“Shall I send for Dr. Worth?” the servant asked.
“No need,” Quinn said, determined to keep Meriel to himself as long as possible. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” She inclined her head toward the butler. “Unfortunately, Dr. Worth isn’t presently in town, and there’s no one else I trust. So fetch my apothecary box. I shall take care of Mr. Raines myself.”
The butler seemed not the least surprised by that, blandly saying, “Very well,” before heading off down the hall.
She led Quinn into a parlor and to a settee, which he practically fell onto. The damned arm really hurt now.
With the efficiency of a woman oddly comfortable with knife wounds, she peeled off his coat and waistcoat. “Lie down,” she ordered. “I need to elevate the arm.”
He did as she asked. Lying down was good. Very good. Though it would be better if she lay down with him.
She drew a footstool up to the settee, then pulled his arm up over his head and pressed hard on his wound.
Fire streaked through him. “What the hell are you doing!”
“I have to stop the bleeding,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Well then,” he gritted out, “carry on. Can’t have me expiring in your parlor.”
Regret suffused her face. “Honestly, Quinn, if I’d had any idea you were nearby, I would never have drawn my—” She paused. “Why were you nearby, anyway?”
His stomach lurched. Another way in which he hadn’t really thought this plan through. “Does it matter? If I hadn’t shown up when I did . . .”
“Of course I’m grateful, but it’s odd that you just happened along after I told you I couldn’t see you tonight. Didn’t you get my note?”
“I did. That’s why I rushed over, hoping to catch you before you left for your ‘other engagement.’ ”
“Ah.” Her face cleared. “So it was you I spotted outside before that villain’s coach pulled up.”
She’d seen him? Hell and be damned. “Er . . . yes, I suppose.” Best to gloss over that before she figured things out. “So, do you always have a knife with you?”
She stared grimly at his arm. “Yes.”
“So all those times you and I were entwined in the dark, you—”
“Yes, yes!” she said, a hint of desperation in her tone. “Now be quiet and conserve your energy until I can get the bleeding to stop.”
He was beginning to feel a bit light-headed, but that had nothing to do with loss of blood. He always felt light-headed around Meriel.
But why? She wasn’t rich or of high rank, the two qualities everyone seemed to think essential for his potential spouse. And she had no facility for mathematics whatsoever, which, as a banker, he considered a deficit in anyone.
No one would call her a beauty, since her features were slightly irregular, making her more arresting than handsome. Some would even call her plump, though he preferred a bit of flesh on women, so that didn’t bother him.
Yet somehow she’d crept under his defenses, with her sandy curls and her gray eyes and her lush mouth that sent his pulse hammering whenever she flashed him her Mona Lisa smile. She was clever and witty and bold, a combination he found utterly intoxicating.
Just then, the butler came in bearing a huge chest and set it on the floor in front of her. He glanced at Quinn’s bloodied shirt and turned ashen. “Do you wish me to help you . . . er . . .”
“No need, Nunley,” she said. “I know what the sight of blood does to you. I have matters under control.”
“Excellent.” He averted his gaze from Quinn. “Though I would feel better if we could catch the villain who did this.”
And Quinn would feel better if they couldn’t. “The fellow is long gone, I’m afraid.”
“Did you see his face? Recognize the carriage? Anything?” Meriel asked.
“No,” Quinn said. “It all happened so fast.”
“I suppose the master wouldn’t want the police involved,” the butler said.
“No,” she said.
That was strange. Granted, Quinn was happy she wasn’t going to the police, but he would think that an abduction would generally warrant such a thing.
“Only Gregory will know how to find the villain, since he’s the one who might know why it happened,” she said, “but he’s not returning until very late.” She let out a heavy breath as she opened the chest to reveal a number of suspicious bottles and nasty-looking implements. “Oh, well, it can’t be helped. I’m sure Mr. Raines won’t mind returning in the morning to answer Gregory’s questions. He may have noticed more than he realizes.”
Wonderful. Now he’d have to lie to Fulkham, too. Then again, that would give him an excuse for hanging about tonight. “If you wish, I can stay until Lord Fulkham returns. You don’t want the villain to escape because we waited until morning.”
“Yes, that would be best.” Meriel glanced up at the butler. “Be sure to send Gregory in when he gets home, whenever that may be.” She met Quinn’s gaze. “I’m happy to look after my rescuer until then.”
Nunley got an odd expression on his face. “Of course, madam.” He headed for the door.
“Oh, and Nunley?” When the servant looked at her, she blushed inexplicably. “If you would just close the door on your way out . . .”
His lips tightened into a line, but he nodded and did as she asked.
That cheered Quinn. She’d made it so they could be alone and private, which proved he still had a chance with her. Between that and her blush, things were looking up.
With a certain softness in her eyes, she stopped pushing on his arm. “I think you’re no longer bleeding.” She removed a pair of scissors from her apothecary chest and proceeded to cut off his shirt.
“I knew you were eager for me,” he teased as she bared him from waist to neck, “but this is taking matters a bit far, don’t you think?”
“How can you joke?” With worry beetling her brow, she surveyed his arm. “You’re hurt, and it’s all my fault.”
Guilt choked him. “Not all your fault. The villain pushing you into me had something to do with it.”
“And that’s my fault, too.” She pulled a bottle out and poured some liquid from it onto a cloth, then leaned over him to dab at his wound.
“How so?” he ground out as the fluid against raw flesh burned.
“He was trying to abduct me,” she said, gently cleansing the wound with what smelled like alcohol. “No doubt to keep me from attending the ball tonight.”
Uh-oh. That was uncomfortably close to the truth, although Quinn hadn’t known she was going to a ball. “And . . . er . . . why should someone want to keep you from attending such a thing?”
She wouldn’t look at him. “I can’t talk about it.”
That utterly flummoxed him. “Why not?” Unless it was just as he’d guessed. She’d been going to be with “Gregory.” Again. “Were you supposed to meet Fulkham there?” Are you in love with your brother-in-law? His growing suspicion closed a fist about his heart.
“What?” she said, sounding truly surprised. “Certainly not. Why would you think that?”
“Well, you said he’d be out very late, and I thought perhaps you knew that because you were supposed to join him.” A hollow hurt settled in his gut. “When you cancel plans with me, it’s generally because of him.”
Her face closed up. “Your wound isn’t as bad as I feared, but it’s deep enough that I ought to stitch it up so it will heal properly.”
All thoughts of Fulkham flew right out of his head as she drew some thread and a needle out of her chest of horrors.
Not liking being at a disadvantage, he sat up, then clamped his hand over his arm. “You are not going to practice your embroidery skills on me.”
She ignored him and threaded the needle. “Don’t be so skittish. I’ve done this before.”
“What, sewn up wounds?” When she nodded, he said, “Who the hell are you? What sort of gently bred woman carries a knife and knows how to
sew up a wound?”
Her lips thinned. “It’s complicated.”
“Clearly. So do me the favor of uncomplicating it by explaining.”
“I told you—I can’t,” she said, clearly exasperated.
“Then I’m not letting you anywhere near my arm with that needle.”
“Fine,” she snapped. “Wait until you can see a doctor. Get an infection. What do I care?”
“Obviously not enough to let me know anything about your past. Not enough to tell me your hopes for the future.” His throat tightened. He took a chance and said the words he’d been suppressing for weeks. “Not enough to be honest and tell me why every time I bring up marriage, you change the subject.”
Her face fell. “Oh, Quinn . . .” She appeared to be debating something. Then she dragged in a heavy breath. “Let me stitch up your wound, and I swear I’ll tell you as much as I dare.”
Dare? That sounded ominous. But he couldn’t go on like this. It was turning him into a blithering fool, and he wasn’t used to feeling that way.
He uncovered his wound. “Thank you.”
She rose and walked over to a decanter. Pouring a generous portion of brandy, she returned to his side with the glass. “Here, you may need this,” she said as she held it out to him.
“You’re damned right I will.” To soften the pain of being used as a pincushion, and to soften the blow of whatever she was about to say.
God rot it. He downed the contents in one long swallow, relishing the burn. At least he could be drunk while she dashed all his hopes.
Looking a bit nervous, she sat down and took his arm in her hand. “Your wound really isn’t so bad. It’ll take two, three stitches at the most.”
“Just get it over with,” he growled.
She stuck the needle in him.
“Mother of God and all that’s holy,” he hissed through his teeth. “Are you sure you’ve done this before?”
“My husband was in the army,” she said. “So yes. A few times.”
Right. He’d forgotten that Vyse had been an army lieutenant. “But that was long after the war was over. How did he get wounded?”
“Doing things he shouldn’t.”
She stuck him again, but by now the brandy had begun to take effect and he felt marginally less pain.
“Like what?” he asked, to keep his mind off it. “Dueling? Getting into fights? Stumbling about drunk and running into things?”
“More like throwing himself willy-nilly into anything that smacked of danger.” Her mouth formed a grim line as she tied off the thread. “Don’t get me wrong. He was a good man, my husband. But he would take on any mission, no matter how risky, just for the thrill of it. In the year we were married, I spent half my nights alone, terrified of what might happen to him.”
“I thought women liked daring men.” Men like Fulkham.
“I suppose some do.” She bit off the thread, then drew out a bandage to wrap around his arm. “Personally, I’d rather have a man with less appetite for adventure.”
Intriguing. “But you were in love with your husband, I assume.”
Guilt flashed over her face. “Not exactly. I mean, I liked him. He was a fine gentleman and we were good friends. Close friends, even.”
“Who shared a bed,” he said thickly.
“Yes.” She concentrated on winding the bandage about his arm, though her cheeks grew decidedly pink. “We were married, after all. But he’s been dead awhile now. I’m ready to . . . to . . .”
“Marry again?” he prodded. When she didn’t answer, pain clogged his throat. “Just not to marry me.”
She sighed. “It isn’t that simple.”
Right. “I understand. You’ve set your sights higher.” On Fulkham, just as he’d feared. “You don’t want some lowly banker who deals with numbers all day, like a clerk—”
“A clerk?” She snorted as she tied off the bandage. “I doubt that any clerk makes as much money as the director of Raines Bank.”
Well, at least she’d noticed his financial state. “Still, I’m in trade. I’m not a titled lord.”
“Thank heaven.”
That response would have relieved him, except it made other possible reasons for her reluctance loom larger. “And I’m not the handsomest of men—”
“If you were any more handsome, you’d be the death of me,” she muttered, dropping her hand down to rest on his naked chest.
Turning to face her, he took in the sight of her alabaster hand against his swarthy skin, and his pulse thundered. “So my Spanish blood isn’t what bothers you.”
“Of course not. Why would it?”
“Because it reveals, more than anything else, that I’m not a typical Englishman.”
“You certainly aren’t—not in any way.” Her soft smile spiked need in the pit of his stomach. “And that’s precisely what appeals to me. You don’t look down on those beneath you; you reason through things rather than taking what the government says at face value; and you’re steady as an oak.”
“Yet you consistently avoid any talk of a marriage between us.” When she said nothing more, a curse escaped him. “I’m running out of reasons for that, Meriel. If it’s not what I do or who I am or how I look, then what is it? Unless . . .”
“Unless what?” She smoothed her other hand over his chest, and he lost his train of thought as his cock stirred in his trousers.
He stared into her lovely eyes, the exact hue of rain-drenched slate. She’d never touched him so intimately before. Why was she doing so now?
To distract him. To keep him from pressing this issue.
Well, he was done with her avoidance. “Unless . . . you’re in love with someone else.”
She gaped at him. “Who the devil would I be in love with?”
He would take comfort in her clear surprise, except it might only mean she hadn’t yet acknowledged to herself how she felt. He’d have to force her to do so. He had to know.
Just tell her you love her.
And have her pity him for it if she loved someone else? No thank you.
“Quinn, answer me! Whom do you think I love?”
He braced himself. “Fulkham.”
Two
Meriel blinked, then burst into laughter. The man was jealous, of all things! It practically made her giddy. It didn’t change her reasons for not marrying him, but . . .
Well, perhaps it changed them a little. It gave her a measure of hope she hadn’t had before—that he might really care for her.
She certainly cared for him. Her feelings for Quinn were entirely different from the affection she’d felt for John. Her husband had been rather like an overgrown boy, always frightening her by leaping into danger.
Quinn was a man. She could rely on him to do what he said and be what he was. There was no subterfuge, no secrets. And nothing was more devastatingly attractive than that.
Couldn’t he tell how she felt about him? Here she was, caressing his magnificent chest and wondering what the rest of his body looked like, and he was worried she was in love with Gregory, of all people.
The very thought made her laugh again.
“It’s not funny,” Quinn grumbled as he caught her hand.
She forced a sober expression to her face. “No, indeed. Not funny at all. Except for the fact that I’m not remotely interested in marrying my brother-in-law, even if I could, which I can’t.”
“There are ways to get around the church’s rules.”
“Perhaps, but I wouldn’t. And trust me, Gregory wouldn’t marry me in a million years.”
“That doesn’t mean you aren’t in love with him,” he persisted, his dark eyes shadowed. “Even if you feel the situation is hopeless, you might not be able to help desiring the man.”
“I don’t desire Gregory, for pity’s sake,” she said, growing irritated now. “He really is like a brother to me. We squabble like siblings, we aren’t the least attracted to each other, and—”
“You’re not attracted to h
im?” Quinn asked. “At all?”
That would be what he focused on. He was a man, after all.
Her gaze drifted over him. He was a very finely crafted man, too, judging from the well-defined muscles and lovely sprinkling of dark curls on his chest. Not to mention the pronounced bulge in his trousers.
Well, well. He’d clearly forgotten all about his knife wound.
With a burst of feminine satisfaction that she could so easily arouse him, she dropped her hand to cover him there. “Would I touch you like this if I were pining after Gregory?”
He hissed through his teeth and hardened even more beneath her hand. “Perhaps you’re just trying to distract me—again—from discussing marriage.”
“No,” she said, though he was partly right. “I’m trying to distract you from discussing Gregory. Whom I don’t love or desire at all, and never have—just to be clear.”
She started to unbutton Quinn’s trousers, but he caught her hands. When she lifted an eyebrow at him, he stared at her with a grim determination that worried her.
“Why are you always dashing off to do his bidding, then?” he asked.
Oh, dear. This was veering into difficult territory. “Why does it matter? I already told you I have no designs on him. Why isn’t that enough for you?”
“Because you’ve given me no other sound reason for your avoiding the subject of marriage.”
“Fine,” she snapped. “Here’s a perfectly sound reason: If you knew more about me, you’d never want to marry me.”
Lord, she hadn’t meant to say that. But he’d driven her to it with his nonsense about Gregory and his refusal to just let her seduce him so she could delay ending things with him.
His black gaze narrowed on her. “I can’t believe that. What could you possibly have in your past to make me not want you as my wife?”
A curtain of silence dropped between them, pierced only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the quickening beat of his heart beneath her hand.
Devil take him. “You’re going to make me say these things, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Jerking her hands from his, she rose. “Fine.” She walked over to the brandy decanter and poured some.
A Talent for Temptation: A Sinful Suitors Novella Page 2
