by Platt, Meara
“I will. But first, let’s take care of you.”
“No, lass. You first.” A little more daylight shone into the kitchen as Robbie carried her in and carefully set her on a stool beside the door. He crossed to a cupboard and took out a cloth, then pumped water onto it, wringing it out before he returned to her side.
He knelt beside her and cupped her chin in his hand, hoping his touch was gentle. His hands were big and calloused, and she had such a soft, sweet face. He loved her big eyes and the way her little ears folded over at the top and stuck out just the littlest bit.
She was his pixie, small and graceful.
She put magic in his heart whenever they were together. “Ye have a slight cut along yer cheek. It bled a little. Ye ought to be good as new by the end of the week.”
“End of the week?” She stared up at him in dismay as he dabbed the cloth against her cheek to wipe away the blood. “Robbie, how can I go to my own party looking as though I’ve been punched in the face? What will Tilbury think?”
“Ye’ll put a little powder on it, and no one will notice.”
“Powder? I don’t have any.”
He sighed. “I’m sure one of the older ladies in yer family will have some. And dinna worry about yer marquess. If he loves ye, he’ll be relieved ye aren’t more seriously hurt, and he’ll think ye look beautiful anyway.”
He finished dabbing at her cut and handed the damp cloth to her. “Here, hold it to yer cheek. I’ll be right back.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “You’re leaving me?”
“No, lass. I’m going to Romulus’s study to fetch a bottle of brandy.”
She leaped to her feet. “Haven’t you had enough to drink? Didn’t that graceless dive off the wall teach you anything?”
“When did ye turn into a lecturing shrew?” He frowned at her. “I dinna want to drink it. I need it to cleanse yer wound. Then I’ll use it on my arm.”
“Oh. Robbie, I’m so sorry.” She obviously felt awful about insulting him. This was another thing he liked about her. She was softhearted, sometimes too much so. But he liked that about her, too.
“I’ll be right back.”
“No, wait. You’re the one seriously hurt. I’ll get the bottle. Sit down and remove your jacket and shirt. I want to see if you’ll require stitches. If you do, I’ll ask one of the footmen to fetch Uncle George.”
“I’ll be fine. I dinna need stitching.” He let her think he was merely being stubborn, but he was worried, not knowing what might happen if she touched his bare skin. He’d always behaved himself around her, but she tempted him sorely, and he was not at his best just now.
One slip.
One mistake.
“Remove your jacket and shirt,” she insisted, “or I’ll grab the sharpest kitchen knife I can find and slice them off you.”
“Och, first a shrew and now a bloodthirsty one at that. Not that I mind. I never cared for meek, simpering damsels. Verra well, be quick about it. There’ll be hell to pay if ye’re found in here alone with me. I may even have to marry ye. Yer marquess won’t be happy about that.”
“We both know that isn’t going to happen.” She rolled her eyes. “Stop jesting. Take off your shirt.”
“No, lass. Not while ye’re with me. I’m serious. Ye canno’ be caught here when I remove it.”
“What do you think I’ll do? Fall into a swoon at your feet?” She hurried out of the kitchen and into the study to hunt for the brandy, easily finding it, for she was soon back with two bottles in hand. “Here it is, Robbie. But there was very little left in the bottle, so I also grabbed this unopened bottle of port wine.”
He laughed when she handed the wine to him. “It’s a little early to drink this. And it won’t do much to help with a wound.”
“It won’t?” She pursed her lips, obviously dismayed. “I wasn’t sure there would be enough brandy.”
He set the wine on the window ledge and took the brandy. “It’ll do, lass.”
She studied him pensively. “Why is your shirt still on?”
“I told ye why. Do ye want to be a marchioness or not? Tilbury might overlook that we were caught in the kitchen together, but not if I’ve shed my clothes. Here’s what I’ll do, I’ll tear off the sleeve. How’s that? The shirt is ruined anyway.” He set the brandy bottle aside and proceeded to rip away the fabric. He then took back the bottle and poured the brandy onto the cloth.
He pressed it to his ugly gash.
Tears welled in Heather’s eyes as he began to cleanse it. “It’s bad, Robbie. I think you will need those stitches, after all. Here, you missed some of the blood. Let me do it.”
Why did the girl have to be so tenderhearted?
But he made no protest when she took the cloth from him.
Merciful heavens. Her fingers felt splendid as she lightly stroked his arm.
Once she’d wiped away the blood, she pressed the brandy-soaked cloth to the gash again and looked about for something to bind it. “The belt of my robe will have to do.”
“Pixie, no. Are there no strips of cloth to be found here? Something we can rip up to properly bind this makeshift bandage to my arm?”
“I don’t think so. Give me a moment to look.” She searched through the cupboards and in the pantry before returning to Robbie’s side. “I couldn’t find anything suitable. Violet’s linens are too fine, and they’re matched sets. I can’t break them up. Here, just use my belt.”
“Och, no. It is a terrible idea.”
She ignored his protests and cast him a warning scowl as she slipped it off her waist and began to wrap it around his arm. “See, it will be perfect.”
Aye, perfect if she meant to put him in fiery torment.
Heat shot through him as her robe fell open to reveal the soft curves of her body and the perky fullness of her breasts beneath her nightrail.
Blessed saints.
In the next moment, he was tugging at her robe, drawing it closed. Of course, it wasn’t going to remain that way with no belt to tie it, so he gave it another tug to primly close it and then held it securely in his fist.
She paused in the middle of binding the belt around his arm. “What are you doing?”
“Get on with it,” he said, sounding quite surly. “And dinna bend over me like that.”
“Who appointed you my grandmother? And dinna stare at me if I displease you so much. I’ll be done in a moment. Stop scowling at me. I’m only trying to help.”
“I can do the rest myself.”
She was now poking the muscles of his upper arm, which were hard and tense because he was taut as a bowstring and about to snap. Only she was too innocent to realize it. But he understood what he was feeling. He’d read all about the attraction of the five senses. Sight. Touch. Taste. Scent. Hearing.
She stood too close, and he caught the scent of lavender on her skin.
It reminded him of the beautiful Scottish hills at the turn of the season, the hillsides lined in hues of purple and their soft, floral fragrance filling the air.
This was the scent of heaven.
Her smile was the light of heaven shining on a Highlands glen.
“Robbie…” She poked his arm again, interrupting his thoughts with her lilting voice. “Tending to you is like tending to an oak tree. Is the rest of your body this hard?”
He groaned.
She had no idea.
“I cannot imagine being an enemy soldier on the battlefield and seeing a man the size and power of you coming at me. I would have dropped my weapons and run.”
“I would have protected ye on that battlefield. Ye know I’d never hurt ye.”
“I know. There, all done,” she said, admiring her handiwork.
He rose from the stool, took her by the shoulders, and nudged her into the seat he’d just vacated. “Your turn, lass. Keep the damn robe closed. I want to cleanse that little cut on yer cheek. Ye’ll feel a sting, but it should no’ hurt ye much.”
He took her chin in
the palm of his hand and tipped her head slightly to the side.
She flinched when he applied the brandy. “Ow!”
“Almost done. Be brave a moment longer.”
She laughed. “I don’t think I’ve been brave at all.”
“Ye’ve been fine, lass,” he said with a chuckle. “There.” He set aside the cloth and then crossed to the table where he’d placed his pouch. He removed The Book of Love and held it out to her. “Here, it’s yours to have now. Read it, Heather. Ye’ll be glad ye did.”
She stared at its faded leather binding, once a vivid red, but looking quite worn now. “I have to read it with you. I promised my sisters.”
“No. I canno’. I won’t be staying in London.” He fought off the feeling of emptiness surging through him.
Her big eyes widened in dismay. “But you have to, Robbie. You need to read it with me, or we’ll both be cursed for the rest of our lives. Please, set aside some time for me before you go.”
“Pixie, ye canno’ believe in such nonsense. Besides, your marquess won’t like it.”
“He doesn’t have to know.” But she blushed as she spoke the words, for she had to realize this was not the right way to embark on her life with Tilbury. There should never be lies between her and her betrothed. “I’ll tell him, Robbie. I will.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. When it feels right. It’s a delicate topic, not one that I can bring up in casual conversation. What am I to say? By the way, dear Tilbury. Funny thing. Ha, ha. You’ll never guess what I’ve been doing. It really is quite humorous. I’m testing out love recipes with one of London’s most handsome bachelors. Oh, and he happens to be an infamous womanizer.”
“My reputation is exaggerated.” He had been a hound in his younger days, he wasn’t going to deny it. Nor would he deny that he’d maintained his casual ways until he’d met Heather.
Everything had changed for him the moment he’d set eyes on her. The Book of Love said that a man’s low brain made him look at a woman’s body first.
It hadn’t been that way for him.
What he felt for Heather had never been merely physical.
Of course, he would not deny there was such an attraction.
Indeed, an achingly strong one.
But he had first been drawn to Heather by her smile and her big, sparkling eyes. He’d noticed the jaunty arch to her eyebrows and the impudent twist of her beautiful lips. He had itched to run his fingers through her lush brown hair. In truth, her hair was an exceptionally beautiful golden brown and perfectly framed her heart-shaped face and vivid, ocean blue eyes.
He’d fallen irrevocably in love with her the moment she’d tucked a stray curl behind her ear. Those little ears that stuck out like pixie ears.
He loved her face and the magic he felt whenever looking at her.
That her body was a thing of beauty did not hurt either.
But she was about to marry her marquess.
He was not going to interfere with her happiness.
“Robbie, are you worried that we’ll fall in love if we read the book together?”
“No, my little pixie.” It was already too late for him. All he could do now was take excruciating care never to reveal the raw, unguarded desire he felt for her.
Tears formed in her eyes. “Please come to Tilbury’s ball. Do this for me, and I won’t trouble you again.”
“Och, dinna require it of me. Why should it matter to ye whether I’m there or not? Ye’ll be too busy to notice me. Besides, I have other responsibilities.” He stared at her, knowing just how to level that cold, dispassionate look.
“Aren’t I a responsibility, too? You promised my sisters you would read the book with me. I wasn’t the only one who made that promise. Isn’t this why you came back? It has to be. You’re too honorable ever to break your vow. It won’t take us long to get through it. You’ve had it for months and must have read it several times over already. All you have to do is go over the important parts with me. Just once. How long will it take us? One afternoon?”
“It isn’t the reading that worries me.”
“Then what is it, Robbie?”
“It’s—”
Heather never got her answer because an ear-piercing scream had both of them running out of the kitchen and toward the sound. “Violet!”
Dear heaven! Why had she screamed?
Chapter Three
Heather saw her cousin doubled over at the top of the stairs, her gown soaked. “My water broke,” Violet said in tears. “It’s too soon. Romulus won’t be here for another three days.”
Robbie picked her up gently. “Babes hold to their own schedule, Violet. Let nature take its course. Heather, where’s her bedchamber?”
“This way.” She hurriedly led him down the hall to the master quarters. She checked the sheets to see if they were wet since Violet had said her water broke. Fortunately, the bed was dry. She must have gotten up, sensing something was happening, and then the water soaked through her nightgown and onto the carpet. “Wait, Robbie. Don’t put her back in bed yet. Let me change her into a dry nightgown.”
She ran to Violet’s wardrobe and grabbed one. “Violet, can you stand up on your own?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
Violet was still crying as Robbie set her on her feet with exquisite care. “Heather will stay with ye. I’ll run next door now and fetch yer aunt.”
She caught hold of his hand, suddenly forgetting her tears and her contractions. Her gaze shot from one to the other, and she appeared utterly confused. “Robbie, why are you here?”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “It’s a long story. Heather will tell ye. Let me fetch yer aunt for ye.”
Heather was never more glad to have family living next door.
Most of the houses on Chipping Way were inhabited by members of the Farthingale family. Violet and her husband resided at Number One. Heather’s aunt and uncle, Sophie and John Farthingale, resided at Number Three. They were also aunt and uncle to Violet. Lady Eloise Dayne resided at Number Five. Eloise wasn’t a blood Farthingale, but her two grandsons were married to Sophie and John’s daughters, Daisy and Laurel, and this was close enough to make her a member of the family.
Heather nodded to him. “Hurry back, Robbie.”
“Aye, lass.” He took off without delay, shutting the door behind him to lend them privacy, and obviously eager to be away. No doubt, he regretted ever stopping by when he could have simply sent a messenger to deliver the book to her.
Why he’d come by at the crack of dawn baffled her. But she supposed he’d meant to drop it off last night before he went carousing, forgot about it, and now being stupidly drunk, thought it would be appropriate to drop it off on his way home after a night out.
Violet gasped, overcome by another contraction.
Heather’s thoughts immediately returned to her. “Aunt Sophie will be here soon. Let me make you comfortable in the meantime.” She removed Violet’s soaked nightgown and quickly grabbed a clean washing cloth and soap she found next to a basin and ewer perched on her bureau. After dipping the cloth in water, she rubbed a little of the soap on it, and then returned to Violet to gently wash her down.
If only the rest of the birthing would be so easy. She had no experience delivering a child. How would she, when her parents had done their utmost to keep their girls ignorant of all matters of this nature?
She was the youngest of three sisters and used to being spoiled and pampered. She did not have Holly’s quiet elegance or Dahlia’s wit and grace. Holly was her eldest sister, and Dahlia was the middle child.
As for her, she was their parents’ unintended mistake. And yet, they had always been certain she would be the one to marry a nobleman and become one of the ton’s leading ladies. They’d pushed all three of their daughters to marry into the Upper Crust, and she was the one they would have placed their wagers on to accomplish it.
Perhaps it was because she’d proclaimed she was going to be
a marchioness at the ripe old age of five and had stuck to this belief throughout her life.
Now, it was about to come true.
But what mattered most at the moment was making Violet comfortable. She dried her off and then helped her on with a fresh nightgown. “Let me get you into bed.”
She drew aside the covers as her cousin, looking beautiful even though she was the size of a bull walrus, climbed in.
But Violet was no sooner settled than she began to ask questions. “Are you going to tell me what Robert MacLauren was doing here at this hour of the morning? And why is his sleeve torn and your belt wrapped around his arm?”
“It’s innocent,” Heather said, plumping Violet’s pillows so that she was propped up comfortably.
“These explanations always are.” She grinned despite her contractions. “Tell me before the others arrive.”
“I happened to be standing in the garden, when…” She quickly related all that had happened.
Violet smiled. “That is so romantic.”
“What? No, it isn’t in the least. He was merely returning the book to me.”
Violet rolled her eyes. “And you think this is just coincidence? Tilbury’s ball is tonight.”
Heather nibbled her lip. “I’ll have to miss it. So will Aunt Sophie. She cannot leave your side, and neither will I.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll have the finest midwife in London with me within the hour as well as Uncle George, who will remain close by in the event he is needed. I will kick both you and Aunt Sophie out of here as soon as they arrive. You need to look beautiful for your special night.”
Heather took a gentle hold of her cousin’s hand. “It isn’t important. Don’t you want me to stay with you?”
“Absolutely not. You are to rest and pamper yourself. The ball is what you need to pay attention to. I’ll be right here once it’s over. And I’m sure you and every other Farthingale and Brayden in London will stop in after the ball to find out if the babe has popped out yet. More will come traipsing through here tomorrow. I think I must engage a secretary to fend you all off.”
Heather laughed. “Will you let me sit by your side once I’m back from Tilbury’s ball? You know I won’t be able to sleep until I see your new son or daughter and know you are all right.”
