In Bed With the Devil

by Lorraine Heath

  They were merely partners. He should have felt a detachment where she was concerned, but what he was beginning to feel toward her was an appreciation. It bothered him that he was coming to care for her, that he thought of her far more than he should.

  The footman darted ahead and opened the door that led into the kitchen. Luke shouldered his way through. “Go fetch my physician. Quickly now.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  Catherine stiffened in his arms. “No, no, we can’t have anyone else aware that I’m here.”

  “It’s all right. He’s very discreet.”

  Gingerly he set her in the chair. Reaching out, he turned up the flame in the lamp that Cook left on the table every night. He liked the rooms in his house lit. He’d had too many nights in utter darkness.

  Turning from her, he grabbed a knife. Then he pulled out a chair, settled it in front of her, sat down, and placed the knife on the table.

  “What are you going to do with that? My hand is already sliced.”

  If she weren’t so pale with a fine sheen of sweat across her brow, if she hadn’t been so damned brave, he might have lashed out at her. Instead he just asked quietly, “Do you not trust me at all?”

  She nodded, and he wasn’t certain if she was nodding yes, she didn’t trust him or yes, she did. It suddenly occurred to him that it really didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he trusted her.

  Very gently he took her hand. He could feel the small tremors traveling through it. “This is likely to hurt,” he said as he began to remove the handkerchief.

  “You say that as though it’s not hurting now.”

  “Is it hurting very badly?”

  Catherine tried not to look, tried so hard not to look, but there was so much blood, it was as though each drop were a magnet for her eyes. “It hurts like the very devil.”

  He chuckled low. “You’re such a brave girl.”

  She didn’t know why his words warmed her, why she cared that he had a good opinion of her. “There’s so much blood.”

  “Yes,” he said quietly, removing the last of the cloth, revealing the ghastly parted flesh with the river of crimson running through it. She wondered how much worse it might have been if the knife hadn’t had to first slice through her glove.

  “Oh, dear God.” She turned her head away as though closing her eyes wasn’t enough.

  His hold on her hand tightened. “Don’t swoon on me.”

  “I’m not going to swoon.” She didn’t bother to keep the irritation from her voice. “I hate that you think I’m such a ninny.”

  “I assure you, Catherine, that particular thought regarding you has never once crossed my mind.”

  She heard a scrape of metal over wood and opened her eyes in time to see him lifting the knife. Very gingerly, he used it to slice her glove further, to the end. Then he very carefully parted the cloth and slowly peeled back the material, gently tugging it off each finger. She was suddenly having a very difficult time drawing in a breath, the room had grown incredibly hot, and she feared she might be in danger of swooning—even though she’d assured him she wouldn’t.

  She imagined him in a bedroom, removing clothes from a woman—from her—with the same care. Revealing every inch of her flesh for his perusal. He was studying her hand as though he’d never before seen bare fingers. He slowly trailed his finger along the outline of her hand.

  “I don’t think it’s too bad,” he said quietly.

  Swallowing, she nodded.

  “If you ever put yourself in harm’s way like that again, I’ll put you over my knee.”

  “And do what?” she asked indignantly.

  He lifted his gaze to hers, and she saw the worry in his eyes, before he smiled. “Kiss your bare bottom.”

  Her face must have shown shock at his words—she could only hope it revealed shock and not desire—because he shook his head. “My apologies. That was entirely inappropriate. I forget who you are.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Not one of Jack’s doxies.”

  She didn’t want to contemplate him kissing a woman’s bare bottom, kissing anything for that matter.

  He held her gaze, held her hand. Looking into his eyes was so much more welcoming than looking at her raggedly torn palm. They drew her in, made her forget that he’d almost been killed. She reached up with her unwounded hand and brushed the hair back from his brow. She should ask him to slice off that glove as well so she could feel his skin against her fingertips. His eyes darkened, his gaze became more intense, grew closer as he leaned in—

  The door opened and they both jumped.

  “What trouble have you gotten yourself into now, Luke?” the man asked, closing the door behind him. He reminded Catherine of an angel, with a halo of blond curls around his head. His eyes, as blue as the sky, widened. “What have we here?”

  “A bit of a mishap,” Claybourne said as he rose from the chair.

  The man set his black bag on the table and took the chair Claybourne had vacated. “Who have we here?”

  “You don’t need to know,” Claybourne said.

  The man smiled. “I treat far too many to remember all their names. I’m William Graves.”

  “You’re a physician?” Catherine asked.

  “Quite right.” He placed his hand beneath hers with extreme gentleness, but she didn’t grow warm, her breath didn’t catch, and she didn’t feel in danger of swooning.

  “I’m Catherine,” she felt compelled to say.

  “Are you one of his rescued lambs?” he asked as he studied her wound.

  “No, she is not,” Claybourne snapped. He dragged a chair over and sat beside her. “You’re not here for gossip. How badly is she hurt?”

  “It’s rather nasty, but it could have been worse.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “I want to stitch it up. It won’t be pleasant, but it’ll heal better, more quickly.”

  He seemed to be asking for her permission, so she nodded.

  “Very good.” He pressed a cloth to her palm. “Hold this in place while I prepare things. Luke, go fetch some whiskey.”

  He took objects out of his bag and laid them out on the table. Then making himself quite at home, he began moving around the kitchen, setting a kettle of water on the stove.

  “You shouldn’t bother with tea,” Catherine said. “I really don’t think I could drink it.”

  He smiled at her. “You’ll be drinking the whiskey. The water is so I can keep things clean. I’ve noticed that those I treat in squalor tend to die of infection more so than those I treat in tidy houses.”

  Claybourne walked back in, holding a bottle and a glass filled to the brim. “Here, drink this.”

  Taking a sip of the bitter brew, she grimaced.

  “All of it,” he ordered.

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “The more you drink, the better it tastes.”

  She took another sip. It didn’t taste any better.

  “It’s not tea, gulp it,” he ordered impatiently.

  “Don’t be tart with me. I saved your life.”

  Setting the bottle on the table, he sat again in the chair beside her. “Yes, you did.”

  He trailed his fingers tenderly along her cheek. It was all she could do not to turn her lips into his palm. She moved her head beyond his reach and concentrated on taking several gulps of the whiskey. It did seem the more she drank, the better it tasted. She was becoming lightheaded, which made her want to curl up in Claybourne’s lap and sleep, safe and secure.

  Dr. Graves came to stand in front of her, took her wounded hand, and placed it on the table. “Close your eyes and think about something else.”

  She closed her eyes and started to think about—

  She took a sharp intake of breath and her eyes flew open as liquid fire poured over her palm. “Oh, dear God, what was that?”

  “The whiskey,” Dr. Graves said.

  “You poured—”

  “I think it kills germs. Try to rel
ax. You’re going to feel a stab—”

  “Catherine?”

  A warm hand cradled her cheek, turned her head. She gazed into eyes so silver, so filled with concern. “Think about something else,” Claybourne ordered.

  She shook her head, trying. To her mortification, she flinched and released a tiny squeak when she felt something sharp being jabbed into her flesh.

  Claybourne leaned near and then his mouth was blanketing hers, skillfully plying her lips apart. Oh, the fool, did he not fear that she might bite down—

  He tasted of the whiskey that he’d ordered her to drink, and she wondered if he’d needed some to fortify himself for what she was about to endure. She didn’t know if it was his whiskey mingling with hers or his mouth plundering hers that was such a distraction, but she was suddenly only vaguely aware of something happening with her palm and incredibly aware of the taste, feel, and tangy scent of Claybourne. His hands were rough in her hair. She heard a hairpin drop to the floor. She was surprised they didn’t all tumble out.

  Deepening the kiss, he swirled his tongue over hers, and she thought if she were standing that her knees would have been too weak to support her. She knew she should pull back, should slap him with her one good hand, but he was so incredibly delicious. And while she knew it wasn’t desire for her that prompted his actions, but simply desire to distract her, still she was grateful for the moment, grateful to have one more opportunity to experience his kiss. She’d been haunted ever since he’d kissed her in the library. The kiss hadn’t been nearly long enough then, and she knew that no matter when this kiss ended, it wouldn’t be long enough either.

  The kiss seemed to encompass more than her mouth. It seemed to reach into the very core of her womanhood and awaken yearnings she’d never before known. Desire rushed forward, dulling everything else. She knew she was wanton, loose, shameful to harbor this intense craving for him to come nearer, for him to press more than his lips against hers. She thought of all the warnings he’d given her that first night. She risked more than her reputation with him; she risked her heart.

  “Luke? Luke, I’m finished.”

  Claybourne broke free of the kiss and drew back; he seemed as dazed as she.

  “Not sure I’ve ever seen quite so inventive a distraction,” the doctor said.

  “Yes, well, it worked didn’t it?” Claybourne got to his feet, snatched up the glass of whiskey she’d set aside earlier, and downed the contents in one long swallow.

  Oh, yes, it had worked. Her hand was not only stitched but it was wrapped in a white bandage.

  “It’s common to feel dizzy after such an ordeal,” Dr. Graves said. “Give yourself a few moments.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, thank you for your attentions. I assume Claybourne will pay you for your services.”

  “He paid me long ago.”

  “You’re another one of Feagan’s children, aren’t you?”

  He gave her a wry smile, before coming to his feet and beginning to put the tools of his trade back into his bag. “In about a week, anyone should be able to remove the stitches for you. But if you’d rather I do it, just have Luke send word.”

  “Thank you,” she said again.

  “It was my honor to be of service.” He snapped his bag closed, stopped to whisper something to Claybourne, and then made his way out the door, leaving her alone in the room with Claybourne. She dearly wanted him to move nearer, to touch her, to kiss her. The whiskey was influencing her thoughts. Or perhaps it was simply the ordeal of the night. Their surviving had created a bond between them that hadn’t existed before.

  “How will you explain it?” Claybourne asked.

  “Pardon?” She felt as though her thoughts were moving through honey, especially those that concerned him. How would she explain wanting him to kiss her again?

  “The hand?”

  “Oh.” She looked at it, turning it one way and another. It was aching. Perhaps she should drink more whiskey before she left. “I’ll just say I cut it on a piece of glass or something. There’s really no one to challenge me. One of the advantages to my brother traipsing all over the world.”

  “I should get you home now.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed.”

  To her surprise, in the coach, he didn’t sit opposite her as a gentleman should, but he sat beside her, his arm around her, holding her as close as a dear friend—or dare she think it, as a lover?

  “I’m sorry this happened,” he said, his voice low and intimate within the confines of the coach.

  She was incredibly exhausted. All she wanted to do was sleep. “Not to worry.”

  “About the kiss—”

  “Don’t be concerned. I shan’t mention it to Frannie. I know it was the only recourse you had to distract me.”

  “I know some coin tricks, but I didn’t think they’d be as effective.”

  “I’m certain they wouldn’t have been.” She sighed. “Are you attacked often?”

  “From time to time, there have been dangers.”

  “Do you think it was Mr. Marcus Langdon?” She knew better than to refer to him as a cousin.

  “My death would certainly expedite things for him, but unlike you and I, he’s not of a bloodthirsty nature.”

  She brought her head up quickly, was immediately hit with a spinning world, and dropped her head back against his shoulder. “You think me bloodthirsty?”

  “You want me to kill someone.”

  “Oh, yes. Quite.” She’d almost forgotten what had brought her to his door. It was sometimes easy to forget—when Winnie wasn’t bruised. When she seemed happy.

  Was Catherine’s solution a rash one?

  As often as she’d lain awake at night pondering solutions before she’d approached Claybourne, she didn’t see any other way. And yet sometimes her decision seemed extreme. If only two of Avendale’s wives hadn’t died mysteriously. If only he didn’t take his fists to Winnie.

  “Tell me about the rescued lambs,” she said, needing a distraction from the discomfort of her thoughts and aching hand.

  He groaned low as though irritated—or maybe embarrassed—by the question and she thought he would leave it at that. Finally his low voice filled the coach, lulling her with its purring resonance.

  “Each of us has our weakness. For Frannie, it’s children. For me, it’s unmarried mothers. It began innocently enough. One of my servants had a friend who found herself with child, and she was let go. I suspect the babe’s father was the lord of the manor, but he wouldn’t claim it. So I sent her to one of my lesser estates. I wasn’t using it. I’ve sent rescued lambs there ever since.”

  He made it seem so unimportant.

  “Your good works must cost you a fortune.”

  “You say that as though you find me generous. If you’ll not consider me a braggart, I’ll confess that I’m in possession of a fortune, a very nice fortune. What I give is nothing. The truly generous man is the one who gives away his last ha’penny when he can ill afford to do so.”

  Or one who gives away the last of his soul, she thought desolately, when it’s all that remains to him. Was she asking too much?

  When they arrived at Catherine’s residence, the coach came to a halt in the alleyway. Claybourne didn’t stop at the gate, but escorted her all the way to the servants’ entrance, his hand sturdy beneath her elbow as though she needed the support. Perhaps she did. Sometimes she felt like she was floating, that everything was at a great distance—and then suddenly it would be before her.

  “Will you be all right?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I’ll see you at midnight tonight. Or is it tomorrow? I’m never quite sure how to refer to the upcoming night when dawn has not yet taken this one away.”

  Cradling her chin, he rubbed his thumb over her lips. It was so dark and foggy that she couldn’t determine what he was thinking.

  “Do you think you’ll be up to teaching Frannie?” he asked.

  His question surprised her. She’d expected something
a bit more intimate after all they’d shared tonight.

  “Yes.” She sounded breathless. It irritated her that he had such power over her.

  “Good. Tonight then.”

  He quickly disappeared into the fog, like a phantom. Opening the door, she slipped inside, then pressed her back to the wood. She’d not expected to like Claybourne. She’d wanted only to use him, then forget him.

  But she knew now that no matter what the outcome of their arrangement, she would never forget him. Never.

  Luke listened to the sounds of the city coming to life as his coach traveled toward its destination. He’d always enjoyed the hustle and bustle of London, but particularly in the early hours of the morning. As a lad, he’d always felt that it offered the promise of opportunity: pockets to be picked, food to be stolen, tricks to be played on the unsuspecting. And always there was Frannie.

  From the first night that Jack had taken him to Feagan’s, the first night when he had spotted the little girl sitting by the fire, the first night when she had crawled onto the mound of blankets, tucked her small hand in his, and told him not to be afraid, he had loved her.

  He remembered nothing of his life before Jack found him. Marcus Langdon and his attempt to claim the title had Luke trying to remember what he could of his past. But there was nothing there. All his memories were of the streets.

  Perhaps he should return to them, return to them with Frannie. Let Langdon have the title. Luke certainly didn’t need the income. Because of his partnership with Jack, he was a man of wealth in his own right. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to give up the title that the old gent had assured him belonged to him. He’d grown to care for the old gent, in his own way, and a part of him thought it would be a betrayal to the one who had saved him from the gallows and looked after him so well.