear the muffled sounds of the woman's labor as she examined the man. He'd stood emotionlessly as Nell and Alice had cared for his lady. Now, leaning on the table, his eyes closed, his body still, he seemed undisturbed. Who was he? A relative? A husband or lover?

But if he were, why was he so still? If
she
were his, in labor and shot, she would want him to be torn with fear or trepidation. She would want him to pace, to look anxiously at the door, to wonder if she would live or die. Was he even aware of the danger his lady was in?

A rush of anger flushed her cheeks. James would have refused to leave her side. He would have glared at the midwife until they had let him remain, watching over her, even to the end. But, this man, this man . . . he was no better than Archibald or one of her cousin's reprobate friends. She stopped herself, surprised at the strength of her emotion. It was unlike her to harbor such uncharitable thoughts.

This man was a stranger. He had been shot, his lady shot, his babe endangered. One could never predict how a person would react to such events. Men who seemed brave, even foolhardy, froze in battle; men who had seemed fearful turned hero under fire. All that mattered was that he had been shot, and she was his nurse.

She examined him once more, seeing him with the eyes of compassion. His face was drawn, his eyes still shut. But lines of pain extended from the corners of his mouth. Remorse pulled at the edges of her heart. Had she been recently from the wars, she would have realized the damage to his tailcoat was from a gunshot—just as she had realized immediately that he did not have the bearing of a duke. But after living in her great-aunt's house in almost daily contact with her cousin Archibald, she had allowed her experiences with his circle to color her responses. She'd counted this man as just another shiftless younger son, too improvident to buy a new cloak once the old one was frayed. It was ungenerous of her.

The subtle clench of his jaw reminded her of her purpose.

She knelt at his side, examining the holes in his clothing, front, then back. “Below the ribs, on the very side of your body. In fact, if the bullet had veered just an inch or so farther out, you might not have been hit at all.” She touched his back gently to smooth out the material, revealing another patch of torn material. “And, it's gone all the way through. Lucky.”

“I feel far from lucky.” His voice, though hard, was barely more than a whisper.

“Of course.” She put her hand on his shoulder in commiseration. “But no bullet to dig out is a bit of luck—for both of us.” The dark wool hid how much blood he had lost.

The double-breasted tailcoat fit snugly across his strong shoulders, then narrowed smoothly beneath the buttons into the flat planes of his stomach. A row of four outer buttons held the garment tight against the right side of his body, mirrored, she knew, by four inner buttons on his left side. All four outside buttons would have to be undone to reach the inner ones. Her fingers brushed the superfine. The material was fine, well woven. A shame it was ruined.

“First I'll need to get you out of these layers of clothes.”

Her patient agreed with a slight nod.

The hole for the top outside button was tight, and she had to slip two fingers under the material to hold it firm. She felt the lean firmness of his chest against the backs of her fingers. Her fingers fumbled. It had been a long time since she had undressed a man. But his quiet patience in the face of pain pulled at her heart.

Forcing herself to think only of the buttons, she released the second, then the third. Only one more. But a fold where his trousers met the jacket obscured the button.
Objectivity
, she reminded herself.
You are his nurse. It isn't proper to notice the fit of his trousers. Or to notice exactly where you are having to put your hand.
But she did all the same.

She glanced to see his eyes were still shut, then, breathing deeply, she reached for the fourth button.

His hand caught hers. “I can do it myself.”

“You allow your valet to undress you.” She looked up, her hand still in his. His eyes were open. The blueness of his eyes startled her, as did their heat.

“My valet is not a woman, and certainly not a beautiful one. If you were to undress me, I would want you to have seduction in mind.”

She pulled her hand away and stepped back, looking to the door that separated them from the woman in labor. Lucy had spent sufficient time in birthing rooms to know something was not right. The mother was too quiet. But the man did not know. Perhaps a first child for him or the first birth near to him? To be kind, she should distract him from the other room, make him focus on his own wounds. But kindness always seemed to get her into trouble.

“It's not my child. I'm not such a libertine that I would find your beauty attractive if it were.” While she had paused, watching the door, he had undone the inner buttons to his tailcoat.

“It's not my place to question, sir.” But she felt relieved somehow.

He tried to pull his shoulders free from the tailcoat. But it was too carefully tailored to his form. A line of blood trickled down the front of his pants.

“Wait! You make it worse.” She held the bottom edge of the tailcoat steady, then slipped her hand between it and the waistcoat at his shoulder, and edged down close to the wound. She stopped at the point where the layers of clothing stuck together. “The blood has dried to your shirt and waistcoat and glued them both to your tailcoat. If you pull one off, you tear the others from the wound, and bleed again.”

“Perhaps I do need help.” He grimaced, then smiled wanly and offered a slight shrug. The pain made him wince.

“Perhaps you do.” She returned his smile automatically, but tried to ignore the sense of warmth it spread in her chest. “And don't shrug if it causes you pain,” she remonstrated.

He gave a small laugh, then grimaced. “Or laugh.”

“Yes, no laughter or shrugs. Now let me work.” She pressed her hand against the tailcoat, holding it against his chest, as she inched the material of the waistcoat up from it. She tried to ignore the warmth of his skin, the feel of his muscles, below the material. Once the tailcoat lifted, she moved to his side, and repeated her action on the exit wound, separating the fabrics, keeping the waistcoat from lifting with the outer tailcoat. But her progress was slow.

“Your clothes are ruined, sir. It would be easier to reveal the wound if I cut the tailcoat off, then the waistcoat and shirt . . . with your permission of course.”

“Yes, that would be best,” he agreed. “Under the shirt you will also find part of my cravat. I tried to stop the bleeding.”

“A wise decision. I need some scissors from the kitchen. I'll be back in a few minutes.” She turned to leave him just as the woman cried out loudly.

“Wait. Don't leave.” He grabbed her arm, and she turned back to see him swallow as Marietta screamed again. A look of such regret and sorrow passed his face that she wondered how she had thought him unfeeling before.

“Do you have scissors in your valise?” She covered his hand with hers.

“Yes.” He released her arm, but slowly. Good, she thought, the alcohol was doing its work.

“Then I can use those . . . with your permission, of course.”

He nodded agreement, and she brought his valise from the second bedroom and placed it, still latched, on the floor in front of him.

“Where will I find them?” She knelt before him behind the valise.

“There's a dressing box at the bottom. You'll need to unpack to reach it.”

Chapter Three

Colin watched his nurse unlatch his valise, then carefully, even gently, remove items. His spare waistcoat and trousers were on top, then an extra shirt and cravat, then the dressing box. From among his toothpowder, hairbrush, and various ointments and salves, she withdrew the scissors. Her hands, reddened and broken at the nails, seemed out of keeping with her manner.

“You are the scullery maid?” he observed, somewhat surprised.

She paused, following his eyes to her hands. “Oh . . . yes, sir.” Her pause intrigued him. She was not what she seemed, except luscious—such deep eyes, such rich curls. His body felt languid with blood loss and whiskey. He found his responses to her both unaccountable and irresistible.

“May I begin?” She stood before him, moving the valise out of the way.

“Yes.” He gave himself into her care, noticing that she did not warn him that her ministrations might hurt.

Behind him, the scissors chewed the fabric of his tailcoat. She stopped. “These were meant for cutting hair, not cloth. They will work fine on your shirt, but for this coat, I need something better.” She walked to the table that had held the decanter of whiskey, the bread, and cheese.

“Ah, this should do.” She came back with a large kitchen knife, testing the sharpness of its edge with her finger. “I'll cut this way”—she demonstrated with the blade facing her—“though you might feel the back of the knife on your skin, I will not cut you. The blade will be facing me.”

As a man used to lies and betrayal, he knew he should object. He should tell her to find better scissors, to ask for Fletcher or Bobby to attend him while she worked. But he didn't. Either he trusted her (and there was no reason for him to do so), or he wished to die. Perhaps both.

At his back, the material pulled against his shoulders as she cut from the top down. When the coat separated into two pieces, she set the knife on the table at his elbow. He released his breath, breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. She pulled the half on his uninjured side free. The tailcoat was damaged beyond all repair, but she still laid it carefully on the table.

She moved to his wounded side. She held his coat at the wrist, the cool skin of her fingers brushing the tender flesh on the inside of his wrist. She lifted the material slightly at his shoulder and pulled it down toward the floor, barely moving his arm. She placed the other half of his tailcoat neatly on top of the other.

Having removed the tailcoat, she stood back, examining him as if she could see through his clothes to his chest beneath. Her gaze felt warm on his chest, and he wanted her never to stop looking at him.

“Next, the waistcoat.” Once more, the blunt edge of the knife pressed into his back, separated from his body only by the thinness of his shirt, until the garment released. Then leaning over him at the front, she began to undo the waistcoat's eight buttons. He breathed in her scent, soap and lemons, and let it soothe him.

On the last button, her hand brushed the trousers covering his loins, and he stiffened in response. But she seemed unaware of her effect on him, and he was oddly grateful. If she had realized his arousal, she would have stopped and called for the innkeeper's sons or one of the other servants.

With the waistcoat cut apart in the back and unbuttoned in the front, she slipped her hand down his body once more, and he reveled in the slight press of her hand against his shirt. As one hand held the bottom layer against his chest, the other gently lifted the top layer off. He focused on the movements of her hand, more like a lover's caresses than a nurse's ministrations.

Then only the shirt was left, a thin fabric between his chest and her hands. He shuddered with desire.

“If you are cold, sir, I can leave the shirt over your shoulders, and work only on the wound.”

The fabric was stained crimson where the bullet had entered, and his stomach turned, temptation fading as he remembered Marietta's face pale with pain. “No, take it off.”

Using the scissors, she cut around the blood-soaked fabric, leaving circles of superfine glued to his skin. To remove the rest of the shirt, she split the side seams and those in the sleeves, allowing her to lift the shirt off his shoulders.

Colin found her efficiency and knowledge intriguing. Where had she come from, this scullery maid with cracked and reddened nails? And why, with her intelligence, had she not found more lucrative employment? She was nothing like a maid. Too confident, not aware enough of her place. It was a puzzle. He liked puzzles.

Another cry of anguish from the other room pierced his heart.

The maid placed her hand on the bare skin of his shoulder, offering comfort. “I'm sure your . . . the lady will be fine.” He felt each finger as a warm coal.

The last time a woman had touched his bare flesh had been in Brussels, and he felt again the suffocating guilt that had plagued him for months. “Her name is Marietta. I should have expected trouble.” He spoke without thinking. “I should have anticipated . . .”

“No, you should not have.” She stopped his objection with a hand to his chest slightly above his heart. Whether she had intended it or not, it was an intimate gesture. “The last highwayman on this road was hung at the crossroads five years ago. And you couldn't find a better midwife than Nell—I predict we'll be hearing the hearty cries of a newborn child within hours.”

He took her hand, turned it upward, and kissed her palm, returning her intimacy with a lover's kiss, soft and seductive. “You are very kind, my lady.”

Their eyes met. A moment passed, then two. He watched her eyes widen, heard her slight intake of breath, but she left her hand in his. No ring. Perhaps when all this was over, when Marietta and her babe were safe, he would return to this pretty dark-haired maid. If she were interested in leaving the kitchen for his bed, he could keep her well as his mistress. For the first time in months, the idea of a future held some interest. He did not question why—or whether in the morning, without the warmth of the whiskey in his blood, he might feel differently. He merely allowed himself to enjoy the possibility. Anything to keep his mind from the pain in his side and the trauma in the next room.

A tap at the door turned her into his nurse once more. At the door, Mark held a basket, and she looked through it quickly, selecting several small jars and some cloths. She named each jar as she set it on the table.

“Lavender water to clean your wound. Calendula ointment to heal it. Laudanum to ease the pain.” She poured another glass of whiskey and added twenty drops of laudanum. “Drink some more. I must work on the wound.”

She extended the glass, and he wrapped his fingers around hers, wanting to touch only her. She slipped her fingers out from under his.

While he drank the whiskey, she turned her attention to the circles of material glued by blood. From the second adjoining bedroom she retrieved a pitcher of water and the washing bowl left for guests. Pouring the water into the bowl, she wet a cloth and pressed it to the circle of fabric, soaking it inch by inch. Patiently, she repeated the action over and over. Soon, the water in the washing bowl was red with his blood. When the material at his front released, she repeated her actions on the back wound, until the fabric released there as well.

“Are we done?”

“It depends. Sometimes the bullet will carry bits of thread into a wound, and, if left there, they can fester.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “But inspecting the wound will hurt. I could call the surgeon.” She hesitated, looking toward the door to the hallway

“But you don't trust him.” Colin predicted.

“No. He's inexperienced and . . .” She began clearing the table, folding the remains of his clothes into a neat pile.

“And you are more experienced?” He watched her face for confirmation.

She looked away. He had discovered a truth about her, and one she was unwilling to share.

“So, tell me, scullery maid: how do you know of wounds? It's only fair if I'm to let you operate on me rather than call the surgeon.”

She looked relieved. The surgeon must be particularly bad.

“My father was in the army. I grew up in the camps.” She moved the water basin to the table near the door, keeping the pitcher of clean water on the table beside him. “Until my mother's death, I helped her with the wounded.”

“Wasn't that dangerous for a girl?”

“My father's men watched out for me, and most of the time I dressed as a boy.” She created a clear space on the table, then moved her healing salves to the front. “It wasn't a bad life . . . between engagements, that is.”

“During engagements was different.”

Her face shifted at the memory, grew sad and distant; then she shrugged, pushing off whatever hell she'd remembered. “One wouldn't expect it to be good.”

“Where were you?”

“Everywhere. My father was in the First Royal Dragoons. We were at Frexadas and Santarem and Badajoz and Pamplona and a dozen places in between.”

“So my chances of survival are at least as good as those of the men in your hospital.”

“Better.” Her voice lightened and grew animated. “Here, I have fresh water and salves and a bed for you to sleep in that isn't just a folded blanket on muddy ground.”

She stopped abruptly, realizing that she had given away too much. He could see it on her face. But suddenly he didn't care about her boxy figure or her broken cuticles. She must have appeared an angel to the men she'd cared for.

“Do your worst.” He turned his palms up as if in surrender.

She reached for the whiskey. “Then drink, sir.” This time the
sir
sounded more like a term of endearment. “I put enough laudanum into the whiskey to help with the pain, but not enough to make you sleep . . . not yet, at least. I might need you awake.”

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.