Christmas With a Scoundrel

by Bethany M. Sefchick

  Still, she was not so far gone that he could not help her.

  She would live. He hoped.

  Making certain the water in the large copper tub was warm but not scalding, Michael picked up the now-naked woman and placed her in the tub gently, not surprised when the water immediately darkened as the grime flowed off of her body. Without much thought, he washed her hair quickly and efficiently in the same water before lifting her back out and placing her in a second large tub that was also full of clean, warm water. He was pleased when this water did not turn dark from the grime and used yet more soap to finish bathing her until he was satisfied.

  Under normal circumstances, Michael would have likely enjoyed bathing this lovely creature but at present, all he saw was a body in need of cleansing.

  Once satisfied that she was clean enough for now, Michael laid out some towels on the counterpane before lifting her from the water and laying her back down on the bed. Given that she didn’t protest or whimper, he suspected that she was more unconscious than sleeping, which was not a good sign. If she was slipping away from him, he might not be able to bring her back to the world of the living.

  Even he, Satan’s Physician, could not work miracles.

  Still, he vowed to do his best to save her life. This woman would not die if it were within his power to save her.

  Before he began attending to her wound, he risked a few moments to find himself some fresh, clean clothing. After all, he had no wish to do surgery naked, should such a thing be necessary.

  Turning now to the smaller copper tub full of hot water that was a normal part of his field hospital routine, Michael plunged his hands into the steaming water, hissing a bit at the sting of the still nearly boiling water. Cleanliness was the key to success in healing. One of his instructors back in Italy had taught Michael that philosophy, and he clung to it still, even though others of his profession thought him mad. No matter. Michael would rather risk burning his own flesh – even temporarily – if it saved even one person from death due to the spread of infection.

  Using one of the clean towels that Mrs. Lambert brought, Michael quickly set about preparing a clean and dry area on top of the bedding near the woman’s leg, so that he could treat the wound without soiling the sheets any more than was necessary.

  Though most physicians thought him foolish in this as well, Michael believed that cleanliness in all aspects of medicine helped to prevent the spread of infection. He wasn’t certain why, but in the course of his own work, Michael had discovered that a clean operating theater provided better results than a dirty one.

  Grasping a bottle of brandy, he poured some directly into the wound, cleaning the area as best he could. Water, he knew, tended to be dirty, particularly in the field, but alcohol was an excellent cleansing agent and lessened infection. As he had expected, the moment the brandy hit her open wound, the lady’s eyes flew open – hazel in color he noted absently – and she screamed bloody murder, the pain likely so intense that it had pulled her from whatever haze she had lingered in after collapsing in his stables. Thankfully, his staff was well trained in field medicine and had at least some idea of what he was doing in here.

  They also understood that no matter how much she might scream, he was not harming her.

  Still, Michael paused for a moment before continuing, just to make certain Markham wasn’t attempting to break down the door. With that man, one never knew.

  Satisfied that no one believed he was murdering the woman, Michael set about tending to the area and when he was satisfied with his work, he bandaged the wound, hoping that her fever would not increase overnight. He had also applied a large amount of honey to the open wound before covering it, hoping to speed the healing.

  Though most of his contemporaries laughed at this particular practice, Michael had done enough research to believe that the ancient Egyptians had been correct when they believed honey to be a healing agent. It certainly had been on the battlefields of Spain, so Michael had no reason to believe it would be any less effective here in the relative civilization of Somerset.

  The wound itself was rather shallow, but since the knife – for it looked very much like a knife wound – had gone directly into muscle, he knew it probably hurt like the devil. Had it been treated properly at the time, there might not have even been any infection but now there was and Michael had to pray that this woman’s body was still strong enough to overcome her injury.

  Finally satisfied that her leg had been properly tended to, Michael began turning her this way and that, checking for additional injuries. Thankfully, he found none. The woman was clearly malnourished, her torso was rubbed raw from the chaffing of the belt that had bound the pouch to her body, and her feet showed evidence of walking a great deal in ill-fitting shoes. Still, there did not appear to be any injuries that a good deal of rest and proper food could not cure.

  Provided he could get her to stop shivering that was.

  Michael knew when he first brought her inside that she was already extremely cold. He had hoped that the high fire in the room would help to ease her chill, especially since it was now so hot in here that he was sweating profusely simply standing still.

  It hadn’t helped. The blankets he had piled on top of her torso while he had worked on her leg hadn’t seemed to help either, for her lips were now bluer than they had been before – and he hadn’t thought such a thing possible. Unless she warmed up soon, she would likely succumb to the effects of the cold. He had seen it more times than he could count over the years and it was, in his opinion, an unpleasant way to die.

  Inexplicably, anger surged through him on behalf of this unknown woman. Who had cast her aside so cruelly and forced her out into the elements to die? Or if she had run away from somewhere, what fate had awaited her that she would take such a risk? Having seen much of the world, Michael could venture a guess and that thought enraged him further even though he was well aware that this woman was not his responsibility.

  Well, she was here with him now, under his care, and he would not allow her to die if it was at all within his power. And it was. He was a physician, damn it! He could save her. He knew that he could. He refused to accept that she would die while in his care.

  Hurrying to the door, Michael unlocked it and yanked it open, not surprised to see both Mrs. Lambert and Markham seated in chairs just outside the door.

  “Sir?” Markham looked up when Michael stuck his head out into the dimly lit hallway. “May we be of assistance?”

  “Keep everyone away from this room.” Michael knew he sounded angry, but he didn’t care. He was angry – angry on this woman’s behalf anyway. Angry that she might die and he was the one left responsible for her care. That he was the only person on this earth who seemed to care. “I am not to be disturbed until morning.”

  “And the lady?” Mrs. Lambert’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline.

  Michael’s answer was curt. “She will live. I sincerely hope.”

  “Her reputation?” Lord, the housekeeper was persistent.

  “Will not matter a whit if she expires while in my care.” That came out as more of a growl than Michael would have liked, but there was naught to be done for it.

  Rising, Markham took Mrs. Lambert by the elbow. “Ring if you require assistance, sir. Otherwise, we shall both see you on the ‘morrow.”

  Michael watched as the butler escorted the still protesting housekeeper down the hallway, thankful that at least someone else in this household understood the gravity of the situation they were facing. And understood that he was in no mood to be trifled with.

  Once he was satisfied that he would not be disturbed for the rest of the night, Michael locked the door behind him once more and turned back to his patient. Though she was now buried under a veritable mountain of blankets, she was still shivering. Damn it all anyway!

  With barely contained rage, he stoked the fire as high as he dared, not wishing to set fire to his home and quickly began stripping off his clothes once mor
e. A few weeks prior, he had hoped that the next time he was naked with a female, it would be for pleasurable reasons, and while he would likely find this woman very pleasurable in his bed, such a happy event would never come to pass if she expired on him.

  He paused for a long moment beside the bed, taking in what he could see of her – which admittedly wasn’t much just then. She really was beautiful and likely too highborn for the likes of him. She was certainly a lady and likely the daughter of a duke or an earl or somesuch as well. He was no one of note. A physician who had some success on the fields of war who had returned to England to make a tidy sum working for the Home Office when he was not spying for a duke who did not know the meaning of the words “restraint” or “danger.” Or boundaries of any sort, for that matter.

  Michael had no title, though he was given to understand that a knighthood might be in the offing if the Bloody Duke could arrange matters. He was of mixed blood, as his mother was a disgraced Italian noblewoman and to make matters worse, he had been raised in that foreign land as a Catholic who was now living in a very decidedly non-Catholic country.

  He was accounted handsome enough, if not a little exotic with his raven hair, olive skin and deep brown eyes, but the wounds of battle still showed on his face, mostly in the form of a small scar near his left eye, one by his right eye that ran up and into his hairline, and another, longer one that ran from the right corner of his mouth to just beneath his chin. Not even physicians were exempt from battle when the time came, as he had discovered.

  Michael had a brother he rarely saw and hadn’t even known existed until he was nearly sixteen and already apprenticed to a medical school in Salerno when his mother had passed away unexpectedly. Until that day, Michael hadn’t even known he was half-English, though he had been aware that he was different from the other boys he knew. Among other things, he wasn’t a full-blooded Italian as they were. One only had to look at him to know the truth.

  He didn’t fit in with his Italian peers. In fact, over the years, Michael didn’t really fit in anywhere.

  His accent was now a curious mix of Italian and English, having been away from Italy for so long. His current home, the rather luxurious Thornfield Grange, had once been nothing more than a “hunting box” for a duke who had exceedingly bad luck at the faro tables. Not at all the sort of place a man of mixed heritage should be living, despite how tumble-down the place had been when Michael had purchased it. And despite the fact that no one else wanted it.

  By Society’s dictates, he was not fully English. Thus, he should not be living in a duke’s old estate, should not be raising sought-after racehorses, should not be one of Prinny’s favorite physicians, and should not concern himself with the affairs of the “blue-blooded” English.

  But Michael did so anyway. Because he was not like other men. No, he was Satan’s Physician and there were times, like now, when he wore that title as a shield that gave him leave to do as he pleased, including saving the life of a woman who likely would have otherwise had nothing to do with him had she not been busy dying in his stables this evening.

  So, no, Michael was no delicate English rose’s perfect idea of a gentleman, but he was all this woman had at present. If he ruined her and her reputation in the process? Well, he was sorry for that, truly, but it could not be helped. Not if she valued her life over her reputation, and he hoped very much that she did.

  So he would do what was necessary to save her life, whatever the costs – to both of them.

  The woman shuddered a bit when Michael finally climbed into the bed beside her, but her body was shivering so much that he could not be certain if she took a chill from the cool air that had entered with him, or if she was reacting to his touch as he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close against his body. It might have been his touch because after a moment or two, the hard chills that seemed to wrack her body subsided and now, only small tremors of cold made her shake in his arms.

  And she was, indeed, cold. Too cold for Michael’s liking and he wondered if he had put her life at risk by delaying care as long as he had. Well, there was naught to be done for it, he decided as he pulled her closer, aware that she wasn’t protesting, but much as she had earlier when he had carried her inside, she instinctively sought out his body’s heat, pressing closer – bare skin to bare skin.

  The woman in his arms might not have noticed the intimacy of their position or how sensual of a position they were in, but his body did. Michael’s cock was immediately hard and aching, though he willed his wayward body to behave. He was not here to ravish her. He was in this bed to save her life.

  Careful to avoid her injured leg, Michael shifted his hips so that he could wrap himself more firmly around her, surrounding her much smaller body with his larger one. The woman felt frail but still exceedingly right in his arms, but he pushed those thoughts away. Now was not the time for such foolishness. He wasn’t certain it ever would be. Now was the time to save her life, if he even still could.

  Michael had no idea how long he lay there entwined around her, for at some point, his own eyes began to drift closed. He was vaguely aware of a door opening, even though he had locked them all, and the fire being stoked high once more. Drat Markham and his penchant for picking locks. Then again, that was why His Majesty’s army had employed the man after all. Not to mention that the fire was nice and it was also a relief that he did not have to leave the woman’s side in order to keep it stoked.

  He was also aware of the reactions of the woman’s body, how her shivers lessened the more time that passed and the tighter he held her in his embrace. He was aware of his eager cock as well, which rose stiffly whenever he thought of this woman he held so carefully in his arms and then wilted again when she placed her frigid feet on his legs, seeking out his warmth.

  Michael did his best not to think of her as a person at all but rather as a body needing help. He tried not to wonder about her name or her past or about how she had come to be hiding in his stables. He didn’t want to wonder if there was a man waiting for her elsewhere or if she was truly as innocent as he believed. But he did anyway. He did think and wonder and want.

  Finally, as the night drifted on towards morning, her shaking ceased to only an occasional shiver and finally, Michael felt some measure of relief. She would live. Or she most likely would. The wound he could treat, for he was a rather skilled physician if he did say so himself. Raising her body temperature? Well there he had been less certain of success, but if her lack of shivers were any indication, he was well on the way to succeeding.

  He supposed he could even get up now and tuck the large mound of blankets around her rather relying on his own body heat to warm her. But he didn’t. Instead, for the first time in a very long time, Dr. Michael Longford did as he wished and pulled the woman tighter against him, relishing the feel of her body against his. Then, for the first time in many months, he drifted off into a fitful and yet somehow restful sleep.

  Chapter Three

  It was dark when Aria awoke. She had expected it would be, of course, for she had only meant to nap for an hour at most. Perhaps two if she felt she could take the risk.

  What she had not expected was to awake in a warm room, tucked under numerous quilts and blankets with a clean bandage about her leg. She had also not expected to be naked. That last part alarmed her more than anything else.

  Pushing herself up to her elbows, she gazed warily at her surroundings, taking in as many details as she could that might give her some indication of where she was. Or what had happened while she had been asleep.

  Or had she truly been asleep? What if she had been unconscious? Some sort of internal clock told her that more than just an hour had passed. Indeed, a glance out the window revealed not a world clad in white, fluffy snow and perhaps a bit of dawn, but one that was pitch back as if they were in the middle of the deepest night. If there were snow outside, at least some of the house’s candlelight would have reflected the glittering whiteness back at her. In
stead, there was nothing but darkness and the single tree branch that she could see looked suspicious bare.

  “Ah. Finally. You are awake, pet.”

  Turning in the direction of the rather deep – and not completely English – voice, Aria held back a gasp when she first saw the man who occupied a chair near the hearth. He was tall. She could tell that even though he was seated. He was also undeniably handsome, and yet, there was hardness to him that other men of her acquaintance lacked. His olive skin glowed in the firelight, and his dark eyes seemed as if they were lit from within by a fire she could not see. His raven black hair was rumpled as if he had been running his hands through the locks with some frequency.

  He wore a pair of tight buckskin breeches and a white lawn shirt that was open at the neck to reveal a tempting bit of male chest sprinkled with dark hair. He wore no cravat, tailcoat or waistcoat, but his shiny black Hessians spoke to some level of wealth, even if his casual demeanor gave no hint at noble lineage.

  He was also the only other person in the room.

  Oh, this was not good. Not good at all. Especially when she was really quite naked. Which she suspected the man already knew.

  “Forgive me, sir. Do I know you?” Aria finally managed to find her voice, her words thick, as both her tongue and her throat failed to work as she expected they should.

  “I rather doubt it.” The man shrugged as he rose and then offered her a perfectly executed bow. “I am Dr. Michael Longford. At your service. And you are at my home, Thornfield Grange.” He paused. “Lady Arabella Whitmore. Or should I call you Aria, as your friends do?”

  Whatever words she might have said died on her lips. “How do you know my name?” Oh, Lord help her! If this man was working with Felton, she was surely doomed. Had she been given to this man in exchange for something her cousin desired? Had he bid on her body as Sally had suggested and emerged the winner? Then again, given his looks, would it be so bad if he had? Just how long had she been out of her mind, anyway?