Tempting Fate

by Alissa Johnson

  She nodded again, and found her voice as well. “Is it broken? My ankle?”

  “No, only a sprain. You’ll be up and about in a few days—a week at most.”

  Just in time for her uncle’s party, she thought miserably. There were times life seemed distinctly unfair. She may have grumbled about it a bit, but Whit distracted her by slipping out of his coat and carefully draping it over her shoulders.

  Confused, she blinked at him. “I’m not cold.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  That was true, she could feel the trembles well enough. “I’m a bit agitated, but you don’t have to—”

  “And your dress is half gone.” He gently pulled the coat closed.

  “What?” Horrified, she pulled the material away from her chest and took a peek.

  Half gone, she decided, was something of an exaggeration. The left shoulder of her gown and chemise were torn from neck to upper arm, and the material had gaped open to reveal skin that was generally left covered. But she wasn’t exactly indecent—or at least, not fully indecent. The bodice of her gown was still intact, after all.

  While she felt some small mea sure of relief at the relative decency of her gown, the state of her shoulder and collarbone had her gasping in stunned dismay. She was a mess—her skin a raw mass of cuts and abrasions. Blood was beginning to ooze in small drops from several of the deeper scrapes. Instictively, she touched a fingertip to the red and swollen flesh, and hissed at the resulting sting.

  Whit pulled her hand away. “Stop touching it.”

  She looked at him, bewildered. “I’m bleeding.”

  “Yes, I noticed.” He pulled a handkerchief out and carefully inserted it between her skin and the rough coat. “Nothing too deep. You’ll be all right.”

  “Am I bleeding anywhere else?”

  He reached up and feathered his fingers along the edge of her widow’s peak, where his eyes had tracked before. “Here a bit.”

  “Oh.”

  Whit caught her hand before she could reach the injury. “Stop poking.”

  “I can’t help it.” She really couldn’t. There was something about a fresh injury that insisted a person prod. “Is it very bad?”

  “No.” He ran a comforting hand down her hair, discreetly pulled away a leaf. “No, it’s shallow. Hardly bleeding at all, really.”

  She barely noticed when he smoothed her hair again, and was far too distracted by her own discomfort to notice his hand was less than steady.

  “You’re certain?” Though her mind was rapidly clearing—enough for her to realize there wasn’t a river of blood seeping from her forehead—she wanted the reassurance.

  “I am.” He rubbed her uninjured shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Let’s get you—”

  He broke off at the soft voice calling for them.

  “Lord Thurston? Miss Browning?”

  “Down here!” Whit shouted, and waited until Miss Heins saw them. “Miss Browning took something of a tumble and turned her ankle.”

  “Oh, dear.” Miss Heins used a tree to balance herself as she peered down the hill. “Oh, dear. Miss Browning, how dreadful for you. Is there anything I can do to help? The others have gone on ahead, I’m afraid, but I could try catching them again and—”

  “I’m very glad it’s you who came back,” Mirabelle called out, and immediately wished she hadn’t. Her battered body strongly protested the exertion.

  “Keep still,” Whit ordered before turning back to Miss Heinz. “Would you be so good as to return to the house and have one of the grooms bring a mount for Miss Browning?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And ask my mother to send for the physician—”

  “I don’t need a physician.” Mirabelle objected.

  Whit merely slanted her an annoyed look at the interruption. “To send for the physician,” he repeated pointedly, “and to the kitchen for some hot tea and a cold—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Whit.”

  “I’ll make certain everything is ready for her,” Miss Heins assured them. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

  “Nothing needs to be made ready.” Mirabelle tried arguing, but Miss Heins had already taken off down the path. Exasperated, she turned to Whit instead. “The whole house will be in an uproar now. It would have started off as merely ‘Miss Browning took a tumble down a hill and turned her ankle’ and have grown to ‘Miss Browning is lying broken and bleeding at the bottom of a two-hundred-foot cliff’ in the course of a quarter hour.”

  “Every respectable house party should contain at least one high drama.”

  “Every respectable high drama should be based on something a bit more…” She waved her hand around.

  “Dramatic?” he offered helpfully.

  “Interesting,” she replied, mostly because she felt she ought to be able to complete her own sentences. “Perhaps you should go with Miss Heins to keep the hysterics down—”

  “Not a chance.”

  He brushed her skirts aside and carefully slid an arm under her knees and the other around her back. In one smooth move, he had her in his arms and against his chest.

  Something, somewhere inside of Mirabelle thrilled at the action, but the feeling was tangled inextricably with the far more recognizable emotions of shock and embarrassment.

  “What in the world do you think you’re doing?” she gasped.

  “I’m taking you to the top of the hill,” he replied, hauling her up with an ease that surprised her. “There’s too much bramble here for a horse to make it safely down.”

  Instinct made her put her arms around his neck as he began to climb. Lord, the man was strong. She’d had no idea there was so much strength in his lean form. The chest she was pressed against was hard and warm, and the arms that held her were banded with muscle. He carried her up the side of the hill without so much as a hitch in his step—or his breath.

  There was such power in him, she thought—beyond the wealth and title. How had she not appreciated it?

  He adjusted his grip, lifting her higher against his chest, his large hand settling comfortably on the side of her knee. And something inside her thrilled again, louder this time. It was all too similar to the jolt she’d felt in his study, and sitting next to him on the bench, and because of that, she pushed it aside and fought to concentrate on something else all together. Something along the lines of how best to extract herself from her current situation.

  She shifted a little in an effort to create a meager amount of space between their bodies. It was a pointless effort, really, but she couldn’t stop herself from at least trying.

  “This is entirely unnecessary,” she said. “If you’d just put me down, I could hobble along well enough.”

  “No doubt you could, but why should you?”

  It was an annoyingly reasonable question, and the fact that she hadn’t a reasonable answer made it all the more irritating. “Because…I…it’s unseemly.”

  “Stop squirming before you do us both an injury,” he warned, obviously unimpressed with her logic. “Under the circumstances, it’s an insult to describe my behavior as ‘unseemly.’ It’s been nothing short of chivalrous—heroic even.”

  The vision of her and Whit both rolling down the hill put a quick end to her struggles, and his ridiculous statement had her snorting out a laugh. “Perhaps you’ll get a medal.”

  “I’d settle for the fawning admiration of the ladies.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Miss Willory will be in raptures,” she said sweetly. “No doubt, she’ll follow you about doggedly, insisting you relate the tale of your gallant deed over, and over, and over, and—”

  “That’s just cruel,” he interrupted with a wince. “You’re an appallingly bad damsel in distress, you know.”

  She sniffed. “I’m being admirably stoic, in my opinion.”

  He sidestepped a series of large roots. “And in my opinion, if you have to mention you’re being stoic, you no longer are by definition.”

  She tho
ught about that. “You have a point. I’ve been commendably reserved in my reaction, then. I think that’s a fair assessment, given how very much I wished to swear”—he jostled her slightly and had her gritting her teeth—“and still do.”

  “Sorry, imp. It’s tough going here, but don’t hold back on my account. I’ve heard you curse the air blue before today.”

  Intent on taking him up on his offer, she opened her mouth…then shut it again. “It’s just not the same when one’s expected to do it.”

  Whit laughed and maneuvered around a sapling. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s expected for men to swear in the company of other men. I do so regularly and enjoy it immensely.”

  They reached the path, but rather than put her on her feet, he continued toward the house.

  “Perhaps it’s an acquired skill.” She craned her neck to look down the path. “Aren’t you going to set me down?”

  “No point in it. We’ll meet the horse and groom on the way.”

  “But you must be tired,” she insisted. “I’m no longer a child, Whit.”

  “No, you are not,” he replied softly, and for a brief second, his eyes changed from laughter and concern to something else, something she couldn’t read.

  “I…” She wanted to ask him what that something was, but it was gone before she could work up the courage to form the words. “I think I hear hoofbeats,” she finished lamely.

  “And the cavalry arrives. I could carry you back, if you like. It’s bound to be more comfortable than having your injury jostled about on the horse.”

  “It’s a quarter-mile walk, Whit. You can’t carry me all that way.”

  “I certainly could.”

  Before answering, Mirabelle was careful to take into consideration what Evie referred to as “the innate fragility of male vanity.”

  “You’d know your limitations better than I, I’m sure,” she said prudently. “But it would be unkind not to use the horse after Miss Heins went through the trouble of fetching it for us.”

  After a few minutes on that horse, Mirabelle was willing to reconsider Whit’s offer. She was uncomfortable riding. No matter how slowly and carefully Whit led the mare, her sore ankle bounced painfully. And though she may have liked the distraction of conversation, she was forced to give up all attempts at it in favor of gritting her teeth.

  By the time they reached the house, she was too exhausted to object when Whit scooped her off the mare’s back and carried her inside. One of the dozen or so servants who—along with Lady Thurston—had been waiting for them could have managed the job, but it seemed a waste of energy to point it out.

  “Which of the guest rooms are empty?” Whit asked the group at large.

  “This way.” Lady Thurston led them down the hall, calmly giving instructions as she went. “We’ll need some of your special tea, Mrs. Hanson, and some extra wood for the fire, Lizzy. If you’d be so kind to see if my niece and daughter have returned from their ride, Hilcox? And I believe the Duke and Duchess of Rockeforte can be roused. The man can’t make her sleep forever.”

  Mirabelle managed a half smile for Whit. “Aren’t you going to take me to my room?”

  Her room, they both knew, was located in the family wing at the other end of the house—on the second floor.

  “I’ll take you after the physician—”

  “I really don’t need a doctor, Whit,” she cut in. “And I don’t need to be brought to my room. I was only jesting.”

  “Needed or not, jesting or not, you’ll have both,” he informed her as they crossed the threshold into the guest room.

  She didn’t argue with him. She wasn’t given the opportunity. No sooner had he laid her gently on the bed than he was being forcefully pushed out the door again by his mother, Mrs. Hanson, and several hovering maids.

  “Thank you, my lord. I believe we can handle things quite well from here.”

  “I’m certain you can, Mrs. Hanson, but—”

  “Tisn’t proper for you to be about while we look at her injuries, your lordship.”

  “I’ve already seen them, Lizzy. I want a physician—”

  “It’s only a sprained ankle.”

  “Nonetheless—”

  “Out!” This last came from Lady Thurston, and she punctuated the command with a quick nudge that propelled him the last inch out the door.

  Thusly banished, and none too happy about it, Whit stood in the hallway and scowled at the door for a moment before turning away.

  He wasn’t going to pace outside the room, waiting for some scrap of news like a lovesick pup. He was going to his study, where he could pour himself a very large brandy.

  Possibly two very large brandies.

  Perhaps he’d omit the pouring altogether and drink straight from the bottle. What ever it took to erase the memory of Mirabelle bleeding at the bottom of a steep hill.

  Remembering now, his heart contracted painfully in his chest, an echo of the panic he’d felt when he’d seen her disappear from the path. The relief upon finding her conscious and relatively whole at the bottom had been near staggering. As had the desire to gather her in and rock and pet and stroke until the lines of pain in her face were soothed away.

  It was, he decided now, a completely natural reaction to the sight of a woman in danger and discomfort. And since he’d pushed the panic away and handled the situation satisfactorily, he saw no reason to dwell on the matter.

  It wasn’t that he was embarrassed, exactly, he was simply a good deal more embarrassed by what had come after—when the intial fear for her well-being had passed and he’d picked her up. She’d been soft and warm and rumpled against his chest, and she’d had her arms twined around his neck. She’d smelled of earth and roses.

  And for the third time in two days, he had found himself reacting to Mirabelle as a man reacts to a woman. Not a little girl, not an aggravating house guest, and not an opponent, but a woman.

  Suddenly, he’d wanted to touch for reasons other than to comfort, to hear her moan and whimper in something other than distress. Or, perhaps more honestly, in a very different sort of distress.

  He’d seen himself laying her back down on the soft earth, stripping away her torn gown, and letting his hands take over. He’d imagined tasting that intriguing beauty mark above her lip, then working his way over to her ear, down her neck and lower. Then lower still.

  He’d wondered if he might find that blue satin somewhere.

  When she’d twisted in his arms, his eyes had dropped to where his coat covered her, and the sight of it aroused a sense of possession in him…and a considerable amount of self-recrimination.

  She was injured, for God’s sake. And he was having erotic fantasies of taking her in the dirt. He had more control than that.

  He certainly had more finesse.

  Suffering now from the unfortunate combination of worry and lust, he pushed through the study and headed directly to the sideboard.

  “A bit early in the day for that, isn’t it?”

  Whit didn’t bother to turn at the sound of Alex’s voice. His oldest friend didn’t need an invitation to come in and make himself comfortable in his favorite seat by the fire, would have laughed at the formality, in fact. Whit concentrated on pouring a full glass instead.

  “The length of some days can be measured by how much time one feels has passed, rather than what the clock reads. And by my calculations, it is now”—Whit blew out a long breath—“tomorrow.”

  He picked up the drink, but before he could take a sip, an image of his father, smelling of spirits before noon, sprang to mind. He put the glass back down. “Hell.”

  “Why don’t you ring for something else?” Alex asked, taking a seat.

  “Because I don’t want anything else.” He shot his friend an annoyed glance. “Aren’t you interested in Mirabelle’s condition?”

  “I am, which is why I spoke to one of the maids. A sprained ankle, isn’t it?” Alex sent him a patronizing smile. “Overreacting a bit, don’t you th
ink?”

  Whit raised a brow at the mocking tone. “And how is Sophie this morning?”

  A corner of Alex’s mouth’s twitched. “Touché. But Sophie is my wife. Mirabelle’s been little more to you than a nuisance.”

  “And it follows I should enjoy the sight of her in pain?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Alex assured him easily. “But I’d have expected you to see a touch of humor in the situation.”

  “You find her injury amusing?” Whit asked coolly.

  “No, but I find the image of you carrying the imp up the side of a hill and halfway back to the house immensely entertaining. I can’t imagine a more reluctant knight in shining armor.”

  Whit remembered just how unreluctant he’d been, and to his everlasting horror, he felt the heat of embarrassment spread in his chest and crawl up his neck.

  Alex leaned forward in his chair. “Holy hell, are you…blushing, Whit?”

  “I bloody well am not.” Please, God, make it true.

  “You bloody well are,” Alex countered and threw his head back to roar with laughter. “I haven’t seen you redden like that since we were children.”

  “I am not blushing,” Whit ground out. Men, by God, did not blush.

  “I beg your pardon,” Alex offered with an exaggerated—and unconvincing as he was still chuckling—courtesy. “I haven’t seen you flushed, then, since childhood. Or would you prefer, ‘I haven’t seen your color up since—’?”

  “I haven’t planted you a facer since childhood either. Would you care for a reminder of what that was like?”

  Alex held a hand up in peace. “Tempting as it may be, your mother would have both our heads if we indulged in fisticuffs.”

  “She’d have mine. There wouldn’t be enough left of yours to be of use to her.”

  Competitive as only a brother could be, Alex sneered gamely. “A round at Jack’s, next time we’re in London,” he challenged. “A hundred pounds.”

  “One-fifty.”

  “Done.”

  They shook on it, both of them grinning, as pleased with themselves as they were sure of their victory.