The Delicate Matter of Lady Blayne (Intimate Secrets Book 1)

by Blackthorne, Natasha

  She was in a weakened condition. She could catch her death in that downfall.

  He slammed his glass down on the window ledge.

  Devil take this nonsense!

  He was not equal to this kind of challenge. He’d never felt so lost. So inadequate.

  He began throwing on his clothes, covering his naked body. Damn it, he was no nursemaid. Coming here with no women to take care of and watch over this mad chit! He must have been mad himself to have allowed her to seduce him into agreeing to such a thing. He wasn’t equipped to give her what she needed most.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his boots on. Well, no more madness on his part. Tomorrow he would send to Landbrae for some females to care for Catriona. Someone experienced as a nurse, as Donna Carson had first suggested. A nurse would know how handle things far better than he.

  With that thought to comfort him, he collected his greatcoat and a blanket for her, then strode from the chamber.

  He reached her minutes later.

  She was sprawled on her hands and knees. Though the rain was letting up and becoming more of a fine mist, her waterlogged nightdress clung to every line of her broad, round arse. Her sodden hair fell over her face, obscuring it. Her hands were extended into claws, digging in the mud.

  Frantically digging.

  “Catriona.” He placed the blanket over her.

  She kept digging.

  The strong smell of earth and roots and rain rose to his nostrils. Thunder sounded in the distance. Wind gusted. Lightning flashed. The easing of the rain would not last long. As the rumbling faded, his ears strained, automatically attuned to the sound of her harsh pants.

  “Catriona!”

  She began to dig more frantically, her hair dragging into the mud. Splattering his boots, his trousers, and her sleeves with mud.

  He reached down and swept the mass of soaked hair from her face. “Catriona.”

  She froze, her eyes wider than any he’d ever seen.

  Wild.

  His heart died. Or at least it felt that way. Stone, cold and dead.

  She really was mad. Without the laudanum, she was mad.

  His throat went dry as dust. Dry like it had never become since he’d been first in a battle at sea.

  No, he was letting his emotions run away with his better sense. He must not leap to conclusions. He knelt beside her, still holding her hair from her face. “What the devil are you doing, Catriona?”

  She sat up so quickly, the blanket fell from her shoulders.

  He picked it up and put it back into place.

  She stared at him with that disturbing wildness in her eyes.

  He suppressed a chill not caused by the cold and wet. “Catriona?”

  She licked her lips. “You’ve come to help?”

  “I’ve come to fetch you back indoors.”

  She shook her head. “No, no we must work now.”

  “Work?”

  “Yes, we must uncover the garden. It’s being choked by weeds!”

  “Catriona—”

  “No, no! The tender green shoots are being strangled.” She pointed a shaking finger at the ground. “See, here and here!” She moved away from him.

  He grasped one of her arms with one hand, and with the other kept the blanket securely over her back, partially over her drenched head.

  She pulled as far away as his hold would allow and began to dig again with her free hand. “We must liberate them. They are being strangled by the weeds. They can’t breathe, they can’t reach the sunlight. They can’t be!”

  “Catriona, here, let me take you inside.”

  “No, they can no’ be like this! The weeds are choking them! Stealing their sunlight! Just help them. Let them just be!”

  “I’ll call for the gardeners on the morrow. At first light.”

  “No, no, no.” She chanted the word, digging madly with one hand, her hair and sleeve getting caked with mud.

  “Catriona, now.” He made his voice as stern as he could muster, not knowing any other way to break through her frenzy.

  “No gardeners!”

  He could hear the tears in her voice.

  It softened him.

  “Why no gardeners?”

  “They will murder them. In trying to help, they will trod over the green shoots and murder them.” She took a deep, sobbing breath then looked up at him, the mudspatter on her face broken up by tear streaks like tiny streams. “To choose between being strangled to death or being trod over, what kind of choice is that?”

  Her sad, pleading gaze struck him right in the center of his chest.

  He pushed her muddy hair from her face and then he took several deep, calming breaths.

  “What kind of choice is that?” Her voice broke on the last word.

  He pulled her to him and held her wet form to his body. “Shh.” Her hair was stiff and sticky under his hand. He hadn’t thought to stop for his gloves on the way out of the house. Herbal scents filled the air, rosemary and mint and others, he didn’t know what. The scent of mud further permeated his senses. Underneath the blanket he found and stroked her arm. Her bare flesh was clammy and cold. Nubby with gooseflesh.

  Lightning illuminated the horizon.

  “We must get you inside,” he said.

  “It will be too late.”

  “Shh, tomorrow will be soon enough.”

  “No gardeners. They would be too rough.”

  He waited whilst the boom of thunder sounded then rumbled through the earth beneath them. Her eyes shone with an almost frantic glint, watching him avidly.

  “No, gardeners,” he said. “I shall come here with you at first light, as soon as the storm ends.”

  “Will you?”

  Her voice sounded small, girlish. Hopeful, painfully hopeful.

  Tightness seized his chest.

  Oh Christ.

  He wasn’t equal to this!

  She needed a type of care now that he just didn’t know how to provide.

  Yet, he was the only one who could provide it.

  “Do you promise?” her voice was soft, girlish, yet underneath he sensed a palpable tension, making him aware of how close to the surface the wildness still churned within her.

  Catriona. His poor, lost Catriona.

  Again, he stroked her arm. “Of course I will—but only if you promise to come with me now, back to the house.”

  She went limp. He felt the warmth of her breath release against his neck at his open collar. “All right, I’ll go.”

  In the kitchen, whilst James built up the fire, Catriona stood over the huge oak worktable, peering into a highly polished silver tray while tracing the mud tracks on her face. The wind howled and rain pelted hard on the windows; they had reached the shelter of the house just in time.

  He came to her and put his hands under her hair and lifted the matted, sticky mass. Her beautiful hair, caked with mud. How would he possibly get it clean again? What he did know of women and their toilet? He dropped his hands and let the weight of her hair drop.

  “Turn.” The sharpness of his tone echoed and he winched.

  She didn’t so much as flinch.

  He put his hands on her shoulders. She offered no resistance as he turned her to face him. She focused her gaze at the center of his chest.

  She touched his open shirt. “I have muddied you.”

  The too-girlish lilt in her voice sent a chill over him.

  She put her forehead to where his open shirt gaped at his neck. “I have sullied you.”

  Her voice sounded so small, so lost. It twisted something inside him. Maybe she was hopelessly mad. He didn’t care. He would be here for her. He lowered his head and rested his chin on the top of her head whilst putting his arms around her. A thousand foolish, rash promises rushed to the fore of his mouth, he was just opening his mouth—

  “Oh, Freddy.”

  She had spoken so softly, he’d barely heard her.

  But he had heard her. He went to stone.
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br />   Firmly, he placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a gentle push away.

  She grasped the edges of his open collar and clung to them. “Freddy, please.”

  Glassy eyes met his.

  “Forgive me.” Her words resonated with such pain, such regret.

  That twisting inside him began again. More faintly, but there nonetheless.

  Determined to remain in control this time, he took her hands and pried them off his collar. “We must get you cleaned up.”

  Once again, he cursed the lack of servants. He must fetch and heat enough water to wash her encrusted hair and then do it all over again so that he might bathe her. At the same time, he’d have to ensure she wouldn’t run away.

  “Catriona,” he said firmly.

  She stared at him, still glassy-eyed.

  “Listen to me carefully,” he said, holding her hands.

  She gripped him so hard her nails bit into his skin.

  He glanced down and saw broken nails with dirt embedded beneath. Open gashes, bleeding—

  Tightness spread from his chest, up into his throat. A choked gasp echoed in his ears, one that he barely recognized as his own.

  “Your hands.” He heard the accusation in his voice. “Your beautiful hands!”

  She gasped.

  He closed his fists around her hands and gave them a none-too-gentle shake. “What have you done to your beautiful hands? Your hair?”

  God, if he had walked by a chamber and heard any other man speaking those words to a woman, in such an accusatory yet sorrowful tone, he would have said that man had gone insane.

  But he couldn’t stop himself. “What were you thinking? Don’t you know that every part of you belongs to me now?”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “Yes, me,” he spoke slowly, emphatically. “James.”

  Something sparked in her eyes.

  “You’re mine.” He squeezed her hands. “These belong to me.”

  “I-I…” Her voice cracked.

  The painful twisting inside himself increased until it felt like something broke.

  He took several deep breaths until he’d regained his equilibrium. Then he gentled his hold on her hands. “Listen to me, Catriona.”

  She nodded.

  “I am going to fetch water to wash your hair.” He took her wrists. “Come,” he said, leading her.

  She offered no resistance as he steered her to a chair. “You will sit here and wait.”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean it, Catriona. If you disobey, I shall skelp you until you can’t sit. For a week!” Fear made his last three words harsher then he’d intended. Fear borne of a sudden mental image of her running away into the cold, rainy night.

  She stared at him with such wide eyes, he wondered if perhaps he’d spoken too sharply to her, given her current state. Then her eyes came alive; their intensity shone like emeralds. She laughed, a clear, tinkling sound.

  A chill passed over his scalp. He felt a bit ill. He tightened his hold on her wrists. “Catriona?”

  Damn, his tone sounded too sharp again.

  She gasped, still laughing. She appeared to be trying to stop. She held up a hand as a peal of giggles beset her. Then she smiled, flashing her small, white teeth. Her lush mouth curving.

  Sudden desire heated his blood.

  “Oh, James!”

  At hearing the sound of his name, the wash of relief that came over him was stunning. An urge swept through him, to drop to his knees and gather her to himself, to kiss her. And not stop.

  He eased his grip on her wrists.

  “Skelp.” Another series of giggles overcame her. Again, she held up her hand and waved. “In your crisp English tone, it’s just too hilarious.” Her eyes sparkled. “All those elocution lessons that your aunt insisted on.”

  Her laughter, so merry, so girlish and free, made his mouth twitch. The temptation to join her in mirth was hard to fight.

  “You are so much the Englishman.”

  Suddenly, he felt accused. Disloyal to his origins. He hardened his expression. “I mean it, Catriona. You’re not to move an inch.”

  Her expression turned grave, her eyes large and round. “Of course, James.”

  He turned from her then gathered and heated several buckets of water. He brought one to her chair and knelt, taking her hands and bringing them the water.

  “I can wash my own hands,” she said.

  He ignored her, soaping the mud encrusted flesh and frowning at the cuts and abrasions left behind. He looked up at her, sternly. “If you wish work in the garden, you must wear protective gloves.”

  “I didn’t think of it.”

  “Aye, you didn’t think.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “I’ll punish you for things like this. Putting yourself in danger, harming yourself.”

  “Will you?”

  “That’s a promise.”

  “Two promises.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve made me two promises this night.”

  Frowning, he stood, then took the bucket of muddy water away. He came back with two more buckets of water and considered her position in the chair. He could place the hipbath behind the chair and have her lean back to let the dirty water flow that way.

  After that was done, with her hair thoroughly toweled and combed free of tangles, he filled the bath. He thought about leaving her for privacy’s sake.

  But as he watched her sitting there, her hair fast drying from the heat of the fire, with her eyelids drooping, he realized she was too tired.

  He helped her strip off the soiled nightdress.

  The fire blazed cheerfully, the flames casting dancing shadows and light over her full breasts with their rosy tips, rounded hips and—

  His pulse sped as his erection reared to life and strained against his fall.

  God.

  How was he to cope, alone with a madwoman who was dependent on him?

  A gorgeous madwoman with the body of a goddess.

  He couldn’t have her. Not until she regained herself.

  But tonight, he would have to gaze upon her. To touch her.

  He reached for the cloth and the soap, startled to see his hands were shaking. Irritation at himself bristled along his every nerve. He fisted his hand on the cloth and wet it. Then he rubbed it over the soap until the scent of jasmine and vanilla and lush spices filled the air. Again he bristled in annoyance with himself. Why had he purchased this damned soap? Why had he brought it here? He was only indulging his weakness with her. He had been doing so ever since he had come home to Scotland.

  They had no future.

  The Earl of Greythorn couldn’t wed a madwoman any more than he could wed a self-indulgent lady of scandal.

  He dragged a chair over to the large tub of steaming water, then sat and held out a hand to her.

  “Come here,” he said, hearing the terseness in his voice but unable to help it. He would either be cold and terse, or he would be atop her.

  She came to him, walking slowly, her face showing a girlish sort of shyness.

  “Give me your arm,” he said.

  She obeyed and he took the soaped cloth and scrubbed her arm.

  “Now the other,” he bade her. Then he rinsed the cloth clean before motioning to her. “Kneel.”

  She knelt before him, holding her face up to him. Her eyes were large and trusting.

  He wanted to kiss her.

  More than wanted it.

  Temptation beat in his veins like the thunder rumbling outside. He compressed his lips then carefully folded the cloth to make a fine point. With gentle motions, he wiped her cheeks free of mud, all the while aware of the rise and fall of her generous breasts. Aware of them brushing against his inner thighs as he angled to get closer to better clean her neck.

  He wanted to toss the damned cloth aside and take hold of those breasts. To squeeze their softness. Cursing under his breath, he gently pushed her aside then fetched another bu
cket of water. “Sit in the chair,” he said, then he washed her feet. He couldn’t help lingering with the soaped cloth over her ankles and calves. “Rinse your feet in the water, then get into the tub and finish bathing.”

  She obeyed with alacrity.

  He barely breathed a sigh of relief when her curves disappeared underneath the water in the tub, for their image was imprinted on his mind. His cock throbbed and throbbed, the pangs of desire seeming even more intense now that the distraction of washing her was done.

  She sat in the tub, sleepy-eyed with her hair curling softly around her beautiful face, appearing too tired to wash herself.

  Well, the job would have to be considered done.

  He couldn’t trust himself to touch her any more.

  But he had to.

  He held a hand to her. “Come, arise.”

  She stared at him, her eyes looking glassy again.

  “Wait,” he said. He left her and then returned with some heated wine laced heavily with honey.

  She drank it with painful slowness, leaving him to sit there, increasingly spellbound by the sight of her nipples gently rising over the waterline and then falling beneath it with each breath. At last, the job was finished. She was clean again. He helped her from the tub then wrapped a towel about her. Rubbed those luscious curves until her flesh was rosy and dry.

  And he was throbbing and hard as iron. With Catriona wrapped in a fresh towel, he carried her from the kitchen to her chamber. Once dressed in a clean nightdress and tucked into her bed, she reached for him as he made to leave.

  “The garden, you promised.”

  Tenderness came over him, wiping away the edge that unrequited lust had given him. He caressed her cheek. “Of course.”

  He remained sitting by her bed, watching her as she fell asleep. He might never love a woman again, not as he had loved her back in her days of innocence. But he wanted, needed, to protect her from everything. From everyone. Forever.

  But the Earl of Greythorn could never wed a madwoman.

  Never.

  * * * *

  Sunny sat at the table in the breakfast room. Sunlight glared on the yellow wallpaper printed with ruby-red colored birds perched on chocolate-brown branches and emerald leaves. The wainscoting was the palest green, and the linen tablecloth a brilliant white. Stark cheerfulness. She focused on staring into her teacup, wishing she’d had the sense to leave her hair loose so that it could fall over her face. At the memory of last night’s madness, her cheeks flamed and her meal of cold chicken and bread lay forgotten.