Yours Until Dawn (10 page)

The doctor’s gaze swept over their somber faces. “I believe I’ve stopped the bleeding for now. The glass nicked his jugular. Another inch deeper and he’d have been just another name on the Fairchild family crypt.” The doctor shook his head, his long, white whiskers making him look like an elderly goat. “He’s a very lucky fellow, that one. Someone must have been looking out for him today.”

Although a ripple of relief traveled through them all, none of the servants could meet Samantha’s eyes. She knew exactly what they were thinking. She was their master’s nurse. She was the one who was supposed to be looking out for him. Instead, she had left him alone, abandoned him just when he needed her the most.

Almost as if he could hear her thoughts, the doctor barked, “Are you his nurse?”

Struggling not to flinch, Samantha nodded. “I am.”

He harrumphed to show her what he thought of that idea. “Young chit like you ought to be out trying to snare a husband, not shut up in some sickroom.” He snapped open his bag and handed her a brown bottle. “Give him some of this so he’ll sleep through the night. Keep the wound clean. And keep him in bed for at least three days.” The doctor’s snowy white eyebrows drew together over his jutting nose. “That won’t be too daunting a task for you, will it, child?”

As a shocking image of she and Gabriel rolling naked on a field of crimson satin rose unbidden in her mind, Samantha realized to her horror that she was blushing. “Of course not, sir. I’ll see to it that he abides by all of your wishes.”

“You do that, miss, and that strapping young fellow will be back on his feet in no time.”

The doctor snapped his bag shut and started down the stairs. The servants broke off into chattering pairs, their mood and their faces lightened.

The very soul of discretion, Beckwith waited until everyone else was out of earshot before sidling up to Samantha. “Will you still be requiring that footman to carry your bags downstairs, miss?”

She searched, but couldn’t find even a hint of mockery in the butler’s gentle brown eyes. “I don’t believe so, Beckwith. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, giving his arm a grateful squeeze, “I believe your master has need of me.”

Samantha spent that night playing Gabriel’s nurse in earnest—checking his bandage for fresh bleeding, spooning laudanum down his throat when he began to groan and toss, and tenderly checking his brow for fever. By dawn, a hint of color was beginning to steal back into his cheeks. Only then did she dare to lean her head against the back of the chair she’d dragged next to the bed and rest her exhausted eyes.

When a timid knock came on the door, she awoke with a start. Sunlight was pouring through the dormer window at the far end of the room. Her panicked gaze flew to Gabriel, only to find him sleeping soundly, his chest rising and falling with each even breath. If not for the dark smudges beneath his eyes, no one would have guessed he’d just survived such an ordeal.

Samantha swung open the door to find Peter standing there, clutching a washbasin filled with rags and a pitcher of steaming water. The young footman shot the bed a nervous glance. “Sorry to disturb you, miss. Mrs. Philpot sent me up to bathe the master.”

Samantha glanced over her shoulder. Gabriel was no less imposing in sleep than in wakefulness. But she was done shirking her responsibilities. Her negligence had almost gotten him killed.

Swallowing back her trepidation, she said, “That won’t be necessary, Peter.”

“Phillip,” he corrected.

“Phillip.” Taking the basin and pitcher from his hands, she said firmly, “I’m his nurse. I’ll bathe him.”

“Are you sure, miss?” Blushing beneath his freckles, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Is it proper?”

“Quite,” she assured him, nudging the door shut with her foot.

Samantha rested the basin on the table beside the bed, then emptied the pitcher into it, her hands shaking so hard that water sloshed all over her skirt. There was no need for her to be so nervous, she scolded herself. Bathing Gabriel was simply another one of her duties, no different from changing a bandage or spooning medicine down his throat.

She calmed her fears by devoting all of her attention to sponging the rusty stains from his face and throat. But when the time came to draw back the sheet, she hesitated. She was supposed to be a woman of the world, a woman who wouldn’t simper or swoon at the prospect of a man’s nakedness. In his current state, she told herself firmly, tending to Gabriel was no different from bathing a small child.

But as she folded back the sheet, revealing his well-muscled chest and taut abdomen, it became painfully evident that he was not a child, but a man. And an extremely virile one, at that.

Dipping the cloth in the warm water, Samantha dragged it over the swells and valleys of his chest, wiping away every last trace of dried blood. Glistening drops of water caught in the golden whorls of his chest hair. As one particularly bold rivulet trickled beneath the sheet draped over his narrow hips, her helpless gaze followed, hypnotized by the lure of the forbidden.

She had assured Phillip that it was quite proper for her to be bathing him. But there was nothing proper about the sudden dryness of her mouth, the quickening of her breath, the wicked desire to lift that sheet and steal a peek beneath.

She stole a furtive glance at the door, wishing she had thought to lock it.

Nibbling on her lower lip, Samantha grasped the edge of the sheet between thumb and forefinger and tugged it upward, one tantalizing inch at a time.

“Is it just me or is there a distinct draft in here?”

As that smoky baritone, faintly slurred, but no less mocking than usual, poured over her, Samantha dropped the sheet as if it had burst into flames. “Pardon me, my lord. I was just ch-checking your—your—”

“Circulation?” he gently provided. He waved a hand in her direction. “Do carry on. Far be it from me to hinder you from satisfying your… curiosity. About my condition, of course.”

“Just how long have you been conscious?” Samantha demanded, her suspicions growing.

He stretched, the motion sending a ripple through the taut muscles of his chest. “Oh, I’d say since just before Phillip knocked on the door.”

Remembering how she had lingered so lovingly over the sculpted contours of his upper body, Samantha wanted to sink through the floorboards. “You were awake the entire time? I can’t believe you were just going to let me—”

“What?” He blinked his sightless eyes, the very portrait of innocence. “Carry out your duties?”

Samantha snapped her mouth shut, knowing she couldn’t argue further without incriminating herself.

She jerked the sheet up, shielding his naked chest from her gaze. “If you’re having trouble resting, I can give you some more laudanum.”

He shuddered. “No, thank you. I’d rather hurt than feel nothing at all. Then at least I can be sure I’m still alive.” As she checked his bandage, he offered her a rueful half-smile that squeezed at her heart. “I only hope it doesn’t leave a scar. I should hate to spoil my fine looks.”

Brushing aside his tousled hair, she pressed a hand to his brow. Oddly enough, it was her flesh that felt fevered. “Vanity should be the least of your concerns right now. You’re lucky to be alive, you know.”

“So they keep telling me.” Before she could withdraw her hand, he caught her wrist and gently drew it down between them. “But what of your luck, Miss Wick6ersham? Weren’t you supposed to be back in London by now, plying your tender mercies at the bedside of some grateful sailor who would make calf’s eyes at you and propose as soon as he was back on his feet?”

“And where would be the challenge in that?” Samantha asked softly, unable to tear her gaze away from the sight of those large masculine fingers curved around her pale, delicate wrist. His thumb lay directly over her thundering pulse. “I much prefer squandering my mercies on ungrateful bullies with beastly tempers. You know, if you wanted me to stay, there was really no need to cut your throat. You could have just asked nicely.”

“And ruined my reputation for beastliness? I think not. Besides, I was only ringing for you so I could have the pleasure of dismissing you myself.” His thumb skated across her tingling palm in something dangerously close to a caress.

“Well, I can hardly go now,” she said briskly. “My conscience would never allow me to leave until you’re fully recovered from your fall.”

He sighed. “Then I suppose you’ll just have to stay. I should hate to sully a conscience as pristine as yours.”

Discomfited by his words, Samantha tugged her wrist from his grip. His fingers left a sizzling brand on her skin.

“Of course, you’re not entirely perfect,” he added, nodding in the direction of the chair. “You do snore in your sleep.”

“And you drool in yours,” she retorted, daring to touch a finger ever so briefly to the corner of his mouth.

“Touché, Miss Wickersham! The lady’s tongue is as sharp as her wit. Perhaps you should summon the doctor before I start bleeding again.” He tossed the sheet back to his waist and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Or better yet, I’ll fetch him myself. Despite my little misadventure, I’m feeling amazingly spry this morning.”

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Samantha caught him by the shoulders and eased him back to the pillows. “Dr. Greenjoy said you’re to remain in bed for at least three days.” She frowned. “Although he failed to leave instructions on how I’m to keep you there.”

Settling back among the pillows, Gabriel propped his hands behind his head, his sightless eyes sparkling with devilment. “Don’t fret, Miss Wickersham. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Rain pattered against the mullioned windows of Gabriel’s bedchamber. Instead of lulling him to sleep, its cozy rhythm only further frayed his already ragged nerves. Any hope he’d had of escaping his prison bed in the past two days had been stymied by his nurse’s constant presence.

His growing restlessness seemed to magnify every sound in the room—the creak of the window seat as Miss Wickersham settled deeper into the cushions, the juicy crunch as her teeth sank through the crisp skin of an apple, the faint rustle of paper as she turned the page of her book.

By employing both memory and imagination, Gabriel could almost see her there in the spot he had so frequently occupied as a boy when this room had been his parents’ bedchamber. The frosted chimney of the Argand lamp on the side table would cast a gentle oasis of light around her, keeping the shadows at bay. She probably had her feet tucked beneath her to protect them from the damp that seeped through the baseboards on a rainy day. As she took another bite of the apple, he could see her white teeth crunching through its luscious red skin, see her small pink tongue darting out to catch a droplet of juice at the corner of her mouth.

She was probably wearing one of those silly little scraps of linen and lace women fancied as caps perched atop her hair. But no matter how hard Gabriel concentrated, the face beneath it refused to come into focus.

He drummed his long fingers on the bed-clothes, his frustration mounting. He cleared his throat, but the sound was greeted by nothing but the rustle of another page turning. He cleared his throat again, this time with the force of a pistol shot.

His efforts were rewarded by a long-suffering sigh. “Are you absolutely certain you don’t wish me to read aloud to you, my lord?”

“I should say not,” he replied with a sniff. “It would make me feel as if I were back in the nursery.”

Samantha’s shrug was plain in her voice. “Suit yourself. I wouldn’t wish to disturb your sulking.”

He gave her just enough time to settle back into the story before blurting out, “What are you reading?

“A play actually. Thomas Morton’s
Speed the Plough
. It’s a rather sprightly comedy of manners.”

“I saw it performed at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane once. I’m sure you’ll find much in common with Mrs. Grundy,” he said, referring to that bastion of prudish propriety who never actually appears onstage. “I would have thought a tragedy by Goethe would be more to your liking. Some grim morality tale where a poor wretch is doomed to eternal damnation for stealing a glimpse of stocking or some other such unforgivable transgression.”

“I prefer to believe that no transgression is unforgivable.”

“Then I envy you your innocence,” he replied, surprised to realize he actually did.

The sound of another page turning told him she’d rather read than argue with him. He was just resigning himself to a long afternoon nap when she laughed aloud.

Gabriel scowled, the bawdy ripple stirring him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He propped up one leg, taking care to tent the bedclothes over his lap. “Was that a laugh or has your apple given you indigestion?”

“Oh, it was nothing,” she said airily. “Just a particularly witty passage.”

After another merry chuckle, he barked, “Well? Don’t you think it’s rather ill-mannered to hoard such literary brilliance for your own amusement?”

“I thought you didn’t wish to be read to.”

“Consider it morbid curiosity. I’m dying to know what would engage such a humorless creature as yourself.”

“Very well.”

As she proceeded to read an amusing exchange between two brothers who had fixed their love on the same lady, Gabriel was surprised to learn that his nurse had missed her calling. She should have taken to the stage herself. Her droll inflections brought each character to vivid life. Before he knew it, Gabriel found himself sitting up in the bed and leaning toward the sound of her voice.