by Baird Wells
“Me, offended by you? Amusing.” she sniffed. “Besides, if you have complaints about my skill, you are welcome to address them with my superior.”
“Hah. Grayfield always takes your side.”
Ignoring him, and the potential truth of his accusation, she got down on all fours beside the bed, peering into the dim light and sweeping a hand beneath for her case. It took a moment to register that something was brushing her hair, and it wasn't the dust ruffle. That something was fingers. Ty’s fingers.
She sat up. “What are you doing?”
His owl eyes blinked. “Touching your hair.”
“Why?”
“It was there. I'm sitting here waiting.” He formed his words with the careful deliberation of someone nearly foxed, planting a fist on his hip. “You've never touched someone's hair before?”
Well, no, not out of boredom. Olivia didn't admit it aloud. She was not about to engage in such a conversation with Ty just now. He was a tad too drunk, and she was too sober for anything deeper.
Staring a moment longer at his serious if unfocused expression, she ducked back under the bed and continued searching. “Here it is!”
“I was beginning to hope you wouldn't find it,” he grumbled.
Fighting a laugh, she sat back up and pointed to the gin. “As I said, you're welcome to go to bed if you believe my talents are less than adequate.”
He tried crossing his arms, betraying the gesture by wincing. “No, no. Continue.”
Nodding in triumph, she stood and set the brick-sized wooden box on the coverlet. “Stand up. Let's get a look at how badly you've abused yourself.”
“Me? I would say –” His mouth snapped shut.
Nothing. He would say nothing, because he was wise enough not to argue with a woman who was about to pierce his flesh. Feeling smug, she stepped close and grasped the tail of his shirt.
He startled nimbly considering his injury and the gin. “Now what are you doing?”
“Shirt has to come off.”
“I can take it off,” he protested, cheeks tinting a deeper shade of red. There was no rhyme or reason to his sense of modesty.
“As can I. Here we go.” She brought the tail over his head, ran fingers up his biceps along raised arms, chasing the sleeves until it dropped to the floor. She stifled the pleasure of smoothing hands over his bare skin, the thrill of stripping even a single article of clothing.
Ty stared down at her, close enough that each breath was warm across her face. Avoiding his eyes, she wondered if their minds followed a similar path.
She glanced to her bare third finger, still absent a ring. John. Why had his name taken so long to penetrate her thoughts? Maybe because they were not truly engaged. They were just two people who enjoyed dancing together and did not enjoy eating Sunday dinner alone.
That wasn't fair, she sighed. John was dependable. Distant, but he didn't sleep through the opera and enjoyed discussing the papers. Her uncle liked him well enough. Why was that no longer satisfying? She glanced down again and realized her fingers rested at Ty's wrist.
In her haste to step back, she knocked her head against the mantle. Ty doubled over with laughter, and rubbing her bump, she joined him. “Perhaps I'm not the one who should be tending you, after all.”
He wagged an unsteady finger. “I've made my devil's deal. No going back.”
“Remember you said so, later.” She pulled the lid off of her case and patted the mattress. “Have a seat and let's see if we can muddle through.”
Grunting, he palmed the gin, falling to the bed with enough force that the frame groaned. He swigged deep from the bottle, eyes widening over the rim as she threaded her needle. She frowned at her work, tossing him a glance. “You know you will regret every drop come morning.”
“No, I will not.” Handsome features screwed up into the frown of a petulant child, and then he grinned. “I will not be awake in the morning.”
She nodded at the truth of his words. Gin rendered him useless till early afternoon. “No arguing there.” She poked the needle into her bodice and patted his knee. “Open up.”
He leaned back, bracing one hand on the mattress and spreading his knees so that she could kneel between them. Inhaling a steadying breath, she drank in a scent that was uniquely Ty. Seville oranges and the clean bite of Castile soap. Saddle leather and something earthy like pipe smoke. Masculine, expensive taste charmed her as a woman and appealed to a trace of aristocrat inside.
She ran a finger over a ragged pink line just below his heart in a bid to ignore the smell, the intimate proximity of their bodies. It was an old scar, its thickness hinting at severity. “More serious than a table leg.”
His eyes closed and he nodded. “Mm. Would have killed me. Webb shot the bastard in the head and caused the ball hit low. Kept my guts from spilling out.”
General Webb was the only person from home that Ty mentioned regularly and fondly. Olivia wondered absently how they managed a friendship. She had certainly never been able to. Kate was rarely mentioned, and Olivia suspected she knew why.
There were more scars. Smooth, narrow saber lines, fat cords of healed tissue left by a bayonet. She was staring; she realized it when Ty cleared his throat. “The attention is appreciated, but the anticipation is killing me.”
“What? Oh, oh. I'm...of course.” She shook her head and picked the knot from a strip of linen around his ribs. It was doing a less than satisfactory job of holding down his bandage. Why had they used it in the first place? She pried at the damp wad, crimson almost to its edges. Fibers had crusted to his skin with dried blood, and Olivia did her best to pull the fabric without disturbing the wound. This would take some time.
“Rip it.”
“What?” She'd heard him, but she couldn't believe it.
“Trust me, it's kinder if you get the thing over with. Grab it.”
Sucking a deep breath in unison with Ty, she pinched the bandage and jerked.
“Huh!” Ty's fingers bit her shoulders and he doubled over, resting his forehead against her crown. After a moment, his chest stopped heaving and he sat up.
Of all things, he smiled. “Thank you.”
Her trembling arms relaxed. This was not her area of expertise. “We'll see if you feel the same tomorrow. Ready?”
“All that I can be.”
Pressing her finger along the gash, Olivia worked to get a sense of what was wound and what was blood. Once she felt certain, she pinched both sides of the crescent together with one hand and retrieved her needle with the other. Digging teeth into her lip, she pierced Ty's flesh bracing for a groan, a wince. He was still. She glanced up at his face, expecting to find discomfort. His expression was flat, fixed on the mantle but far away.
Looping the needle, she pulled the amber gut through tissue, daring three more stitches before she looked up again. Now he faced her, neck craned to observe her progress. “You have lovely fingers.”
Outwardly ignoring the remark, preening inside, she waved the needle. “Doesn't this hurt?”
He half shrugged. “It smarts at first. After a pass or two, there's numbness and it all tends to feel the same. Also, gin.” His grin was crooked.
“How could I forget?” Anxious to be finished, she pulled the last two stitches through. “That's good. Even better, I'm done.” Relaxing her shoulders, Olivia surveyed her handiwork and plucked a small pair of steel shears from her case. She knotted the twine and snipped off its tail, taking her time to avoid his eyes.
Ty craned his head left and right, examining the result. “Not half bad, Dimples. Perhaps I'll keep you around after all.”
She glanced up, ready with a sharp retort, and stopped. His gaze stole her words, warm and steady. She could rest fingers at his throat, run them over his chest, the flat plane of his stomach...
And be dismissed for it. Shamed for it. The voice doused her in shame and common sense. Throwing the shears back into the box harder than intended, she rolled back onto her heels and got
up. “In my opinion, you'll live.”
“I agree with you now.” He shook the decanter, then placed it back on the side table. “In a few hours, however, I will undoubtedly feel otherwise.” He rolled back onto the bed with masculine grace, stretching slowly out along the quilt. “Coming to bed?”
His question tugged at something in her chest, but she swatted it away. “Soon enough. Let me set the work room to rights and then I'll be up.” Truthfully, she had every intention of sleeping on the parlor sofa. It would afford her space, a night to think, and would settle her mind. Lying side-by-side with Ty would do nothing for her clarity, but he didn't need to know that. And he wouldn't; gin would work its magic and he would never be the wiser.
“Olivia.” She was nearly through the door when his voice stopped her, turning her back. “Thank you.”
She smiled, reaching for the knob. “You're of no use to me dead.”
* * *
He was dying, that was the only explanation. Joints throbbed, his side felt raw and swollen. A tearing pain between his temples would split his head any moment now. Ty wasn't opposed to it. He just wished it would hurry up and happen.
“Oh, gin,” he muttered to the silent room. “You seduce me and steal all my money.”
Wincing at the taste of his own breath, he inhaled again and forced himself up the mattress with trembling arms, coming to rest against the headboard. When he finally managed his eyes open, he became aware of something wonderful: the dark blue linen curtains were drawn tight, steeping the room in cool shadows against midday sun. The window was open and a breeze fluttered the drapes and slipped beneath, its breath fanning his cheek. A smell tickled his nose on the next gust. Stiff necked, he turned his head incrementally to get a look at the side table. A plain blue and white porcelain tray offered up a little cup and silver chocolate pot, steam whispering out of the spout. One thick slice of coarse bread, toasted golden, sat cut and buttered beside its counterparts. On the tray's edge perched a little glass jar half full of water, beside a spoon whose bowl heaped with white powder. Soda ash, for the headache. That, or Olivia was finally done with him. He managed a smile.
Rolling over, he intended to put the table in reach and then stopped, aching, out of steam and run aground on the pillows. Just a moment. He just needed a few breaths in order to rally. Giving up, he sank into the bedding.
Vanilla. Olivia's perfume washed over him, with a hint of the cream she used before bed. Honey or amber? It didn't matter. His body was already tightening, heart hammering against an anvil in his head. He slid arms up into the cool space between her cotton pillow sham and the sheet, drawing himself deeper into her scent. Her lips were firm for being so full; he remembered that surprise very well. When they'd embraced, their bodies had fit together better than with any woman he'd known before. Groaning, he thumbed a button on his breeches, body well ahead of his brain.
“Tyler?”
He started at Olivia's voice drifting through the door, and grabbed his burning side. If his thoughts had summoned her, he wished that power away.
The door opened. He snapped his eyes from the narrow shaft of light until Olivia had closed it again, then faced her. Dammit all, couldn't she just once look plain? Particularly now, when he was struggling to push temptation away. Simple oatmeal muslin covered her wrist to ankle, golden tresses a tidy pile at the back of her head, and still she was breathtaking.
She settled beside him on the bed and picked up the jar, whisking in the soda ash. “Major Burrell, how are you feeling today?”
He didn't miss a wry bent to her words. “Predictably.”
“Mm. Start with this.” She pressed the jar into his palm, fingers brushing his knuckles.
Uncomfortable aching. That described him now, head to foot, and her touch was not helping. He knocked back the liquid, hoping it would take the edge off.
“Here,” she winced, managing some steaming chocolate and passing him the cup.
It didn't turn his guts; in fact, it smelled delicious. Olivia, it seemed, was full of surprises. “Did you make this?”
“I did.” She beamed, folding hands in her lap. “And I believe I did it correctly. I don't know my way around a kitchen, but I used chocolate to poison someone on an assignment.”
He froze, rim on his lips and waited for her to laugh.
Silence.
She blinked, apparently waiting for his opinion of her efforts. Hands clasped, eyes wide, she watched him. For better or worse he'd have to take a sip.
Sweet, creamy and a touch bitter; his stomach threatened to lurch, but something substantial and earthy about the flavor settled him. “Well, thank God we're on the same side.”
She took the cup, settling it back on the tray with a serene curve to her lips. He had expected her to offer toast, ask if he needed anything. Instead she draped across his stomach without warning, poking at last night's handiwork.
Frustrated tension knotted deeper in his gut. Cupping her shoulder, he pushed her back upright without thinking.
“I haven't checked your stitches,” she protested, leaning in again.
“I'm fine,” he barked, more roughly than he'd intended.
“They look red,” she argued. “You've been rubbing them against the quilt. Maybe wrap them up before you dress?” She tried reaching over him again.
He gripped her wrist, swinging her arm back against his chest. “I'm sorted out, truly. If I need help, you'll be the first person I ask.”
“All right,” she grumbled, pulling her arm away.
“Give me a moment? I'll get myself together and be down directly.”
“Of course.” Standing, she smiled and pointed at his forgotten plate. “Finish your toast before the soda gets hold of you.”
Ducking his head, he smiled back. “I am the lady's to command.”
“Hush.” The door closed on her laughter.
Covering his face, Ty groaned into his palms, scrubbing eyes with the heels of his hands. What was wrong with him lately? The aftermath of Kate, the end of his affair with Georgiana; he was off balance. That must be the explanation. Back on his feet and otherwise alone, he and Olivia had been thrown together at an awkward time. A good time, he amended. She kept him on his toes, asking nothing. If only she wasn't so damned engaging, and beautiful, and...
He cut off the thought, too bruised and cross for an exercise in futility. Working his way off of the mattress, he planted unsteady feet on the rug, bracing a hand on the bed post until a wave of bright spots passed. Dressing himself felt impossible. His valet and butler would see an increase in their wages when he got home, and an acknowledgment of just how indispensable they truly were.
He transferred water from an ivory pitcher into a matching bowl atop the wash stand. That was the easy part, standing and some minor lifting. Unfortunately, his case was in the bottom of the wardrobe, and that meant bending. He regretted sending Olivia away.
Managing his black leather case up onto the bed, Ty punctuated his efforts with a lot of promises muttered to heaven. He dragged the wash stand closer, settling his mirror beside the bowl. Shaving was not a task suited to darkness, but he was not opening the curtains just yet. He scraped and swished the razor until the job was done, finishing with a bracing splash of cold water to the face.
A pungent smack of spearmint and tarragon churned his stomach, threatening to bring up the chocolate as he dipped his toothbrush into the powder. He should have heeded Olivia's advice and eaten the damn toast. It took a handful of slow, deep breaths to finish the process.
When he was finally put back together, Ty stood at the foot of the bed with hands on his hips, giving himself a stern, silent lecture: Get a hold of yourself. Pay attention to your work. Don't allow Olivia Fletcher or any other woman to throw you off balance.
‘Any other woman.’ Was he serious? Ty snorted, grabbing his brown coat from the wardrobe. Mostly Olivia Fletcher.
CHAPTER SIX
Olivia scrunched down into Philipe's gray brocade a
rmchair, extending her toes closer to the fire’s glowing embers. The sky had been clear on their trip across Paris to the duke's home, enough that she'd laughed at Ty's prediction for rain the next day. He'd been just right enough to be smug about it when a sudden shower caught their afternoon ride. She'd spurred from the wood in a rush to reach the stables, fat drops stinging her face and saturating her wool riding habit. Clean towels and dry clothes hadn't chased away a bone-deep chill, so she'd drawn up dangerously close to the fireplace.
Across the drawing room, Ty commanded a stool, while Philipe knocked against the maple top of his piano for emphasis. They were arguing over composers, near as she could tell. Rode, a violinist, and Bomtempo, a pianist. She hadn't caught why there was dissension and, cozy in her spot, didn't care.
“Plenty of ladies are entertained by my tap-tapping, major.” Philipe's rich voice rose, buoyed by wine, in response to Ty's less-audible dig. “It's practically a siren song in comparison to the screech of a cat being shut in a door.”
Ty puffed up. “You're serious? Against the violin, instrument of the masters?”
“I'm not certain that's the phrase I would have chosen.”
“It's a Guarneri!” protested Ty.
Over her shoulder, Olivia watched Philipe run a hand along his piano's lacy music stand. “And this, thank God, is not.”
Any moment they were going to start swinging, and over what? Their ridiculous instruments. “Shh!” She laughed, stifling a yawn into the back of her hand. “Get your fiddle, major. Then you can play together and make peace.”
