Stand and Deliver Your Love

by Sheffield, Killarney

  The man moaned again. “Clarissa … you cannot wait … until we are married?” A vague smile played on his lips. Snatching her hand away with a gasp she observed the marquis closer. Was he still unconscious or had he awoken? He is engaged. I wonder who and where Clarissa is? Once her heart resumed its normal beat she reached back under the blanket. This time she skirted the man’s groin, finding the other three buttons with ease. Once she had them undone she pulled the blanket up to the man’s neck and moved to the end of the bed. Tugging on his trouser bottoms she managed to slide them down past his hips, over his thighs and to his calves without the blanket sliding down any further than his waist. She rolled each soggy pant leg down over his ankles and off each foot, dropping them to the floor with shaking hands. Then she peeled off his stockings and dropped them with a splat beside the discarded trousers.

  “Just think of him as a large boy.” Her voiced echoed in the small cottage. A large boy with forbidden, manly parts. “Saints alive!” She clapped a hand over her mouth lest the marquis hear, and glanced at him. Fortunately, he didn't show any signs of having heard her uncouth statement. She groaned, rolling her eyes at her own foolishness. The chore was hard enough without her little voice adding its opinion. With a sigh of frustration, she moved back up to his shoulders to remove his tattered coat and bloodied shirt. It would probably be best to cut his upper garments off so as not to jar the injured area.

  Spying a small paring knife on the table, she picked it up and sliced the ropes securing his hands. Gingerly, she cut his soiled coat and shirt from his body. When she peeled off the ruined garments she couldn't help noticing his tanned, broad chest. It rose and fell like waves lapping the shore on a calm day with each measured breath. A thin triangle of curly black hair drew her inspection. Licking her lips, she resisted the sudden urge to run her fingers through it and forced her gaze to his face instead. His strong, square jaw was unmarred by stubble and already a spotty purple bruise was forming where Bert punched him. Her eyes focused on his lips, so full and inviting.

  She wondered for a brief moment what it would be like to kiss those lips. Would they be warm and soft or cool and firm? Would he be gentle and chaste or would he ravish her lips the way men did in the dime novels she used to occasionally treat herself to as a girl? I am being foolish. After all, who ever heard of kissing someone you not were not even engaged to, even if he was irresistibly handsome. Again with the handsome. Have I lost my mind? There are lots of handsome men in London. Why am I so taken with this one?

  Disgusted with her wanton thoughts, she jerked his blindfold off and wiped his muddy face clean with it. The man moaned, his eyes fluttering open. He blinked, his deep blue orbs focusing on her. When he glanced at her hand and frowned she realized she still held the knife, between that and the mask over her face she must look more than a little threatening. She made a concerted effort to smile to ease his fears before biting her lip. A smile he could not see would not re assure him. She cleared her throat. “I am sorry to frighten you. I had to cut your shirt and coat off.”

  Wariness flickered in his eyes but he nodded and closed them again. Sarah put the knife down by the bucket of warm water, relief making her hand shake. Picking the rag out of the bucket, she wrung it out enough so it wouldn't drip and sat on the edge of the bed. The man kept his eyes closed. Clearing her throat again, she reached out to wipe the mud and blood from his injured shoulder. As soon as her hand made contact with the limb he flinched, clenching his jaw.

  “I am sorry, but I must clean the wound.”

  Again the man just nodded. The door opened and a cool draft slithered across the floor as Bert and Dickie entered the cottage. Sarah continued to wash the man. “Are the horses all right?” she asked, trying to keep her mind off the close proximity of her body to her patient’s.

  Bert nodded. “Aye, they will be fine. The rest of the men just rode in.”

  He poured the bucket of fresh water he brought from the well outside into the kettle over the fire. After setting the bucket by the door he sat on the low wooden bench by the table and watched her. Dickie stood by the fire, quieter than usual, warming his hands.

  “What about the lord’s horse?” She returned her attention to the injured man.

  “Bacchus,” the marquis whispered.

  She paused, cloth midway to the bucket to rinse it. “What?”

  “His name … is Bacchus,” the injured man clarified.

  Bert scowled. “He will be fine with a little care. What are you going do with him?” He nodded in the lord’s direction.

  Sarah rinsed the soiled rag out in the bucket before she answered. “Fix his shoulder and send him on his way I suppose. It does not look as bad as I thought it might be.” She probed the wound trying not to cause undo pain. “Do you have any gin in your saddle bags?”

  “Aye. Dickie, go fetch the bottle.” The boy nodded and hurried back out into the rain. Bert fixed her with a puzzled stare. “What are you planning to do?”

  “Well, it looks as if his shoulder is dislocated—I think I can realign it. I can stitch up the cut on his collarbone and he should be as good as new in a couple of weeks or so, providing infection does not set in.”

  Dickie crept back in and handed Bert a full bottle of clear liquid. The old sailor stood with a grunt and came to stand beside her. He held out the bottle.

  “Pour some of that on my hands and on his wound.” Sarah held her hands over the pot of water and he poured the cold liquid over her hands to sterilize them. “This is going to sting a little,” she warned the man on the bed. When the cold liquid ran onto his shoulder he groaned, reaching out and enclosing her wrist in a painful grip. She gasped, taken unawares and dropped her cloth.

  Bert leaped forward, grabbing the injured man by his throat, putting steady pressure on his neck. “Let the mistress go.”

  The lord’s eyes opened and he stared at the older fellow. They challenged each other in tense silence for a moment. Then the injured man’s his slackened on her wrist and he reclined against the pillows, shutting his eyes.

  “Was not … trying … to hurt her. She caused me pain.”

  Sarah wrenched her wrist free and rubbed the red mark left by his hand. “Bert, rip some more strips off the towel and tie his good hand to the bedpost.”

  “I was not trying to … hurt you. Where am I?”

  “Maybe not, but it will surely hurt more when I fix your shoulder and I do not wish to be on the receiving end of your wrath,” Sarah retorted, ignoring his question.

  Bert hurried to do as he was asked and soon they had the marquis secured. Sarah poured more liquor on the wound, pausing as the man arched his back, hissing as it stung his raw flesh. It serves him right. Guilt at her unkind thought made her bite her lip. The good sisters would make me say twenty Hail Marys for being so callous. When he sagged back against the mattress she set down the bottle. After lifting his limp appendage and placing her foot against his armpit she nodded to Bert. He forced a wooden spoon between the man’s teeth.

  “This is going to hurt.” She glanced down at the man and added, “I am sorry.”

  Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, she squeezed her eyes shut and then pulled on his arm. He clenched the spoon between his teeth, letting out a muffled roar as the bone popped back into place with a sickening click.

  Sarah eased the pressure and opened her eyes. The lord’s ashen face and labored breathing betrayed the pain she caused him. Looking away she blinked back the tears threatening to slip down her cheeks. It would not do for him to see her cry, see her weakness. He was a man and might take advantage of her remorse. Bert pried the spoon from the man’s mouth. Picking up the bottle of liquor she held it to his lips. He drank without opening his eyes first deep gulps then slow sips. She tried to steady her shaking hands as some of the liquor dribbled down his chin and throat. When he had drunk his fill she drizzled more over the wound and hurried to get her small medicine bag from by the door.

  It took but a m
oment to find the needle and thread she needed before returning to the bedside. After threading it, she leaned over the man took a deep breath and pushed the sharp point into the edge of the weeping wound. When he didn't flinch, she assumed he must have passed out. She concentrated on pulling the edges of flesh together, at the same time willing her fingers to stop trembling. Sewing had never been one of her talents. Her mind wandered and she recalled the embroidered handkerchief she once made her father. He had cherished her uneven stitches as if it were sewn by the best seamstress in all of London. With a sniff of sadness she tried to pretend she was sewing a piece of fabric rather than a man. When she finished she poured a little more liquor over her uneven but secure handiwork.

  “That should do it.” She stood and washed her hands in the bucket.

  “The men are waiting to go home, mistress,” Bert pointed out, “and Ann will be waiting. You know how she worries there alone at night since that drunken lout broke in last week.”

  “Tell them to go ahead. I will stay here with his lordship until he is fit enough to travel.”

  “You can’t stay here with him.”

  “I will be fine, Bert. The marquis should sleep for a while and the men need to go home to their families. I will have plenty of venison and flour to last a few days until you can come back for me. Besides, I will not be by myself, Dickie will be with me,” Sarah offered dismissing his concern and untying the strip of cloth binding the lord’s hand to the bedpost.

  “You shouldn't untie him, and Dickie is but a wee lad.”

  She smiled at his doglike persistence. “I will be fine. The marquis means me no harm and anyway, he will be much too weak to be a problem.”

  “I don't like leaving you, mistress.”

  “I will be fine, go,” Sarah grumbled, “Tell Ann I chose to stay and help nurse an ill man in the country, so she will not worry.” It was doubtful Ann would not worry about her but it eased her guilt a little for having acknowledged her expected concern.

  “Yes, mistress.” Bert gave her one last worried look over his shoulder as he stepped out into the rain and closed the door behind him.

  “Dickie, could you bring in the wash tub and make sure the horses keep quiet when the others leave? I think I should like to wash some of this mud off before the marquis awakens.”

  The boy nodded and hurried to do as she asked. Sarah studied the thin child as he tugged on his coat and left the cottage. If only she could bring him further out of his shell. The poor boy still had a long way to go before he would be the healthy, carefree child he should be. Without a profitable holdup soon, Dickie’s chances of a happy life would disappear forever. It was something she couldn't bear to see happen.

  Chapter Four

  The carriage … wrecked. The horses … dead … except Bacchus. Men surrounding me. Gun shots and then … a woman. Gradually the last vestiges of sleep slipped away. Somewhere nearby water sloshed and a feminine voice hummed. Am I still dreaming? A fire snapped and popped in the hearth, its warmth welcoming. Water dripped from the leaky roof into a pot on the floor somewhere beyond his head adding a percussion rhythm to the cottage noises. Judging by the steady dripping sound, it was still raining outside. He licked his lips. The dry, stale taste on his tongue and the throbbing of his shoulder made him grimace.

  He opened his eyes a crack and took note of the smoke-discolored beams crisscrossing the ceiling. Turning his head he spied a woman sitting naked in a battered wash tub, waist-deep in water. He watched in tongue tied silence as she lathered her hands with a small brick of soap before she slid them down her bare arms with a sigh of pleasure, leaving a sudsy trail across her creamy white skin. A thick fall of glorious garnet hair hung loose down her back, the ends dangling in the filmy water. The long eyelashes lying against her cheeks shielded her eyes from his sight and he wished he could see her pleasure in them. Even the smudge of dirt marring her pert nose and smeared across one of her high rosy cheek bones could not distort her beauty. To his delight she tilted her head back lathering her neck and face before dropping the soap with a splash into the water. Long delicate fingers drew his attention as she cupped water in them and sloshed it over her body to rinse off the suds. He licked his lips, mesmerized as the bubbles slid down her slick body and pooled on top of the water. He closed his eyes for a second and swallowed. Nothing he had ever seen before was a sensual as her simple act of cleansing. I should tell her I am awake, it would be the honorable thing to do. His throat constricted.

  When he reopened his eyes, he was greeted by the sight of her rubbing soap onto her small round breasts and down across the skin of her flat stomach. He stifled a groan as his manhood rose with desire. He laid as still as possible, almost afraid to breathe in case he disturbed and alerted her to his observant condition. Have I died and gone to heaven? Who is this beautiful woman and what is she doing bathing in full sight of me? Try as he might he couldn't tear his gaze from her perfect breasts. The tiny pink buds puckered in the drafty cottage air. It has been far too long since I have bedded a woman. With a gasp the woman jumped to her feet. She scrambled from the tub and jerked a towel off the nearby chair. He looked up at her face as she wrapped herself in it and glared at him. “Have you no manners? A gentleman would give a lady some sign he was awake, not to mention turn away to allow her some privacy!”

  A wry grin curved Byron’s lips. “I beg your pardon, miss, but I had not the strength nor the desire to interrupt your bathing.” Her green orbs drew his gaze. They snapped with fiery temper that matched her flaming locks and cheeks.

  “Rake!” the woman spat, wrapping a man’s coarse robe around her body. She slid the towel out from underneath and tied the sash securely around her waist. Casting him a withering glance she approached the bed.

  Byron chuckled at her outrage. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Sarah.” Turning her back on him, she dried her feet and tossed the damp towel back on the chair.

  The easy grace of her movements befuddled his tongue and for a moment he struggled to string coherent words together. “I feel as if … a thousand horses have trod upon me,” he finally managed.

  Her voice softened. “Can I get you anything?” Though her eyes still sparkled with temper her full pink lips curved into a sympathetic smile of sorts.

  “A drink and a bath such as you so obviously enjoyed would be nice.”

  “I can get you a drink, as for the bath you are on your own,” she retorted. The scowl she cast him left little doubt she had yet to forgive him. Her mouth opened as if to say more, instead she stalked to the table and picked up a tin cup. She poured water from a canteen into it. When she turned around and strolled back he couldn't help but notice the seductive sway of her hips beneath the robe. Did the woman realize how her body beckoned him?

  She held out the cup. “Your drink, my lord.”

  He reached for it with his good arm, half expecting her to drench him with it. His fingers curled around the vessel, brushing hers before she snatched her hand back. She crossed her arms as he lowered it to his mouth, grimacing as some of the cool water slopped over the side, dampening his bare chest.

  “Let me help you.”

  Perching on the edge of the bed, she took the cup from him and held it to his lips. He drank, studying her over the rim. Those strange eyes the color of the sea on a sunny summer’s day intrigue him. A fresh light scent teased his senses, like oranges and cloves. He dropped his gaze to her full pink lips. How he would like to taste her mouth if only to see if she tasted as sweet as she smelled. As if sensing his thoughts, she blushed and took the cup from his mouth, setting it on the floor. Reaching up she felt his brow, pursing her lips when she detected the heat there.

  “You are much warmer now, my lord.”

  “Yes, thank you, miss?”

  “Sarah.” Withdrawing her hand, she looked away.

  “If I am to call you by your Christian name then you shall have to return the favor. Call me Byron.”

  “Very well.�
� She stood and crossed the small room to add more wood to the fire. “What brings you out on the roads on a day like today … Byron?” she queried, picking up a brush from the mantle. Without turning around she began to comb the tangles from her hair. He savored her movements for a moment, wishing she was stroking him with the same care as she afforded her long wavy tresses, before replying, “I was sent for by the king.”

  “The king?” She turned around, her eyes wide. “What business is it you have with him?”

  “I am afraid that is confidential.”

  Byron closed his eyes. Her light footsteps approached the bedside and stopped. Something dropped onto his lap. He opened his eyes. The towel she had used was now lying across him. Puzzled he looked up.

  “If you want a bath you will tell me what business you have with the king,” she said with syrupy sweetness and a smug smile.

  Byron chuckled. “Do you think I cannot get up and bathe without your help?” Would she call his bluff?

  Her eyes flickered over him filled with uncertainty and her smile dimed. “A correct assumption would you not agree?”

  He closed his eyes, heaving what he hoped sounded like a dejected sigh. “Come closer, I fear all this speaking has tired me,” he said mumbled, feigning weakness.

  Her warm breath tickled his cheek as she leaned forward. With a roguish grin he opened his eyes and grabbed her wrist. Her eyes widened as he tugged her off balance. She flailed and toppled across his lap with a startled squeal.

  “Let me go, this instant!” she hissed, glaring at him.

  He held her captive as her eyes shifted down to his lips. He knew she was thinking the same thing he was. Her lips parted and he covered them with his own, teasing and tasting them as if they were his last supper. She trembled when his tongue slid along her full bottom lip in an unspoken demand to allow him entrance, his loins tightening with desire as she softened for the briefest second. Out of the corner of his eye he spied her hand lift as if to touch his face, her fingers instead curling into a fist. The warning his mind issued went unheeded. Before he could glean her intent she drove her fist into his sore shoulder. He relinquished her lips with a startled yelp, as the pain registered, but managed to keep his grip on her wrist.