I Kissed a Rogue (Covent Garden Cubs)

by Shana Galen

  Wide-eyed, Lila stared from Hunt to Brook, who had curled into a ball and did not move.

  “I’ll fetch the luggage,” Hunt said.

  Lila stared at Brook’s back for a moment then ran after Hunt. She caught up to him outside, where the drizzle had turned into a fine, wet mist. “Shouldn’t we call for a doctor?”

  Hunt paused and looked down at her politely. “There isn’t a doctor anywhere nearby. He’ll be fine after a day or two of rest.”

  “But surely he needs medicine.”

  “I offered him laudanum, but he won’t take it.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a flask. “He drank some whisky. You might pour some on the wound to make sure it doesn’t fester.”

  Lila stepped back. “I should pour? What about you?”

  “I have to return to London.”

  Lila stumbled backward as though punched. Her face must have mirrored her feeling of betrayal because Hunt’s expression softened.

  “I do apologize, my lady. Sir Brook was quite specific about his orders.”

  She wanted to grasp Hunt by the coat and implore him to stay. She wanted to ask what she was supposed to do with an injured man and no help. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin into the mist. She’d nursed her mother for two years while the duchess had coughed and wasted away from the consumption. She could nurse a strong man with a minor knife wound.

  Of course, she’d had servants to help her at Blakesford. She’d called for tea or a tonic or warm water, and it had appeared. She would not have that luxury now.

  Hunt trudged past her, his arms laden with the luggage. Brook had only allowed her to pack her valise. She’d had to leave most of her more formal gowns at the flat. She would definitely not need them. Even the peach one she still wore was far too fine for this place. She would have to see if Lizzy had packed any of the dresses she’d worn to tend her mother. Most of those had been from several seasons ago or in colors she didn’t think suited her.

  Hunt went back to the coach and made another trip inside, this time carrying a large basket. Lila eyed its progress, for it looked promising. When he returned, Hunt paused before her. “I’d stay longer, my lady, but I don’t want the horses to stand.”

  She nodded. They’d only changed horses when necessary the night before, and these were probably tired and ready for a rest. Hunt would change them out at the first posting house on the return journey.

  “The basket contains a bit of bread and cheese, some wine, and a few apples. It’s all I could find on short notice.”

  “Thank you, Hunt.” The mist on her face numbed her skin and her feelings of despair.

  “I will be back as soon as I can to look in on you. If anything should happen…” Here he paused. He waited until her gaze locked on his. “Mr. and Mrs. Longmire are about a mile and some that way.” He gestured toward the south. “Go to them and have Mr. Longmire ride to Derring House. I’ll come and bring help.”

  Lila nodded, though how she was supposed to walk a mile and some in that direction and find the people she sought was beyond her. She might easily be lost and never find the Longmires. She might break her leg and die in the woods alone.

  Not that there were many woods about. The land had been cleared for farming, and she imagined it pretty and green in the summer. Now the rolling hills were brown with dead vegetation. Still, she could make out patches of wooded areas in the distance, havens for deer and rabbit and fox.

  “You’d best go inside now, my lady,” Hunt said. “You’ll catch a chill if you stay out here.” He looked pointedly at her thin wrap and her thin dress. Lila had long ceased shivering with cold.

  “I will, Hunt. Thank you.”

  His eyes widened with surprise at her words. She knew she was not supposed to thank servants. If one began thanking servants, one would be saying thank you all day and night. But he had done more than deliver a pot of tea and she was grateful. She would have been more grateful if he could have stayed, but she watched as he climbed back up in the box and called to the horses to begin a slow walk back the way they’d come.

  Lila turned and, with a shaky breath, trudged to the house.

  * * *

  Her first task was to look in on Brook. He hadn’t moved from where Hunt had left him. She watched his back, saw his breaths come regularly, and decided he was asleep, not dead. She spotted the basket Hunt had carried on the table, but she was too cold to sit down and examine its contents. She wished she had thought to ask him to start a fire in the hearth, but she supposed she could do it. The servants did it every day. How hard could it be?

  Lila crouched and examined the hearth. She wished the windows had not been boarded over for she would have welcomed a bit of light, gray as it was, from outdoors. Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the room. The hearth had been swept clean of ashes. Inside, a sooty iron grate stood bare, in want of kindling. She looked about and spotted a poker leaning against the stones but no wood. She didn’t dare to hope there would be coal.

  She stood and turned around, searching the room for wood. But of course, that would be kept outside. And so she went out into the wet and the cold again and glanced over the front of the building.

  No firewood.

  Nothing for it but to circle the house. She lifted her skirts, ruined now by the mud and the persistent mist, and rounded the side of the cottage. She startled a blackbird into flight but didn’t spot any wood. But of course the kindling would be in the back, near the kitchen. She should have thought of that and saved herself this trek around the house. Her feet were wet and cold, her slippers caked with mud, and her fingers felt stiff where they held her wrap closed. Finally, she spotted the kitchen building. Oh, she did not want to look too closely at it for it appeared in even worse condition than the main structure. Stacked against it was a neat pile of chopped wood.

  And staring into the pile was a ginger-and-white cat.

  The cat looked back at her, flicked its tail, and went back to hunting the wood. The fur on the cat’s back was raised slightly, and the creature looked ready to pounce. Lila had no way to know if the cat was friendly or not, but she was grateful for its appearance, as that meant mice and rats were less likely to have gained a foothold.

  Lila bent, attempting to determine what the cat hunted, but she didn’t spot anything. And then with admirable speed and grace, the cat dove for an opening in the kindling pile. For a moment, only her orange rump and striped tail were visible, and then she emerged, a limp, scrawny mouse in her mouth.

  She shook the mouse once more as though in triumph and, head held high, trotted off with the prize.

  “Lovely,” Lila muttered. Making enough noise to scare any more mice deeper into the woodpile, Lila approached and lifted three medium-sized logs from the top. They were wet, of course, but she discovered those just below were slightly drier. She pulled those out, glad for her gloves as the splinters dug into her skin even through the leather, and tucked the wood under her arm. They snagged her wrap and the silk of her dress, but she shivered with cold and was beyond caring.

  Balancing the logs under her arm, she tried the door. It was locked, and she couldn’t budge it with a firm nudge. Cursing, she walked back around the house and entered through the front. Lila dropped the wood on top of the grate and then stood back, slumping because she realized she had no means to light the fire.

  She would not cry, though she was hungry, weary, and cold. She would not cry, though her feet were nigh frozen and her fingers stiff. She would not cry, even though she could speak three languages, ride with aplomb, embroider, sing, play the pianoforte, and no servant she knew had half as many accomplishments. But every servant she knew could light a fire. She was not stupid—at least she hadn’t thought so until now.

  And then it came to her: a tinderbox. That was what she needed. But where to find a tinderbox? She searched the basket and blessed Hunt profusely, for not only had he packed food, but he’d packed a tinderbox and the book on the Pelo
ponnesian War. As the cottage didn’t seem to hold any others, Lysander and his Spartans would keep her company for the week.

  She knew how to use a tinderbox and deftly brought it to the hearth and withdrew the steel, flint, and matches. She struck the steel and flint together above the wood and blew on the sparks, but the wood was too damp even to smoke.

  Lila had the urge to throw the box and its contents into the hearth and give up, but she gritted her teeth and clutched the box tightly. She needed something dry and flammable. Perhaps if she started a fire, it might grow hot enough to ignite the wood. Even damp wood burned if given enough fuel. With a sigh, she lifted her skirts and untied her petticoats. A quick look assured her Brook had not moved, and when she bent again, laying the petticoat near the hearth, she felt not only lighter but hopeful.

  Once again, she struck steel and flint together. It took several frustrating attempts, but she finally produced a small flame and lit one of the sulfur matches. She quickly set the rest of the petticoat on fire and pushed it under the wood in the hearth. She was well aware wet wood tended to smoke quite a bit, and she opened the back door to clear the smoke from what she hoped would soon be a roaring fire in the hearth.

  As she watched, the petticoat turned black and curled inward. Lila twisted her hands together and prayed the wood caught on fire. Otherwise she would have accomplished no more than losing her petticoat, which had added at least another layer to her thin skirts. With a pop and hiss, one of the logs began to smoke. She moved aside, coughing at the black clouds rising from the hearth, but she could see the red of the fire and let out a sigh of relief. She might suffocate, but at least she would be warm.

  She reached her hands out to warm them and closed her eyes.

  “Are you bloody trying to kill us?”

  Lila swung around. Brook sat, hand on his side, glaring at her.

  “I thought you were sleeping.”

  “How can I sleep with you going in and out and banging firewood on every hard surface you can find?” He coughed and waved the smoke away. “Wet firewood, I might add. We’ll suffocate for sure.”

  Lila clenched her cold hands in front of her. “I’m terribly sorry to wake you. If you were so annoyed, you might have risen and helped me.”

  His bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Where’s Hunt?”

  “He went back to London.”

  “Of course he did.” He placed his palms flat on the mattress and pushed himself up, wincing at the obvious pain the movement caused.

  Lila started to go to him then hesitated. He did not look as though he welcomed any assistance—hers or anyone’s.

  “What do you mean? He said you told him to return to Town.”

  Brook leaned a shoulder against the wall on one side of the bed. “I told him to see you settled first. But there’s nothing he detests more than playing nursemaid.”

  “Do you need a nursemaid?”

  “No.” He pushed away from the wall and walked gingerly to the broken chair at the table. Lila held her breath when he sat on it, half-afraid all would crash to the floor. The chair creaked but held.

  “I would open the door farther so we don’t expire, but it might be better if you did it.”

  It was an order. She recognized one when she heard it, but, since it was nicely given, she did as he asked. “If I could open the windows, that might help.”

  “I’ll take the boards off those that haven’t broken as soon as I’m able. I’ll also bring some kindling inside. It might dry out better that way.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” She gestured to the dried blood visible on his waistcoat. “For the wound?”

  He snorted. “Are you better at nursing than starting fires?”

  She knew it was a rhetorical question, but she answered all the same. “Yes, actually. I’ve never started a fire in a hearth before, but I nursed my mother almost every day when she was ill with consumption.”

  His dark gaze met hers and held. Something flickered there and then he looked toward the open door and the smoke curling out into the damp afternoon. “I apologize.”

  “No need.” More proof he still saw her as the same spoiled debutante. That was fine. They had one week together, six more days when this one had ended. She didn’t care what he thought of her.

  But she did care if he caught a fever and died. She had no faith she could find these Longmires, and she didn’t want to have to dig a grave by herself.

  “You should at least allow me to look at the wound and perhaps clean it.”

  “I can clean it if you help me with this coat.”

  That was fine with her. She’d given her mother any number of baths with warm water and a cloth, but she did not think doing so for Brook would be quite the same thing.

  “Very well. I’ll help you with the coat and then go to the kitchen to look for a bowl and a pot to heat the water.”

  Again she saw a flicker in his eyes, which she thought might be surprise. Then he stood, and she moved behind him and tugged on the coat’s tightly fitted shoulders. Brook had a broad back, which she knew because she had seen it unclothed, but she hadn’t realized quite how broad until she had to undress him. Under her fingertips, his body was warm and solid. She worried for a moment perhaps he was too warm, but it was only the contrast between her cold, bare fingers and his warmly covered skin.

  As she worked, she tried very hard not to notice the way his muscles felt under her fingertips or the scent of bergamot in his hair and clothes. It helped that she did not have to face him. If she’d had to look into his eyes and perform this task, she would have blushed to the roots of her hair.

  The coat’s damp wool felt heavy and intractable, but she finally managed to coax it off one arm and then the other. He only hissed in one breath, when she jerked a bit too hard and must have wrenched his injured side.

  Finally, she laid the coat on the table, though she thought it was probably beyond salvaging. The entire right side was stiff with dried blood. The rust-colored stain on his waistcoat looked rather gruesome, but at least it was old blood and not fresh.

  He’d managed to unbutton the waistcoat but he struggled to remove it and not flex the wound. Lila slid one side off and then the other. Next came the cravat, limp and damp, which he tossed on the floor. She could see the back of his neck now, bronze and smooth, but dotted with fine, blond hair that darkened as it grew thicker at the trim line.

  Had the fire finally warmed the room? She suddenly felt rather flushed.

  “I’ll just go to the kitchen for that bowl.” She backed away.

  “If you’ll wait one more moment.” He turned slightly, and she noted he had the buttons at the throat of the linen shirt open and was working on the fastenings at his cuffs. “I’m not sure I can draw this over my head.”

  Lila blew out a breath. This was exactly what she’d been wanting to avoid—the sight of his bare chest. And now it seemed she would have a close and personal view.

  She watched him struggle for a moment to lift his hands and tug the shirt over his head, but when he winced, she stepped forward. There was nothing at all interesting about removing a shirt, she told herself. It was the act of a nursemaid. That was all.

  She squared herself with him, careful not to look him directly in the eye, and rose on tiptoe, reaching for the open neck to try and pull it for him. He had to bend his head, and the shirt caught, and when he bent to help her, he grunted in pain.

  “Try it from the hem,” he said, straightening slowly.

  Lila’s gaze lowered. The shirt’s hem was still tucked neatly into his breeches. She had not really wanted to put her hands anywhere too close to the lower half of him—or the upper half, for that matter—but it seemed that couldn’t be avoided now.

  If it couldn’t be avoided, she might as well do it quickly. Lila cleared her throat and reached for his waist, hesitated, closed her hands, and grasped the fabric just above the waistband. She tugged it out, keeping her gaze firmly on a point somewhere in the middle of hi
s rib cage. That seemed a very innocuous spot. When she had the shirt free, she slipped her hands under and carefully raised the material to reveal the bronze skin she remembered quite well.

  As her hands slid higher, she inadvertently brushed his uninjured left flank, and the accompanying jolt caused both of them to jump. Lila accidentally dropped the shirt’s material, and if she hadn’t been a lady, she would have sworn.

  Now she’d have to begin again.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she murmured.

  “It’s fine.” His voice was tight and sharp. He was almost certainly wishing this were over as much as she.

  She began again, and this time when she touched him, she gritted her teeth and continued onward. She had to raise her gaze higher and higher to avoid seeing the bare flesh, until finally she stared at his shirt-covered head. Unfortunately, when she finally had it off him, she was staring into his eyes. They were dark brown as it was, but now they looked even larger and darker. The fire had finally ceased smoking quite as much, and the light reflected red and orange on his skin.

  He had lovely skin, not at all pale and pasty as she might have expected with his coloring. She supposed it was because he spent so much time outdoors. Her gaze lowered to his taut chest. He certainly did not spend his days idly.

  Her gaze caught on the crimson splash of blood, and she couldn’t resist stepping back to assess the wound. As he’d said, it was not serious. It didn’t appear deep, but it was long and had bled quite freely. She was relieved to see it didn’t look infected, though as for that, she had no real gauge with which to measure.

  Brook shifted slightly, and she realized she’d been staring at his chest—his wound, she corrected—for several moments. Lila straightened quickly and moved back.

  “I’ll just go to the kitchen.”

  He said something in return, but she was already out the door, the cold mist cooling her heated face.