by Shana Galen
She had nothing to fear. Peter sat right outside, and Winterbourne was always somewhere close by. She’d never admit it to the arrogant marquess, but his presence at Tanglewilde today, the few glimpses she’d had of him walking about the property, had calmed her fears and made her feel safe. Even so, she crossed to the window and closed the curtains.
Turning back to the bunny, she put her hands on her hips. This would have been one night when dinner with her parents was preferable to staying in her hospital alone. Her mother and half the staff had certainly attempted to force her back into her bed, but Francesca stalwartly refused. Thankfully, her mother was too preoccupied with the betrothal to force the issue. Besides she was weary of lying abed doing nothing, and she’d never forgive herself if the rabbit took an unexpected turn while she was away. Not to mention, she had to keep the bunny from chewing at the bandages and undoing all her hard work. She’d already seen the rabbit tugging at the cloth strips once or twice.
Nat would arrive soon to watch the bunny through the night, and as far as Francesca was concerned, he couldn’t come too soon. She could have taken the rabbit inside, but it would be a clear sign to everyone that she’d given into her fear. She had to be strong. After Roxbury, Francesca had learned she must conquer her demons or they would eat her from the inside out.
She heard a thump outside and jumped involuntarily. Stock-still, listening, she heard it again. Just Peter moving about on the step outside. Balling her fists, Francesca willed her heartbeat to slow. Her nerves were frayed—too little sleep and the added stress of caring for the injured rabbit. But she couldn’t stop herself from stealing another peek through the slim opening in the curtains.
Nothing out there.
“What will we do with you, bunny?” Francesca knelt beside the kennel. The rabbit had flinched at the noise outside as well. “How can I let you go back out there? What with all the dogs and foxes and cats and your injured leg, you won’t last a day.” She stroked the bunny, watching the animal’s tension ease. The creature was falling asleep, finally giving into the laudanum.
“And soon you won’t be afraid of people. In a few days you’ll be hopping up to every person you see, hoping for a treat. If I release you, no doubt some idiot hunter with a rifle and no appreciation of how beautiful life is will find you.”
“You’ve a pretty low opinion of sportsmen.”
The quiet voice came from the shadow of the doorway, and Francesca squealed in alarm.
It was Winterbourne, of course. She’d recognized his voice immediately, but that hadn’t stopped her heart from seizing. Her chest clenched painfully enough that she was pretty certain his unexpected appearance had just shaved a year off her life, if not two. But she couldn’t allow Winterbourne to see her fear, and she schooled her face into a mask of serenity before she glanced at him.
He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, mouth quirked in that roguish way that made her breath catch. Forgetting all about attackers and bumps in the night, she felt a familiar wave of attraction break over her. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from that sensual mouth.
She wondered how his lips would feel on hers. Would he kiss her softly? Would his lips be playful or was he the sort of man who kissed a woman with hard, demanding passion?
An image of Roxbury came into her mind, but she pushed it aside before it took hold.
“Sportsmen!” she scoffed. “I wouldn’t call them sportsmen. How is finding a defenseless creature and shooting its head off a sport?”
Winterbourne pushed away from the door, coming fully into the light. “I suppose some would argue that the patience of the hunt or the skill involved in tracking the animal makes it a sport.”
Francesca could see his amber eyes assessing her, the gold in them like molten fire.
“Handling a rifle and firing a clean shot takes a certain amount of ability as well.” He set something on the floor and put his hands on her examining table, long fingers splayed on the smooth wood.
Francesca snorted and rose from the rabbit’s cage, keeping her movements smooth and slow, not wanting to disturb the bunny’s sleep. “A clean shot? Have you ever seen a maimed animal, suffering a slow, painful death?” She stood opposite him at the table.
“Unfortunately some men are careless or irresponsible.”
“Careless? Irresponsible?” Francesca hissed the words, mindful of the skittish rabbit behind her. “Well, the next time I see a squirrel with a bloody stump of a leg, terror and anguish in its eyes, struggling for one last breath, I’ll just say, ‘Sorry, Mr. Squirrel, some men are just careless and irresponsible’ and go whistling about my way.”
She could hear the raw emotion in her voice, was embarrassed by it, but Winterbourne clasped her hand across the table before she could turn away. She kept her gaze on his hand. It was bronze and sprinkled with golden hair that was almost invisible except in this low light. She felt the calluses on his fingers and wondered if he felt her own roughened palms. Roxbury had chided her for not having the hands of a lady. He’d always worn black leather gloves to protect his own hands.
“You’re right, Francesca,” she heard Winterbourne say.
Her gaze shot to his and saw a sincerity there she hadn’t expected. Sincerity and a glimmer of understanding. His grip tightened on her hand.
“Most men want to feel powerful. In control. Some feel a sense of control from exercising power over something weaker than themselves—an animal, a servant, a child.” His penetrating stare locked on her face. “A woman.”
Francesca averted her eyes and tried to pull her hand away, but Ethan didn’t let go. “I’ve never seen the appeal of hunting. I don’t need to knock something—or someone—down to build myself up.”
Her hand still in his warm palm, Winterbourne rounded the edge of the table, stopping before her. But he was too close. She could feel the warmth of his body, his solid presence. Too close in more ways than one.
With his free hand, he reached out and stroked her cheek, bringing her gaze back to his. “You’re tired.” She nodded, her mind a whirl of emotions, fatigue, and the overwhelming experience of being near him. “I brought you dinner. Where do you want me to put it?”
Her gaze darted about the room looking for the trick. “Y-you brought dinner?”
He nodded to a wicker basket on the other side of the table. “From your cook.”
She eyed the basket suspiciously. It looked ordinary enough. “But shouldn’t a footman have seen to that?”
He was still holding her hand, and she pulled away. Amusement flared in his eyes. “I offered my services.”
“Why?” she blurted out.
He rounded the table and picked up the basket. “How about in front of the fire?”
Before she could agree or disagree, he’d opened the basket and was pulling out dishes of food wrapped in clean white linen to keep them warm. She saw almond soup, cheese, what smelled like fresh bread, dried currants and gooseberries, and wine. With a pang of disappointment, she noted the absence of pastries. She’d been hoping Cook might send any remaining chocolate tarts. She peered into the basket as Winterbourne took out the last wrapped dish, but he snapped it shut before she could see inside. The basket appeared empty anyway.
She kept only one chair in the hospital—the building was small and she liked to keep it free of clutter—and Francesca offered it to Winterbourne.
“Let’s sit on the floor.” He gestured to the wide space before the hearth.
Francesca’s mouth dropped open. “Like a picnic?”
“Why not?”
Francesca found herself smiling despite the awkwardness of being in such close quarters with him. She hadn’t expected him to have any sense of humor, and his infrequent quips both surprised and amused her. Of course, wit and intelligence weren’t all that attracted her.
He removed his tailcoat, baring broad shoulders that stretched the fabric of his lawn shirt, and Francesca couldn’t stop herself from tracing the outline of his muscled back with her eyes. Alm
ost too late, she realized he meant to lay the tailcoat on the floor for her to sit upon.
“No!” She snatched the coat from his hands before it touched the floor.
He gave her an odd look.
“You can’t put your coat on the dirty floor,” she explained. “We’ll use one of my blankets.”
To her dismay, as she fetched a blanket from the cupboard, she noticed he didn’t slip into the coat again, merely laid it across the back of the chair. Being alone with him, especially when he wore only shirtsleeves, seemed wildly inappropriate. He had a way of making even the smallest act a seduction. Even the way he casually draped the clothing over the chair implied a familiarity she knew was improper.
And now, with his arrival, the once comfortable hospital seemed far too small. Like the bunny, sleeping curled in the far corner of her small cage, Francesca was crowded, swallowed by his mere presence.
He moved to take the blanket from her, spreading it before the fire. Motionless, she couldn’t help but watch him. He moved like a cat—sleek, silent, and not without something of a swagger. His voice pulled her out of the seductive spell he’d woven.
“Your hospital is spotless,” he said as he lowered himself onto the blanket and turned to her. “My coat was in no danger.”
“It’s hardly spotless.” She willed her legs to move, to carry her closer to him, to bend and seat herself next to him on the blanket. “There’s straw from the kennels floating around,” she added awkwardly. Their closeness, the fire, the blanket—it was too much intimacy. She felt her pulse quicken.
Winterbourne, as usual, appeared unaffected. He handed her a bowl and, opening the tureen of fragrant almond soup, ladled a heaping spoonful into it. “I should do that,” she protested.
“Let me.” His gaze met hers and the protest died on her lips. How was she to resist those eyes?
He filled her bowl, their fingers brushing as he handed it to her. She felt a tingle of pleasure skirt up her spine, but she also felt confusion. Why was he doing this for her? Twice now he’d brought her food, served her.
He was not a nice man. So why wasn’t he acting his part? What did he want from her? Really want? She didn’t believe he was staying at Tanglewilde solely because he wanted to protect her. There had to be another reason—an ulterior motive. But if Winterbourne had a hidden agenda, she couldn’t begin to guess what. Unless, of course, he really was a spy. Francesca almost laughed. She really must stop imagining such ridiculous scenarios.
“You’ve saved me from a long, dull lecture from my valet on the vices of straw and the danger it presents to wool coats.” He spooned soup into his own bowl. “The least I can do is serve the soup.”
Francesca laughed. She’d heard from Peter that Winterbourne’s fussy valet had taken up residence at Tanglewilde—though Peter hadn’t put it quite so diplomatically. She took a sip of her soup. “Your valet sounds as though he’s a force to be reckoned with.”
“Pocket’s a force, yes.” Winterbourne set aside the tureen and bowl and unwrapped the loaf of bread. He stared at it for a moment, looked around helplessly, then tore it into two chunks and handed her one.
Francesca smiled. Apparently, Cook had forgotten knives. “Your valet had better not see you do that, either. You’ve crumbs all over your shirt.”
“Saved again.” He ignored the crumbs and picked up his bowl. His warm gaze met hers. “You seem to have a knack for it.”
She smiled and brought another spoonful of soup to her mouth to hide it.
“If you’re ever in need of a lecture, I’m sure Pocket would be happy to oblige.”
She sighed, relieved at the change of subject. With him barely a hair’s breadth away, any topic was preferable to a discussion of propriety. She ate more soup and most of the bread. “Has he been with you a long time? Your valet?”
“Yes, since my betrothal—” He broke off, scowling, and Francesca held her breath.
Lady Victoria. She was the one topic even the most foolhardy members of the ton dared not mention in front of Winterbourne. The daughter of the Duke of Prestonwood, Lady Victoria was a stunning woman. Several years earlier, she and Winterbourne were betrothed. The ton viewed it as a fairy tale romance, and although Francesca hadn’t yet had her come out, she heard all about it from her mother and The Morning Post.
But what started as the talk of the Season quickly became the scandal of the decade. Before the Season was over, the betrothal had ended, and Winterbourne’s best friend was maimed in a jealous rage. Apparently, the marquess had found Lady Victoria and George Leigh together, innocently talking—at least that was the ton’s view of things—and drew the wrong conclusions as well as his pistol.
That had been the end of the betrothal, the friendship, and Lady Victoria’s reputation. Even a duke’s daughter couldn’t escape the taint of the scandal on her character—though everyone assured everyone else the beauty had been completely blameless—and Lady Victoria had been forced to marry far beneath her station, a country lord from Ireland.
Now Winterbourne studied her, his gaze shrewd. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Francesca.”
She felt the pulsing tension radiating from him. Avoiding his stare, she nodded. Then his hand shot out, and she flinched instinctively, turning her cheek to avoid the brunt of the blow.
Of course, it never came.
Mortified, she opened her eyes, and saw he was holding a napkin filled with dried cherries. He lowered it with a frown. “What the devil was that?”
She felt the heat rising from her neck to her forehead. “Nothing. I’m sorry, my lord.” She scooted back.
“Ethan,” he corrected. “Did you think I would hit you?” He moved closer.
“No! I—” She shifted, and he grabbed her wrist. She gasped and saw him register her reaction.
“You’ve been hit before.”
Face burning, her mind raced for a plausible excuse.
“Who?” His warm fingers tightened on her wrist, grip firm but not painful. “Who hit you, Francesca?”
She jumped again at his harsh tone, and his hold on her wrist eased. Slowly, he drew her closer. “Tell me, Francesca.”
She couldn’t take her eyes from his—amber fire that warmed her through.
“No one,” she whispered.
He frowned and took her other hand in his. “Then why did you flinch and draw back?”
The blood pounded in her ears—his closeness, his questions—she couldn’t cope with them, couldn’t think.
“I-I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. I—” Her voice broke and the words wouldn’t come out. Salty tears welled in her eyes. He released her wrists, and she felt his hands caress her arms. Then he tugged her gently, and she was in his embrace. His hand caressed her back, smoothed her hair away from her face, and all fear of him was gone. She was warm. Safe. Comforted.
“It’s all right.”
She barely recognized his voice. There was a tenderness in it she’d heard only in her imagination.
“Just don’t cry.”
She smiled shakily then because the order sounded more like him. She allowed him to hold her just a little longer, though she knew she shouldn’t. It felt so good to be in his arms, and she was so tired. She closed her eyes and drifted.
Several minutes later, she was jarred awake as he pushed her away and stood. “We’d better go,” he said, turning his back to her.
Lord, she’d almost fallen asleep in his arms!
Then her chest tightened as she realized that he didn’t seem to want her there. He’d felt sorry for her, pitied her, and she’d fallen into his embrace, tried to make it into something more. She was falling in love with him all over again, but the result would be the same as it was when they’d first met.
He did not want her.
She straightened her spine and tried not to think of his rejection. “Of course. Go ahead inside,” she said tonelessly. She darted a glance at the window. “I’ll be fine here.”
He swung a
round. “You’re not staying out here tonight.”
“Just a little longer.” She needed a few moments away from him to calm herself. “Nat will be here in a moment.” She glanced at the window as if her look alone could hurry the groom from his chores.
“You’ll go inside now or I wait with you. I sent your footman inside, and I won’t have you out here alone.”
She shook her head. “Lord Winterbourne—”
“Will you bloody well call me Ethan?” he shouted.
Francesca jumped off the blanket. “Do not shout, Ethan. You’ll scare the bunny.”
“Am I scaring you?” He stepped toward her. Once again, she felt the size of his presence, his overwhelming strength and masculinity. “Because I don’t think you’ve got it through your thick skull yet that you are in danger. The man who attacked you will come back.”
“I doubt that.” It seemed easier to deal with her fears if she denied them, ignored them.
“Don’t.”
She forced herself to keep her back to the window facing the crumbling Roman wall where she’d been attacked. She had drawn the curtain, hadn’t she? Instead of checking again, like some kind of obsessed lunatic, she turned from him to go to the rabbit. Caring for the bunny would take her mind from her fears.
His hand on her elbow stopped her. “There is a slight possibility you know this man, Francesca.”
She shook her head. The idea that someone she knew would do such a thing was ridiculous. Impossible.
“Yes.” He squeezed her elbow. “I’ve been talking to the servants, putting the facts together. It’s unlikely, but he might be a man of your acquaintance.”
She huffed. “That’s ludicrous.”
“It does seem far-fetched.” His hand moved to circle her upper arm, warm and steady. “On the other hand, it makes sense. The attack might have been random. But a passerby was quite lucky you were walking into the house at that moment. If it’s someone you know, then there was no luck. The attacker knows the estate grounds and your habits.” His fingers traced the edge of her jaw, and she tried to ignore the frisson of pleasure his touch produced. “He’ll want to finish what he started.”
