Duke of Renown

by Aston, Alexa

  “Did I say anything?” he asked quickly.

  “You talked quite a bit but I couldn’t understand anything,” she assured him, remembering how he railed against someone named Francis. It was the only word she’d been able to make out from his mumbled tirade. “Are you thirsty?”

  “I am.”

  “Let me make you some weak tea. I also have broth.”

  He sighed. “I need sustenance. I’m as weak as a kitten. Bread would be nice if you have it. Meat, as well.”

  She shook her head. “We will start slowly. Your stomach won’t tolerate heavy food at this point. It will take time to build up your strength. I’ll be back.”

  She left the bedchamber and returned to the other room, busying herself making tea and heating broth. She changed her mind, thinking he could have some bread and sliced it. The bread was slightly stale but would have to do for now. It was time to make another trip into the nearby village. Now that her so-called guest was awake and his fever had broken, Phoebe would need to leave him for a short while to go for more supplies.

  Returning with a tray, she noticed he now sat up, the pillows propped behind his back. The covers were pulled to his waist, still leaving a large amount of bare flesh on display. While she’d nursed him, she’d been able to divorce her feelings about seeing him naked. Now that he was awake, though, she was uncomfortable in the extreme. He was far too male, with his broad shoulders and ridges of muscle. This stranger had her thinking of doing things she’d never done before. She determined as soon as he was strong enough, she must ask him to leave.

  Before her hands tried to roam over those muscles.

  Caesar jumped on the bed and curled against his hip. He looked startled for a moment and then petted the cat as she rested the tray just above his lap.

  “Have I been sharing my bed?” he asked, eyeing her with interest.

  Phoebe felt the blush rise up her neck. She had, in fact, gotten into bed with this man whose name she still didn’t know. At one point, chills racked his body, causing him to shudder violently. She’d brought the covers to his neck, trying to keep him warm but he continued to tremble. Finally, she’d climbed next to him, draping herself over him, snuggling close to his side, hoping her body heat would warm him. She’d fallen asleep that way and had awakened, feeling secure and satisfied until she realized where she was.

  Did he remember that? If so, would he tell others? It would be just like a criminal to go sounding off about it. Her reputation would be ruined. Of course, it would be Mrs. Smith’s reputation and not the Dowager Countess of Borwick. Still, it would keep her from ever returning to the area in the future.

  “Why do you say that?” she asked cautiously.

  His gaze met her own and pinned hers. Its intensity caused Phoebe to hold her breath.

  Then he smiled, that wicked, radiant smile that had melted her when she’d discovered him. A pirate’s smile.

  “I seemed to remember something warm nestled against my side.”

  Her cheeks burned now. She would have to beg him to keep quiet.

  He stroked the cat. “So, what is my bed partner’s name?”

  Phoebe swallowed—and then realized he had been talking about the cat all along.

  “Caesar,” she managed to say.

  His fingers slid through the tabby’s fur. “Well, hello, Caesar. I believe you’ve been quite the companion for me. Along with your mistress.” His eyes turned to her. “Might I ask the name of my angel of mercy?”

  “Mrs. Smith,” she replied, wishing her cheeks would cool.

  “Ah, Mrs. Smith,” he repeated as he picked up the mug of tea from the tray and took a long drink from it. “Nice and sweet and oh, so hot. Just as I like it.”

  Now Phoebe’s cheeks lit on fire as he gazed at her. She knew he couldn’t be talking about her. Or was he?

  The man lifted the slice of bread to his lips and bit into it. He chewed thoughtfully.

  “Never has a meal tasted so good to me,” he praised.

  She laughed. “Invalid food. Broth. Weak, sweet tea. Bread with jam. It’s all you’re getting for a good day, at least. I need to see how you tolerate it before I give you something more substantial.”

  He finished the bread, leaving a tiny bit of jam in the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, she took her thumb and brushed it away, much as she would have if Nathan had a bit left on his lips. This was different, though. Immediately, Phoebe saw heat in his eyes as he looked at her. She swallowed. No man had ever looked at her as this one did. She tore her gaze away and stood.

  “I need to retrieve things to clean your wound. I haven’t unwrapped it since I first cleaned and dressed the wound. It’s time to look at the stitches and see how the swelling is.”

  As she stood, he caught her hand. A ripple of warmth ran through her.

  “Pardon me, Mrs. Smith. I thought I should introduce myself to you.”

  “I’m not sure you should,” she blurted out, trying to remove her hand from his and failing.

  “Why not?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Because I know you are a criminal.”

  The stranger frowned. “And how did you come to that conclusion, Madam?”

  “We are in Cornwall, Sir. Home to smugglers too numerous to count. You’ve been shot. It had to be a dispute over whatever you brought back from France. Frankly, I don’t want to know what goods you smuggled or who might want you dead. The fact that you are in my home is bad enough. If I don’t know your name and learn nothing about you, then when you leave I won’t be able to tell anyone in authority about you.”

  “You think whoever shot me will come looking for me?” he asked.

  “That—or some of your compatriots. Or whoever shot you.” She jerked hard and freed her hand. “I don’t care. I’m a simple widow who was only trying to help a stranger in distress. I will do my best to see you healed and then I want you gone, Sir. Is that understood?”

  He gave her a brilliant smile. “I see. Well, you’re going to have to call me something while I’m here.” The man thought a moment. “Why not . . . Andrew?”

  She was appalled. “I cannot call you by your first name!”

  The smuggler gave her a lazy smile. “Who said it was my first name?”

  “Oh. Mr. Andrew. I’m sorry. I’m a bit flustered.”

  He grinned. “It must a little bit disconcerting, having a naked smuggler in your bed.”

  Phoebe’s jaw dropped. So, he was a smuggler. Admitting it to her. She shook her head, trying to rein in her wild emotions.

  “I shall be back, Mr. Andrew. Then I’ll see to your shoulder.”

  She grabbed the tray and left the room, irritated at the chuckling she heard.

  Chapter Seven

  Andrew fought to keep from chuckling and quickly lost that battle. The chuckles became laughter, which he tried to muffle so as not to embarrass his hostess.

  It amazed him that Mrs. Smith thought he was a criminal who brought illegal goods into England. Wouldn’t his friends have a laugh at that? Andrew was the most law-abiding, straight arrow of the group. While George and Weston had always been the most adventurous of the five of them, both had now gone wild since their broken engagements, being known by their nicknames, the Dukes of Charm and Disrepute. Even Sebastian and Jon were more daring than Andrew ever thought to be.

  He rather liked that his angel thought he was a callous smuggler.

  Besides learning her name, he now knew she was a widow. Being experienced, she might be willing to share his bed now that he was awake. Something told him she wouldn’t consider it, though. She seemed eager to have him out from under her roof. It was true if it became known he was here that it could damage her reputation immeasurably. But who would learn of it? If she had any visitors, she could entertain them in the front room, where she now was.

  And entertain him in this bedchamber later.

  No, she seemed much too strait-laced for those kinds of shenanigans. He supposed it was only widows of the
ton who engaged in such reckless behavior. A widow in Polite Society could have all the affairs she wanted, as long as she was discreet. He supposed for someone of Mrs. Smith’s station that was far from true.

  He smiled, thinking of the hot blush that had stained her smooth cheeks, making her even more appealing than he’d thought possible. When she’d licked her lips, he’d found himself wanting to do the same to them. They were full and called out to him.

  Idly, he petted the cat that seemed perfectly happy to be in bed with him. If only his angel would relax a bit and want to do the same.

  She was right, though. He was weak and needed to build up his strength before he confronted that rat bastard half-brother of his. Andrew wondered what Francis had done after shooting him. Had he returned to Somerset and waited for news to be sent to Monkford of Andrew’s disappearance? Or had he ridden to Moreland Hall, pretending he’d just arrived for a visit, and waiting for Andrew to come in from his ride? A ride from which he was never supposed to return.

  Either way, four days had passed, from what Mrs. Smith said. By now, his servants would have scoured the countryside looking for him. Mercury would have been found, tied to the bush. Would they think he’d been accosted by highwaymen? Kidnapped and held for ransom?

  Andrew knew that it wouldn’t matter. Francis would try to lay claim to the title once the duke didn’t return. Little did his ignorant half-brother know that without a body, it would be years before he could be named Duke of Windham. If he wasn’t mistaken, he thought it was a six- or seven-year period before an English subject could be declared dead in absentia. By then, Francis would be wallowing in debt.

  Of course, Andrew would have made an appearance well before that. He would deal with the pugnacious brat in his own way.

  For now? He would let the little bastard sweat. Andrew intended to regain his strength—and enjoy the company of the lovely Mrs. Smith.

  She returned, her eyes warily searching him, trying to decide if he was a danger to her or not. Andrew needed to behave himself around her. This woman had come to the aid of a perfect stranger, despite the fact she thought him to be a criminal. That spoke to her good character. He must show her that he could be trusted. He would start by apologizing.

  “Mrs. Smith, I pray you must forgive me if I have offended you in any way. I appreciate the fact that you have played Good Samaritan to me. You will be amply compensated once I am on my feet and I’m able to—”

  “No, that’s quite all right, Mr. Andrew. Keep your money. My husband left me well off. I am more than happy to share what I have with you and expect nothing in return.”

  He glanced around the tiny bedchamber and thought her idea of well off differed from every person of his acquaintance. When it came time for him to leave, he would make certain that Mrs. Smith received proper compensation.

  She came around to the other side of the bed, setting down a tray on the small table. Andrew saw it contained two basins of clean water, soap, the bottle of brandy, and clean cloths.

  “I am going to remove your bandages now,” she explained in a motherly, soothing voice. “You’re quite lucky, you know. The lead shot missed bone altogether and just damaged the flesh.”

  He frowned. “I don’t feel fortunate. My shoulder is throbbing painfully.” He eyed the brandy. “Might I have a drink?”

  She sighed. “I suppose that’s a good idea. Just be careful. It’s all I have. If you drink it, I won’t be able to cleanse your shoulder properly.”

  He grinned. “I suppose I could always get you more.” Andrew tilted the bottle and downed a healthy swallow.

  Her eyes widened and then she pursed her lips. “That won’t be necessary,” she said primly. “I wouldn’t even have any unless it hadn’t already been here when I moved in.”

  “When was that?” he asked in curiosity as she began unwinding the linen strips holding the bandages in place.

  He noticed the scent of lavender in the air and realized it was coming from the strips as much as it was from her skin. She must have torn one of her chemises in order to bind his wound properly. He’d offer to buy her another one but he’d already made her blush enough for one day.

  “A while ago,” she said vaguely.

  “After your husband’s death?” he prompted.

  “Yes.” Her tone was dismissive and Andrew knew that topic was off-limits.

  Mrs. Smith placed the strips aside and then gently lifted the bandage from his shoulder. It clung in some places but she carefully maneuvered it instead of ripping it away, as medics in the army would. They didn’t have the luxury of time during war. Here in Cornwall, though, it was a different story.

  “Hmm.” She studied his shoulder—while he studied her.

  She had thick, sooty lashes, dark against her cheeks as she glanced down. In the sunlight that now streamed through the window, the various shades of color in her hair became alive, rich browns and warmed honey tones that mingled. His fingers itched to unpin her hair and run his fingers through its silky texture as it cascaded about her shoulders.

  “I don’t see any red streaks,” she murmured. “That’s a good sign. Let me wash it.”

  She dipped a cloth into the water and lathered it with soap, gently moving it across his wound and the surrounding area. Andrew had a glimpse of a memory. Of this woman doing the same to his limbs and chest, bathing them as she spoke soothingly, combating his fever.

  “You must be exhausted after nursing me for several days,” he said.

  “I didn’t mind. You were an easy patient. You didn’t talk back,” she teased. “The most difficult patients are men when they are feeling poorly enough to need attention but still have enough feistiness to protest.”

  Her fingers moving along his shoulder caused his manhood to begin to stir. Andrew quickly focused on anything other than the beautiful woman who ministered to him. He thought of catching tadpoles as a boy. Mucking out stables. Even charging the enemy on the battlefield.

  She finished washing the wound and patted it dry, telling him, “You might want to wash yourself before I secure another bandage. I can heat some water for you but then I’ll need to retrieve more.”

  “Don’t bother heating any. Let me just use what you brought.”

  Andrew took another cloth and dipped it into the large basin. He tried to wring it out and then lather it up but he grunted in pain. Doing it one-handed was impossible. Mrs. Smith claimed the rag.

  “Here, allow me.”

  He let her bathe his arms and chest, his racing heart playing havoc with his common sense. Her very nearness kept his pulse fluttering wildly. It took all the willpower he had not to pull her into his lap and kiss the life out of her.

  She pressed a towel to the areas she’d washed and then said, “Lean up and I’ll do your back.”

  He did, squeezing his eyes closed and gritting his teeth, telling himself not to let his willpower crumble. She finally finished, her magic, soothing fingers having worked him into a state where after she glided the towel along his back and arms, he slipped his hands under the bedclothes to hide his erection from her.

  She studied his wound, worrying her full, bottom lip. “I’m not sure we need to use any more of the brandy. I will just to be safe, however.”

  She held a cloth to the lip of the bottle and poured out a small amount and then carefully placed it against the wound. He inhaled quickly, the place still tender where the alcohol touched it. After holding it there a few minutes, no words between them, she lifted it and washed the place again with soap and water, drying it carefully before she placed a new bandage against it.

  “Oh, I forgot. I need new strips. I can’t use the old ones. Would you hold this in place for me, Mr. Andrew?”

  He reached and placed his hands atop hers, watching how her cheeks pinkened. Slipping her hands from his, she went to a trunk in the corner of the room and dug about a moment before she removed a chemise. He felt guilty that she had to destroy her own undergarments to help him and even
more guilty as he imagined her slipping the chemise she wore from her body, picturing her naked.

  “I will certainly replace whatever garments you’ve used in my treatment,” he said, thinking that instead of linen, he would buy her ones of the finest silk to rest against her own satin skin.

  Mrs. Smith shook her head. “No. I told you that you are my guest and I will care for you as I see fit. There’s no need to replace anything.”

  She sat in the chair and began ripping the chemise into long strips. When it was completely destroyed, she brought the strips to the bed and began using them to tighten the bandage so that it was securely in place.

  “It’s a good thing I was shot with a pistol and not a rifle,” he said, making conversation. “A rifle would have done far more damage.” Glancing down as she worked, he added, “Your stitches were quite neat, Mrs. Smith. I’m hoping no scar tissue will form around the site. That would lead to ongoing pain or discomfort.”

  “Does the scar on your forearm or ribs bother you?” she asked.

  He supposed she had noticed them as she’d tended to him. “The arm does upon occasion. A pesky bayonet wound. I threw an arm up to block one man and another sliced me but good.”

  “In the war?”

  He nodded. “In the war. Smugglers aren’t nearly as violent as you think them to be.”

  “Except for the one who tried to murder you.”

  Andrew grinned. “Well, there is that. Actually, many smugglers in Cornwall are everyday men. Farmers. Innkeepers. I even know of a doctor who dabbles in smuggling, using the brandy to treat his patients’ wounds.”

  She finished stabilizing his shoulder and stepped back. “I do think a doctor should see you.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “You have done everything a doctor would do. Even more.”

  She shrugged. “You are the one who walked me through the procedure. I haven’t dealt with anything more severe than a skinned knee or sprained ankle.”

  He took her hand and, for the first time, she didn’t try to wriggle away.