Heather and Velvet (14 page)

When she turned back, Sebastian was fumbling with his buckled shoes.

She caught him, bracing him with her shoulder as he began a precarious slide toward the floor. “Whatever are you doing?”

“My shoes. I mustn’t get mud on your pretty sheets.”

She righted him. “Don’t be silly. I don’t care one whit about the sheets.”

He wagged a chiding finger at her. “You would if you’d never had any.”

She laid him back on the bed with tender exasperation and knelt between his knees to pull off his shoes.

“When you’re master of Lindentree,” she said, deliberately keeping her voice light, “you can buy me all the sheets I need.”

“It would be my pleasure. Satin sheets. Silk sheets. Have you ever slept on Chinese silk? It’s like nesting on a cloud.”

Heat freshened Prudence’s cheeks as she dropped his second shoe on the floor. She feared to meet Sebastian’s eyes across the supine length of his body, afraid she might find mirrored within them the foreign images his words summoned—bodies entwined, sliding and rolling in clouds of blue silk. Then ice water doused her fevered vision, as she remembered Tricia airily describing her new addition to her London town house—an Oriental bedstead, replete with drapes of Chinese silk.

She dumped his legs on the bed, ignoring his wince of pain. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

She darted through the sleeping house to the kitchens. After finding what she needed there, she raced into the dining room. Pawing frantically through the mahogany hutch, she discovered a stack of linen napkins. Tricia would not miss them. Their crest dated at least two husbands back. She started to leave, then hesitated. Tricia kept laudanum in her bedchamber and had been known to dole it out for Prudence’s headaches, but Prudence was reluctant to disturb her. She satisfied herself with snatching the decanter of Scotch whisky from the sideboard.

Back upstairs she closed the door to her chamber behind her, carefully turning the key in its lock. Sebastian had propped himself against her bolster. The alien breadth of his shoulders dwarfed her narrow bed. His eyes were alert, but misted with pain. He absently stroked the kitten nestled between his knees.

Prudence knelt beside him, setting aside her burdens, and managed a shy smile. “Let’s take a look at that shoulder, shall we?”

Before she could blink, a tiny dagger leaped from Sebastian’s stocking to his hand. “You can cut the shirt, but not the plaid, please. It’s the Kerr plaid. The only one I have.” He flipped the dagger in his hand, offering her the hilt.

She swallowed hard and took it. Many were the unwitting enemies a Highlander had dispatched with the
skean dhu
tucked into his stocking. The hilt was warm where it had rested against Sebastian’s bare calf.

She unfastened the brooch at Sebastian’s shoulder,
taking care not to snag the tartan with the heavy pin. As she unwrapped the plaid with tender hands, she was ever mindful of his gaze fixed on her face. On closer examination, she realized how worn and frayed the garment was. Only the sturdy weave and Sebastian’s loving care held it together. It was no matter, she supposed. Once he and Tricia were wed, Tricia would buy him all the tartan he desired.

Prudence slashed the shirt with more enthusiasm than she intended. Sebastian’s flinch reminded her of the whisky.

“Here. Drink some of this before I go on.” She held the decanter to his lips.

He drank. The amber liquid trickled down his chin, and she wiped it away, her fingers lingering on his lips.

“Perhaps you should drink some of it,” he said. “It might steady your hands.”

She lifted guilty eyes to meet his mocking gaze. He knew as well as she that it was not his wound that made her tremble.

She peeled the blood-soaked fabric from his shoulder. The wound itself was little more than a deep scrape, puckered at the edges. A soft sound of sympathy escaped her at the sight of the ugly powder burn that blackened his chest and shoulder. The curling hair at its edges was singed.

She held up an earthenware crock. “Butter and egg yolks. Ambroise Paré claimed it to be an excellent lotion for powder burns. Papa agreed.”

“Your papa was a wise man.”

She dabbed at his wound with a moistened napkin. “Wiser than most people realized.” His skin contracted as she lightly smoothed on the cool butter. “Lean forward,” she commanded.

He obeyed. Her arms circled him, securing the bandage of knotted napkins around him. Her braid fell against his thigh and her breasts brushed his chest before she sank back to her knees, lowering her eyes.

Beneath the downy hair on his chest, she could see other nicks and scars, some pale and faded with time. Had he gotten them the same way he had gotten the scar beneath his chin? she wondered.

She busied herself with folding the remaining napkins. “How will you hide this from my aunt?”

“It won’t be hard. Tricia hasn’t seen me without my shirt for quite some time.”

Prudence gave him a skeptical look. “She will after you’re wed.”

He shifted restlessly and peered up at the canopy. “This room is just as I imagined it. White and starched, everything neatly in its place, devoid of affectation, elegant yet simple.”

“Like me?”

He slanted a half-smile at her. “No one would dare call you simple.”

The kitten stirred, butting his head against Sebastian’s thigh. Prudence stroked him. “Sebastian-cat is very fond of you. Perhaps I should change his name. To avert confusion.”

“Perhaps you should,” he said, an odd note in his voice. “Sebastian is a silly name anyway.”

She lifted her head to protest, but his eyes were closed. She knew he wasn’t asleep yet. The grooves around his mouth had deepened with weariness and pain. He had crossed his arms over his chest in an age-old gesture of self-protection.

Prudence gently tucked the counterpane around his shoulders. There would be no harm in letting him sleep for an hour or two. It was early yet. She’d have ample time to smuggle him away before running the risk of Tricia discovering him. She sat quietly until his breathing lapsed into the uneven rhythm of troubled sleep.

Tiptoeing across the room so as not to disturb him, she snuffed the candle and drew open her curtains to the fragile moonlight. She returned to sit on the side of the bed, basking guiltily in the sheer pleasure of studying Sebastian. His lush lashes fanned out on his cheeks. His air of vulnerability in sleep erased the wary edge he bore in wakefulness. He moaned faintly, and she pressed her palm to his brow, feeling for fever, then brushed back his tangled hair.

Quickly she withdrew her hand. She had no right to
touch him. He was Tricia’s. He only belonged to her in the stolen moments of the night.

She sighed as weariness touched her. With the briefest hesitation, she lay down on top of the counterpane beside him and curled into the warmth of his side.

Her father’s hand gently stroked her hair. She must have fallen asleep on the hearth rug again while waiting for him to finish his experiments. She snuggled deeper in the cocoon of warmth, relishing the hypnotic flow of his fingers across her scalp.

Prudence opened her eyes, realizing with perfect clarity that it was not her papa, but Sebastian who cupped her head in his palm. In her sleep she had slid down until her head rested in his lap. The soft, worn folds of his plaid enveloped her.

She kept her breathing steady and deep with effort, unwilling to reveal she was awake. She could not remember the last time she had been touched with affection. Tricia might pinch her cheeks to stir the color in them, or kiss the air with her rouged lips, but there was always the fear of mussing her wig or smearing her powder. Tricia’s love was a mere ghost of fondness, all style and no substance. Prudence would never dare throw her arms around her aunt for fear she might crumble away, leaving nothing but a heap of powder to scatter in the wind.

Sebastian’s touch was beguiling in its simplicity. It made no demands and asked no questions. She might have been a child or a kitten nestled trustingly against his thigh. His touch was rife with a tenderness hard-won, for she knew he had known little of it in his life. She lay still for as long as she dared, aware that it was wrong, but wanting to remember what it felt like to be cherished. As the gray light of dawn softened the sky, she shifted in his lap, knowing she must warn him.

His eyes were open, somber and muted like the dawn.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he lay two fingers across her lips and smiled tenderly. “I’ve always wanted someone to take care of.”

He leaned forward, and his lips touched hers. His kiss was achingly tender, laced with the bittersweet tang of the whisky on his tongue. Her fingers nestled in the soft hair of his chest.

A rooster gave a rusty crow.

Prudence pulled away with a panicked glance at the brightening sky. “You must go.”

His mouth took on the sulky tilt that would have seemed petulant on any other man, but only made him look more dangerous. “Oh, I don’t know. Wouldn’t it be amusing to see Tricia’s expression when she found us this way?”

Struggling to hide how badly his illicit kiss had shaken her, Prudence unwrapped the plaid with brisk motions. “It would not be amusing to see the hangman’s expression when he came to take you to the gibbet.”

Sebastian’s face closed as if his mask had fallen over it. “Very well. Jamie’s loft then. It’s where we hide booty. The surly imp’s threatened to cut off the toes of any groom who ventures there.”

Prudence readjusted her wrapper around herself, and draped the remains of his shirt across his shoulders. Then they slipped through the silent house. For once, she was thankful for Tricia’s indolent habits. Most of the servants did not bother to leave their beds until well after sunrise. As they stepped through the terrace doors, she felt Sebastian’s arm tighten around her shoulders.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Could you get me the whisky? If I’m going to be holed up with only Jamie for company, I might have need of it.”

She propped him in the garden against a statue of Zeus and raced back for the whisky. Sebastian’s tiny dagger lay forgotten on her nightstand. She dropped it in the pocket of her wrapper before flying back down the steps, driven by the first clink of activity from the kitchens.

Prudence and Sebastian ducked into the shadowy stables. A horse nickered in sleepy curiosity. Sebastian leaned against a feed bin while Prudence climbed the splintered ladder to Jamie’s lair.

Jamie awoke with a snarl, jerked a loaded pistol out from under his head, and leveled it at Prudence’s chest.

She backed away, hands in the air. “Sebastian needs your help. He’s been shot.”

Jamie jumped up with a curse that pinkened Prudence’s ears. Too late, she realized he was naked. To her bleary eyes, he appeared to be one large, annoyed freckle. She swung around, clapping her hands over her eyes in mortification.

“I warned the silly fool not to go alone,” Jamie muttered.

She peeped between her fingers. He had pulled on a pair of worn knee-breeches.

“It’s yer own bloody fault, ye know,” he added.

“My fault?” she squeaked. “I didn’t shoot him.”

“Ye might as well have.” He grabbed her hand in his bony paw and jerked her down the ladder. “Tiny was right. He ain’t had any wits about him since he met ye. If he’d have taken me with him, I’d have nailed the bastard that shot him.”

Sebastian’s velvety burr came out of the musty darkness. “Then Tricia wouldn’t have had an even number for her supper parties.”

Jamie spat in the hay. “I should have known. It was Tugbert, weren’t it? Cursed sheriffs. I hate the bloody lot of them.”

Prudence once more wrapped Sebastian’s arm around her shoulders. Jamie took his other side. Bearing his weight between them, they soon had him up the ladder and settled in the narrow heap of straw that served as Jamie’s bed.

Jamie loomed over them like a jealous bulldog, his thin lips pursed in a childish pout as Prudence tucked the plaid around Sebastian’s shoulders. “Keep him warm, won’t you?” she said.

“Have ye given him any opium?”

“Of course I have,” she retorted. “I keep some under the bed next to my hookah pipe.”

Jamie muttered something unintelligible.

Feeling a sharp poking against her thigh, she fished the
skean dhu
from her pocket. “I almost forgot to give you your dagger.”

Jamie snorted. “Why don’t ye cut out his heart while ye’ve got it so handy?”

Sebastian’s icy glare was enough to make Prudence glad he was incapacitated at the moment. She did not care to mop up after two wounded men. Jamie stomped down the ladder in disgust. Prudence stood, knowing she should go, but reluctant to abandon Sebastian to the churlish gremlin’s care.

Sleep and whisky had dulled Sebastian’s pain and restored the sparkle to his eyes. The snowy white bandages deepened the golden hue of his skin. Grinning, he lifted the decanter to her.

She laughed. “You look quite the rogue.”

“If you could have pilfered a cigar, I’d be a happy man.”

A new mist claimed his smoky eyes. She sensed that it would take more than a cigar to make him a happy man. Within the frame of the open hayloft behind him, the sky took on a buttery cast.

A soft breeze ruffled Sebastian’s hair. “You haven’t even asked about your devoted beau.”

“Beau?” she echoed stupidly. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Good Lord, did you kill Sir Arlo?”

He sighed. “No. Though I’ll probably live to regret it. I could have killed him.”

She peered into his face, fascinated by his matter-of-fact tone. “Why didn’t you?”

He toyed with the pleats of his kilt. “I was afraid you’d think poorly of me.”

“Why, that’s a silly reason for not killing someone!”

He arched an eyebrow.

She hastened to explain. “I’m not suggesting you should have killed him. You should have
not
killed him for a better reason. Because he was a nice man. Or because his mother would have grieved. Or simply because you’re not the sort of man who goes about killing people.”

“Or robbing them? Or marrying them for their wealth? Or lusting after their virgin nieces?” He stared into the
whisky decanter. The cut glass splintered the first rays of the sun into amber crystals. His low tones mesmerized Prudence. “The sort of man I am wishes he had taken you that night in the crofter’s hut. He wishes he had put his child in you so all of our choices would have been made for us.” He swirled the whisky, took a large swig, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “That’s the kind of man I am.”