“What about Samson and Delilah?”
She opened the Bible near the beginning, and he settled on his side. A tendril of hair had fallen from her topknot, sliding over her cheek. He decided that if a man had to suffer being shot, it wasn’t so bad to have a nursemaid who resembled Miss Andrews.
“Adam and Eve?” he suggested.
She shook her head. “You asked for something tedious. I believe I have something that would suit.” The look in her eyes held a stubborn glint. “And unto Enoch was born Irad: and Irad begat Mehujael: and Mehujael begat Methusael: and Methusael begat Lamech.”
As she continued reeling off names from the book of Genesis, he interrupted, “Where is your family?”
She ignored his question and continued, “Lamech took to himself two wives: the name of the one was Adah, and the name of the other, Zillah.”
“You’re alone here, aren’t you? It’s just you and the servants.”
Miss Andrews closed the book. “Do you want me to read to you or not?”
“I want to know why they left you behind.” He couldn’t understand it. “Aren’t they afraid something would happen to you?”
She placed the book upon a table. “I refused to go. I’ve no wish to be dressed up like a paper doll and paraded about in front of everyone.” Her cheeks reddened, and she added, “My cousins will be coming soon. Perhaps tomorrow.”
He recognized a lie when he saw it, but he ignored it for now. “I thought every woman’s goal in life was to find a rich husband.”
“Not everyone’s.” She tucked the sheet around him, and he caught her hand again. Once more, the fresh scent of lemons seemed to emanate from her. He saw her lips open slightly, her eyes widening with a hint of fear. And he realized, she meant it. She truly didn’t want to marry.
It intrigued him. Like a challenge, he wanted to understand why. “Is there a reason?”
She gave a shrug that meant nothing. “I never met anyone I wanted to marry.”
Jonathan detected a note of sadness in her voice and a hint of secrecy. He probed a little further. “You’ve never had any suitors, have you? I’d wager that you haven’t been kissed either.”
His gaze traveled to her mouth, and he imagined again what it would be like to take her lips, to teach her what it was to kiss a man. Would she taste sweeter than her temperament?
“Whether I have or haven’t is none of your affair.” Miss Andrews tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t relinquish her hand.
The pain of the wound on his leg was worsening, and he struggled to think of other things. Any distraction that would transport his mind away from the agony. The last thing he wanted was to reveal any weakness or the pain he was enduring. Better to let her believe that her stitching had worked, that he was in no discomfort now.
He held her fingertips, bringing them to his cheek while he fought to steady his breathing. Watching Miss Andrews’s reaction was a diversion, in and of itself. Her face transformed with his touch. She didn’t speak, but a flush came over her cheeks. He held her hand so lightly, she could have pulled it back any time she wanted to. But she remained frozen in place.
“What are you—what are you doing?” she managed at last.
“Distracting myself from the pain.” His mouth drifted down to her palm, the barest kiss against her flesh. It was softer here, a lady’s hand.
When he moved his mouth to the pulse point at her wrist, he stole a glance at her face. Her gray eyes looked stricken, as if torn between experiencing his touch and pulling away. He kept his mouth there, his breath warming her soft skin. Her fingers trembled, and at last, he released her hand.
Miss Andrews clenched her fingers together, taking slow steps away from him. “I think it would be best if you went to sleep n-now.” Without waiting for a reply, she fled the parlor.
Inside her room, Victoria curled up on the window seat, staring outside as the snowflakes poured from the sky. Her hand was cold, though she still felt the phantom memory of the man’s lips upon her skin.
Why had he done such a thing? They were strangers. He didn’t know anything about her, nor did she have the faintest idea who he was.
He’d kissed her fingers, treating her as though she were someone he wanted to touch. She rested her forehead against the wall, wanting to die of humiliation. In a matter of hours, nearly every rule of propriety she’d ever learned had been broken.
She’d been alone with a man, with no chaperone.
She’d removed part of his breeches, and she’d touched his bare thigh.
He’d kissed her fingertips in the manner of a lover.
If her mother knew of this, she’d be demanding a betrothal within the hour. Thankfully, no one knew that he’d acted in such a way. Only her guilty conscience chided her, and she was having trouble silencing it. Mr. Smith was a terrible man, not at all a gentleman. He’d taken far too many liberties, and she didn’t want to return to the parlor.
A knock sounded upon her door, and Mrs. Larson entered. She held a tray containing supper, and Victoria told her to set it down on the table.
“I shouldna have left ye alone, Miss Andrews.” The housekeeper cleared her throat. “It’s sorry I am, that I did. I sent Mr. MacKinloch to give our guest some chamomile tea. It should help him sleep well enough.”
Victoria thanked the housekeeper, and before Mrs. Larson could go, she asked, “Could you help me to undress? I’m tired, and I intend to go to sleep after I eat.”
Mrs. Larson helped her with her gown and corset before she returned downstairs. Once she was ready for bed, Victoria sat down beside the tray and picked at the food.
Her mind was tangled up with distraction over Jonathan. It was as if she’d taken a bite from the apple of sin, tasting the sweetness of a man’s touch. There was so much confusion, between the desire to avoid him… and the temptation to be near him.
He’d been honest with her—the kiss on her hand was a distraction for him, nothing else. Likely he’d gone to sleep, forgetting all about it.
She reclined upon the chaise longue, imagining his mouth upon her fingertips. Then she let the vision spin away, wondering what it would be like if his kiss had traveled up her arm, to her shoulders… down to her breasts.
With her palms, she touched the soft swell of her nipples, and she imagined him kissing her there. Shuddering, she rubbed the tips with her thumbs, her breath starting to tremble.
Her eyes flew open when she found herself clenching her legs, imagining other sensual things. There was a restlessness brewing inside, one she couldn’t explain. She thought of the night she’d stood naked before her mirror, wearing nothing but crimson satin. A man like Mr. Smith would, no doubt, be fascinated by scandalous undergarments. She imagined his hands unlacing her, his fingers caressing her skin.
Victoria stood and walked to the door, pressing her palm against the wood. Her heart was racing, and she couldn’t understand why she was thinking of such things.
He doesn’t know about your fears, a voice inside whispered. He believes you chose to stay behind.
With his injury, he could be stranded here for days before his servants or family came to claim him. He might… become her friend. Or something more.
Her hand rested upon the doorknob. A sensible woman would return to her chair, finish her supper, and go to sleep. Mr. MacKinloch and Mrs. Larson would look after Mr. Smith. There was no need for her to sit with the stranger. He didn’t need her.
But something drew her to open the door. And though it might end up being the greatest mistake of her life, Victoria couldn’t stop herself from walking down the stairs.
Chapter Four
THE CLOCK chimed ten o’clock. Jonathan could feel his leg tightening, swelling up with blood. His fever had worsened, and when he reached up to touch his forehead, he found it damp with perspiration.
Every second that ticked by was another moment of torture. He stared up at the ceiling, wondering what to do if he did somehow survive the next few days. He’
d overheard the servants talking about the other body they’d found. Though he couldn’t be certain who the dead man was, it was likely his groom or his footman. If either had lived, they would have found him by now. But no one had come.
For the first time, he allowed himself to consider the danger. He was the Duke of Worthingstone, and if he let that be known, others might seek to ransom him. It was best to keep quiet over his identity for now and let them believe he’d been lost.
Though he’d acquired his land from the Earl of Strathland, after the man owed him a gambling debt, he saw no reason to associate himself with the man. Particularly if the residents wanted the earl dead.
And although Jonathan had no quarrel with the crofters, neither did he want to live between the two warring sides. Of course, it might not matter, if this fever killed him first.
He reached down to touch the hot skin, remembering how Victoria had sewn the wound shut. Her handiwork might have saved his life, but there were far too many questions about this woman. Why had she chosen to stay behind, in the midst of such danger? Was there a scandal she was avoiding?
At first glance, she appeared to be a lady with a modest upbringing. The room held elegant furnishings with mahogany carved chairs, a crimson velvet settee, and oil paintings of men he assumed were family relatives. But at a closer look, he saw that there were no silver candlesticks or touches of wealth.
Miss Andrews had claimed that her father was fighting in Spain. It was likely the man was an officer, given the size of this house and the surrounding land. But he doubted if any father would voluntarily allow his daughter to stay here with only two servants.
From the corner of his eye, Jonathan saw a movement near the door. Miss Andrews held a candle in one hand, and wore a blue wrapper over a prim white nightgown. Her hair was unbraided and fell to her waist in long honey-brown strands. In the candlelight, he saw the emotions pass over her face—uncertainty, nervousness, and curiosity.
“Have you come to finish me off?” he asked.
“I thought you would be asleep.”
“I suppose I am a better companion when I’m unconscious. My family would agree with you on that point.” He beckoned for her to draw closer. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
She remained near the door, as if she were afraid of him. The candle flame flickered in the darkness, and when he said nothing further, she took a tentative step forward. “Are you feeling all right?”
“No. But I’ll try not to die by morning.”
His black humor didn’t deter her, and she moved a little closer. He was disappointed in the opaque white garment. Though already she’d broken countless social rules by visiting him in a state of undress, already he knew that Miss Andrews was different from the other women he’d known.
The rest of them would have screamed and fainted at the sight of his blood. They most certainly wouldn’t have taken the time to stitch him up.
In her other hand, he spied a swath of black lace. “Have you brought mourning garb in preparation for my funeral?”
“It’s just some… sewing. I thought perhaps I shouldn’t leave you alone through the night.” She pulled up a chair and sat an arm’s length away from him. He couldn’t quite tell what the lace was for, but there appeared to be crape or some other fabric with it.
“You aren’t concerned about being alone with me?” Or especially remaining near him in her nightclothes.
“I’m far more concerned about you bleeding to death, leaving me to explain your corpse to the authorities.”
She had courage; he’d give her that. For the next few moments, he entertained himself by imagining her wearing a more revealing garment, perhaps one made entirely of black lace. From the shapeless form of her wrapper, he couldn’t tell anything at all about her body. She had a slight figure, so no doubt it hid a slender waist and modest curves.
“What would your mother say if she knew you were downstairs with a stranger, wearing only your nightclothes?”
Victoria slid her needle into the black material, sewing quietly. “She would likely be thrilled and hope that I was terribly compromised so you’d have to marry me.”
“If that was your intent, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not the sort to be trapped into marriage.”
“And I’m not the sort of woman who ever plans to marry.” She folded over a bit of fabric and continued stitching the seam. “So it would seem neither of us is in any danger.”
It should have been a relief to know that she wouldn’t try to ensnare him. But if her mother learned of this—especially if she discovered his rank—she would undoubtedly force the issue. Therefore, it was quite necessary for him to heal quickly and not reveal to anyone that he was a duke.
Jonathan watched her hands moving effortlessly with the needle. It was an extension of her hands, darting in and out of the silk with a fluid expertise. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Her gray eyes held surprise for a moment, and a flicker of a smile tugged at her mouth before she dropped her gaze back to the fabric.
Jonathan propped up on one elbow to stare at her. “So tell me, why don’t you plan to marry? Surely you could bring a country gentleman up to scratch.”
“I am quite happy to remain a spinster.”
“You’ve no wish for children?”
She set down the needle and regarded him. “I wouldn’t make a good wife.”
He didn’t believe her. For the life of him, Jonathan couldn’t imagine this woman without a husband. When he’d kissed her hand, he’d glimpsed the awareness rising in her eyes, and she hadn’t been unaffected by his touch. Her mouth had drifted slightly open, while her cheeks turned crimson. And she hadn’t pulled her hand away. His mind could easily imagine this angel naked with her hair falling around her shoulders, her eyes closed as she arched with pleasure.
The erotic vision made him clench the sheets. What the hell was the matter with him? Clearly, the wound had turned him delusional.
“I’m thirsty,” he admitted, changing the subject.
“I’ll bring you some water.” She seemed grateful for the request and retreated to the kitchen to fetch it.
Jonathan gritted his teeth against the pain, wishing he’d asked for brandy instead. He could have drunk himself into oblivion. A tremor took hold of him, and he gripped the coverlet, trying to still his body’s reaction. The pain and swelling from his leg was starting to conquer his willpower, for it was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Even breathing took an effort.
When she returned, Victoria sat beside him and helped him lift his head. As he drank, she murmured, “Your fever is worse. You should have told me.”
“It’s not surprising.” But the greater fear was that the wound might slowly poison him. He’d seen countless soldiers returning from war without a leg, from a gunshot wound that had led to gangrene. “Will the doctor come tomorrow, do you think?”
“I hope so.” She helped him lie back and asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you?” Her hand moved across his brow, and he closed his eyes, trying to fight back against the vicious pain.
“No.” Not unless she had anything to dull the pain. But if she had, she’d have offered it by now. Victoria sat beside him and resumed sewing the black lace.
“You should go back to your own bed and sleep, Miss Andrews. We both know you shouldn’t be here alone with me.”
“Is that what you want?”
He said nothing, not about to admit that he wanted her to stay. With his eyes closed, he murmured, “Go on. I’ll be fine.”
“Close your eyes, then.” She drew her hand over his forehead and down his eyelids until he obeyed. “I’ll stay a few moments longer, until you’re asleep.”
The softness of her touch made him far too aware of her feminine scent. She distracted him with her presence, and he was glad to have her at his side, rather than the formidable Mrs. Larson. Even so, he would only be here until he was strong enough to leave Scotland. One of his men could
inspect the land he’d acquired, along with the house.
He feigned sleep, but as the minutes passed, he began to notice something else. When he opened his eyes, Victoria hadn’t left. She continued working by candlelight, seemingly unaware of the looming danger.
The acrid scent wove through the house, tainting the air with a distant smoke.
“Do you smell that?” He wrinkled his nose. “Is there a fire burning somewhere?”
“There are always fires,” she answered. “Some of the refugees tried to return to their homes for their possessions. According to Mr. MacKinloch, the earl ordered the houses burned.” Though her voice remained calm, her face was pale with fear.
Jonathan didn’t like the thought of being surrounded by refugees. Men who had lost their homes rarely left without a thought of vengeance. And if they had taken shelter here, it would take only a small spark to ignite the fury of their anger.
Before he could ask more about the fires, he heard a pounding at the front door.
Victoria started to rise from her chair, but he ordered, “Don’t answer that. The hour is too late for visitors.”
“I was going to wake Mrs. Larson,” she told him. “It might be the doctor.”
He doubted it. And if they were indeed caught in the middle of an uprising against Strathland, the last thing he wanted was to be caught unarmed and helpless.
“Do you have a gun in the house?”
She stared at him and took a step backward. “My father has a set of dueling pistols. But that won’t be necessary.”
“Bring one of them to me.”
Victoria shook her head. “I’m not bringing you a weapon. You might accidentally shoot one of our neighbors who needs help.”
“I was shot by a boy who believed I was the Earl of Strathland.”
At the mention of the man’s name, she blanched. “It was a mistake, that’s all.”
“And one or more of my men are also dead.” He struggled to sit up, while outside the pounding on the door grew louder. “The last thing I intend to do is sit quietly and let them finish me off. Now bring me the gun.”
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