by Heather Boyd
Adam shuddered. His head throbbed, and he put his hand over the spot but it only made it worse. He jerked his hand back, staring at fingers that were now bloody. “Devil take it!”
Mrs. Warner rushed to remove her gloves and reached for Adam’s head. “Let me see.”
“You are too small to see the top of my head.” Adam took stock of himself. He did not feel at all steady, so he slid down to a sitting position and stretched out his long legs.
She made a clucking sound of disapproval and kneeled beside him to stare into his eyes. “You are hurt, worse than you want to say.”
Her soft green eyes were filled with real concern, something he’d never expected to see on her face. “Well, that is disappointing.”
“Disappointing?” Rebecca immediately began searching through his hair for the wound, and he chose to imagine it a sensual caress until she spoke again. “You have a gash to your head that has bled. Dear God, you could have died.”
“Always looking on the bright side,” he murmured, and then noticed how close the lady was to his body. He inhaled slowly, delighted in this unexpectedly rare treat. Mrs. Warner had never been the friendliest sort. “You smell nice.”
“Really, Rafferty,” she chided. She suddenly slipped her hand inside his coat, rummaged in his pockets and began to dab at his head with the handkerchief she found there. “This is hardly the time to worry about my perfume.”
“As you say, I could have been killed. Seems like an appropriate time for noticing the little things in life that please me.” He felt pain and hissed. Eager for a distraction, he dropped his gaze to her shoulder—now bare of the shawl, which had fallen away unnoticed by the lady. The respectable garment Rebecca had worn to church, so stylish and modest, was less so now thanks to the accident. The struggle out of the carriage seemed to have ripped the seam apart, and her pale skin looked very soft and inviting. He curled his fingers into the skirt of her gown and held it. “Lovely.”
She drew back to peer into his eyes again, and then she glanced down at his fist. “What are you doing?”
What was he doing? Adam had no idea, but he wasn’t of a mind to stop. “I can’t walk back to the manor just yet,” he admitted. “Talk to me.”
“Just sit there quietly.”
“Never been good at being quiet or still, you know.” He let go of the gown and lifted one hand. He brushed his knuckles up the outside of her leg, past her hip and across to her belly. Yes she was proving a good distraction from his injury. “Or good.”
Mrs. Warner dragged in a shocked breath. “Rafferty!”
He struggled to meet her eyes, more amused by her outrage than chastised, and tried to ignore a horrible sensation churning in his belly. He would not cast up his accounts in her presence. “I do adore tangling with feisty wenches. You’re always so pretty and proper on the outside. But underneath…therein might lie all the wickedness a man could ever desire. Have you ever given in to temptation since you were widowed?”
Chapter 2
“No. Most assuredly not,” Rebecca hissed, entirely shocked by the Earl of Rafferty’s insinuation. “I would never.”
“Pity,” he murmured. “I think you and I could have a great deal of fun together.”
“Well. I don’t think—”
Rafferty groaned.
“What’s wrong now?”
Lord Rafferty did not answer, and she really looked at his face then, overcome by fear. His normally expressive face grew slack of animation, and she quickly untied his cravat and set her fingers to his hot throat. He had hit the ground very hard. Rebecca found his pulse easily and counted the beats as her own heart steadied again.
His chest rose and fell with each breath, and that was somewhat reassuring. He had only fainted. “Typical of you to get the last word,” Rebecca grumbled. She scowled at him. “Wake up, my lord.”
When there was no response, Rebecca raised her hand and, wincing, delivered a light blow to his cheek.
The earl didn’t move a muscle, so she tried to rouse him with another. The harder blow jolted his head and, perhaps enjoying it too much, she slapped him a third time.
When he continued to ignore her existence in favor of remaining insensible, Rebecca wriggled around to kneel more comfortably and inspected his wound further. She reasoned that if he were out cold, he wouldn’t feel any pain from her probing.
The gash was troubling but thankfully bled very little. After cleaning out the dirt she could see in the wound, a few stitches would be needed to make him whole again. Lord Rafferty would have a sore head for a few days, but he wouldn’t feel the pain for long given the way he usually drank.
She grabbed his chin gently and turned his face toward hers. “You should never have suggested walking home when you were injured,” she grumbled. “Wake up, please.”
It did not weaken a man to show they needed help now and then. It proved them as human as any woman. However, Rafferty had put her safety above his own, and she owed him a debt of gratitude she could never repay. Because of that, Rebecca felt obligated to worry about his health.
She released his face slowly, brushing his smooth-shaven cheek with a gentle caress. “Don’t you dare die before I return. If you can’t walk back under your own steam, I’ll have to get help for you.”
She climbed to her feet and looked around. She could go back to the gravel drive but no doubt the grooms would still be reporting the accident to those at the manor. There seemed to be no one about on this part of her father’s estate right now, either. Annoyed that she’d most likely have a long walk, and would have to leave Rafferty alone, she turned back briefly. She would get the last word, whether he heard her or not.
“Lord Rafferty, I should like to inform you I do not appreciate your behavior toward me. You flirt, quite obviously jests at my expense and only uttered to humiliate me.” She stood straighter. “Please cease smirking at me, too. We both know you could not mean a word of any of it. If I did ever want a lover—and I’m not saying I’ve ever considered such a thing—I’d be more discreet than you know how to be. I am not so lonely that I’d fall into just anyone’s arms. After the humiliation Warner dealt me, carrying on with that servant, making me a laughingstock in my own home, and then dying, I trust no man besides those in my family, and perhaps Mr. Whitfield, since he will be family soon. We will always remain at odds, you and I.”
She frowned at that uncomfortable truth. Rafferty was often at Stapleton Manor visiting her father, and now so would she be. Not that anyone realized her circumstances had changed yet.
She ran her gaze over Rafferty’s long limbs and broad chest. His lungs continued to fill with reassuring regularity beneath a horrid silk waistcoat—one of many in his wardrobe, she assumed. “Also, I do not like your waistcoats. They are all hideous, like the one you wear today most assuredly is. Why you continue to dress like a preening peacock at your age is quite beyond my understanding. Do you not care that your reputation suffers for the garish nature of your clothing? I suppose you must not. If you had a wife, she would tell you that they hurt the eye.”
Rebecca took a deep breath, and then pressed her lips shut. Perhaps that was more words than she’d intended to ever speak to Lord Rafferty, but she did feel better for saying things she would usually have kept to herself.
She made sure to cover her bared shoulder with her shawl, and then, on second thought, tied it diagonally across her body to preserve her modesty. “I’ll bring help,” she promised as she strode off.
After a brisk walk directly toward the manor through the avenue of tall trees, she saw her father racing toward her. She waved, and he altered course to intercept her. “What has become of Rafferty?”
“He’s injured.”
Father groaned. “What did you do to him?”
She looked at her father in astonishment. “I didn’t hurt him. He must have struck his head when he threw himself out of the carriage.”
Father’s eyes grew round, and he grabbed her hands, turn
ing them up for inspection. Rafferty’s blood was on the tips of her fingers. “Dear God, are you bleeding?”
“No. It’s Rafferty’s.” She nodded. “He has fainted, too. I suspect he was dizzy at the scene of the accident but refused to ask for the help he needed. He won’t wake up for me.”
“That’s not good,” the duke warned unnecessarily. “Where did you leave him?”
“Not far away,” she promised, turning in that direction. “Rafferty is sitting beneath a tree at the end of the avenue.”
They turned back but Father quickly outdistanced her and reached Rafferty first. He knelt down at Rafferty’s side. Rebecca arrived as the duke raised his hand to crack his palm against Rafferty’s cheek.
“I tried that,” she muttered.
Father did it again anyway. “Wake up, man.”
Rafferty straightened suddenly. “What was that for?”
“You fainted,” she informed the earl.
“I certainly did not faint. I was merely resting my eyes.”
“Oh, you did faint,” Rebecca insisted.
“Now, now, Becca. This is no time to squabble.” Father got a better hold on Rafferty’s arm and tugged. “Up on your feet, my lord.”
Rafferty stumbled up to his six feet and whatever inches tall he was and then lifted a hand to his head, his expression twisted in pain. “Damn, that stings now. It damn well does.”
“Keeping silent might keep the pain at bay,” Rebecca advised as she found the gloves she’d discarded earlier. Rafferty cursed far too much.
Rafferty snorted. “Of course you would recommend that.”
The earl draped one arm about the duke’s shoulders. They were almost of the same height and seemed to move easily together along the avenue.
When the manor came into view, Rebecca breathed a sigh of relief to be home again.
At the door, a footman drew close but his eyes were wide upon her. He enquired after her health and, once assured she’d suffered no harm, he produced a letter. “This came earlier today by special messenger.”
Upon reading the sender’s name, she was filled with apprehension. Rebecca pocketed the letter before her father noticed. “Thank you.”
The footman lowered his gaze to the floor. “Shall I send your maid to attend you, madam?”
“Yes, please do. Also, can you deliver Lord Rafferty his usual requirement—white wine for this time of day?”
“Very good, madam.” The fellow scurried away, glancing back over his shoulder once.
“Mrs. Warner!”
She looked up at the sound of the duke’s call. He and Rafferty had paused halfway up the staircase and were both looking at her. Rafferty was grinning now.
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you should retire to your room to change. Immediately.”
She glanced down—and saw her undergarments were on display. Her face heated and she quickly tugged up her gown and retied her shawl over herself. “I will.”
Clutching the shoulder of her ruined gown, she hurried up the staircase until she reached the gentlemen. Rafferty was no longer grinning; he was sweating again, as if the effort of movement was more than he could bear. Although she didn’t want to care, she could not help but feel she should be worried about him. He had saved her.
Rebecca fell into step with them, saw Rafferty safely to his bedchamber, and then hurried to her own. Once there, she rang for a maid and moved to the mirror. “Oh!”
She put her hands to her head and groaned. Her gown looked like she’d been running wild for days, and her hair, her crowning glory, looked like a birds nest! She found what few pins remained and ran her fingers through her hair until stopped by knots. Crestfallen that she’d been seen looking less than her best beyond her bedchamber, she turned for the wash basin to cleanse her fingers of Rafferty’s blood. Then she sat at her dressing table to await her maid’s assistance.
It was a short wait. Nancy arrived very quickly but her eyes grew round in shock upon seeing her. “Oh, madam, I’ve just heard the terrible news! Are you hurt?”
Her wrist had seemed a little tender but she was sure the discomfort would pass by tomorrow. “I’m fine, but my hair and gown did not survive unscathed. Can you help me?”
“Happy to,” Nancy assured her and began to work her magic.
She put Rebecca’s long hair to rights again, coiling it into a loose chignon, and removed the damaged gown with assurances it would be repaired by nightfall. She helped Rebecca into a new day gown and fresh slippers.
Rebecca sent the maid away before she read her letter.
Thank heaven she had, for the contents were not pleasing.
Her friend, Mrs. Charlotte Benning, claimed to have exceedingly good news to share. The widow was to journey to Bath soon and was to stay for the month of August. Rebecca was invited to join her there if she were not otherwise engaged.
Rebecca folded the letter and tucked it away in a drawer to answer later.
Rebecca’s last stay in Bath had been an awkward holiday she’d rather not repeat. Charlotte Benning had arrived unexpectedly at Rebecca’s door and claimed her holiday lease had fallen though. At such short notice, with no other acceptable accommodation found, Charlotte had asked to stay with Rebecca. Rebecca had felt obligated to agree because of their years of friendship but soon came to regret it.
Charlotte had been an amusing companion in the beginning of her stay, but less so after a week. In Bath, there had arisen addition living expenses because of Charlotte—expenses far beyond Rebecca’s expectations or budget at that time. Charlotte had been distressingly slow to offer to pay her way.
During the most recent season too, Charlotte had continued to presume on Rebecca’s kindness and her pocket book.
Rebecca was widowed but not wealthy. Her jointure income only stretched so far. She had been very happy to use her family as an excuse to avoid the woman ever since.
Rebecca would write a reply tonight, thanking Charlotte for the invitation but explaining her intention to remain at Stapleton for the foreseeable future.
Besides, she was needed here until the new year began at least.
Rebecca left her room and headed down the hall, only to come to an abrupt halt at the vulgar profanities flaming the air.
Concerned, she rushed forward to see what was amiss. Servants were lingering outside Lord Rafferty’s bedchamber—listening in and laughing amongst themselves.
Rebecca scowled at them as she marched to his door, and they wisely fled back to their duties.
“Please, my lord. Just hold still a moment,” the Stapleton housekeeper was begging.
“A moment? It’s already been three damn long moments,” Rafferty complained, “and you say you are still not done sticking that needle into my skull.”
“But—”
Rebecca stepped into the room, noting there was only Mrs. Brown present to tend to the earl’s injury. She scowled at him. “Kindly mind your tongue, my lord. You are in the presence of respectable ladies.”
His gaze raked over her boldly and angry color flooded his cheeks. “Where the hell have you been?”
She shook her head at his question and met the housekeeper’s gaze. “I must apologize for Lord Rafferty, Mrs. Brown. He appears to have lost his manners in the accident.”
The woman nodded, but Rebecca suspected Mrs. Brown was quite upset and trying not to show it. She drew closer to the housekeeper, keen to offer her support and protection. Mrs. Brown was an indispensable servant for Stapleton Manor, Rebecca had relied on her since she was a young girl, and she did not like that she might feel threatened by one angry earl—even if he was hurt. “How goes the work on him?”
“I am almost done, madam. One more stitch, I swear.”
Rebecca turned toward Lord Rafferty and peered at the wound on the earl’s head. In this light, after being cleaned and half stitched already, it hardly seemed very serious now. Lord Rafferty was being difficult, but the wound really did need one more stitch. Her lips t
witched as she caught the housekeeper’s gaze. “Are you sure it shouldn’t be two stitches?”
Rafferty began to sputter and protest.
The housekeeper’s eyes widened in alarm at the prospect, but then Mrs. Brown glanced at the wound again. “Do you really think it needs two more?”
“No, one more bloody stitch will do and then get the hell out of my room,” Rafferty ordered rudely.
Rebecca clucked her tongue. “She’s only doing her job, my lord. I’m sure you want the wound to heal neatly. Why, it would be most embarrassing to have a puckering lump on your head.”
Rafferty closed his eyes with a sigh. “Cruel woman.”
Rebecca winked at the housekeeper and saw the woman relax at last. “You can begin again.”
Rafferty’s hand shot out and grabbed Rebecca’s wrist. “You will stay.”
Although she had no reason to remain except to protect the housekeeper from further verbal abuse, she indulged the earl. She patted his hand solicitously. “You’ve been such a brave earl.”
The housekeeper nearly choked on a laugh, but then devoted herself to the last stitch the earl needed. Rafferty’s hold on Rebecca’s hand remained painfully tight through it all.
“Nicely done,” Rebecca murmured when Brown had finished.
“Thank you, madam.” The housekeeper backed away from the bed quickly. “In a few days, I’ll look at the wound again and decide when to remove the stitches.”
“Excellent. Thank you.”
The housekeeper smiled quickly and departed, closing the door swiftly behind her.
Rafferty exhaled slowly, and his grip on Rebecca’s wrist eased. “Does it really look all right?”
Rebecca rubbed her tingling wrist as she examined the stitches again, noting the earl’s hair was matted with blood in places. His hair and brow should be cleaned up a little before anyone else saw him. She fetched a wet washcloth, and then picked up his comb. “There was no need to be so difficult. Mrs. Brown has tended a great many wounds, and this will heal nicely provided it does not become infected. No one is yet to die under her care, I assure you.”
