by Corwin, Amy
She frowned as she removed his clothing and cut away the leaking bandage. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the saturated bandage into the wash bowl next to the bed and wiped her fingers on a clean towel.
The poor man must have been in agony before he collapsed. He should have never agreed to the journey from London in his condition, but she knew how persuasive her uncle could be. Mr. Dacy might not have had a choice. Or it might have suited him to be absent from the metropolis for a few days, considering someone had apparently tried to kill him.
She tried not to think overmuch about that aspect, but Mr. Dacy's appearance worried her.
Thankfully, he didn’t look like an easy man to murder. And judging from the scar on his brow, this wasn't the first time someone had tried.
Looking at him, a quivering feeling of intense curiosity and attraction slid through her, tickling like soft feathers. Her sensible side refused to accept such silliness. He wasn’t a traditionally handsome man. His face, even in repose, had harsh lines bracketing his mouth. And his large nose was barely balanced by his too-stubborn chin and wide brow.
But his wide mouth had a full, lower lip that promised a touch of self-indulgence as well as a sense of self-deprecating humor. And his eyes...well, it was the commanding intelligence in his dark eyes that drew her the most. He was a man others would instinctively follow, and she couldn’t help responding to his inner strength on some basic level.
She stared at the long, thick black lashes that lay in the weary hollows under his eyes and laid her hand briefly on his brow. His skin was cool to the touch despite the droplets of perspiration and his grayish hue.
Shaking her fanciful notions out of her head, she washed the sluggishly bleeding wound and applied an herbal powder. As she worked, fumbling over his bare skin, her flushes deepened. Concentrating on her patient, she scolded herself and tried not to see anything untoward.
Unfortunately, he was just so...undressed. She couldn’t help noticing something. It was unavoidable, really, even though she draped the sheet discretely over as many parts of him as were convenient.
When the injury was clean, she dried her hands and leaned over him again. Another wave of tingling flushes shivered through her when she laid her hand on his thick slab of chest muscle. His chest rose and fell beneath her palm, warm and solid, as his breathing deepened and slowed with sleep.
She only rested her hand on him for a moment, just long enough to make sure his heart was sound.
There was nothing wrong with her actions—certainly nothing to cause the brief spasm of guilt she felt.
She had only touched him because she was concerned about his health. The warmth of his skin and softness of the dark curling line of hair running down his flat belly were irrelevant, just minor details noticed in passing. Nothing more. Nothing to be ashamed about.
However, despite trying not to notice so many things about Mr. Dacy, she saw enough to conclude he was a disreputable man. Most likely, he was running away from the authorities in London.
Only a criminal would have such hard muscles—not that she had particularly observed them. But it wasn’t just his physique—dangerously firm though it might be. The gunshot wound was a fairly good indication that he wasn’t entirely bon ton. Unless he had been dueling.
Dueling in rags? Hardly likely.
She had kept her eyes resolutely focused on the crisp white linen as she rewrapped his muscular thigh. She refused to notice the contrast between the white material and his skin, shadowed with more soft swirls of dark hair...
Reining in her thoughts, she concentrated on her task. He was sick—wounded. She definitely didn’t want to impede Mr. Dacy’s return to health and subsequent departure. He needed nursing and quiet care so he could leave. Soon.
After pulling the quilt up over his chest, very slowly so that she wouldn’t hurt him, she gathered up the foul rags he had worn. Mr. Dacy shifted in the bed behind her, arching his back slightly as if jolted by a spasm of pain.
Anxious, she bent over him and wiped away a bead of sweat, smoothing the skin until the furrows in his brow disappeared. As she stood, she studied his face again, feeling obscurely threatened although he was unconscious and showed no signs of rousing.
Who has Uncle John brought home this time?
Gripping his discarded clothing, she turned away. She walked through the door and closed it quietly behind her, feeling unsettled. She balled up the foul-smelling rags, tucking everything into the shirt, and then she tied the sleeves as a handle before slinging it over her arm. The poorly made clothes didn’t seem to fit Mr. Dacy somehow. This only increased her worries, as it hinted at lies and masquerades.
She rubbed her arms and shifted her bundle, recalling the white scar over Mr. Dacy’s brow and his air of hardened danger. Despite his elegant, long-fingered hands, he didn’t get his admittedly thrilling scar, nor his well-muscled physique, at one of Almack’s Wednesday night balls. And his cold, gray eyes were a little too grim for the typical, frivolous member of the Ton, as well.
No matter what information her uncle supplied, she couldn’t believe he was a reputable member of the aristocracy.
Mr. Dacy was a sinister rogue.
Her heart fluttered.
She was in dreadful trouble. She could never resist a scoundrel, despite her best efforts and terrible shame over her weakness. And it wasn't just wicked men. Her romantic streak kept her from reading the proper, improving novels her mother suggested. Instead, she spent untold hours poring over lurid books she had to hide on top of the wardrobe. She had an almost uncontrollable thirst for swashbuckling tales with tragically innocent heroines and dark, ruthless heroes who were completely misunderstood.
Nonetheless, despite her love of brooding heroes, and all the hours she spent studying them in romance novels, she never really expected to tuck one into bed.
Glancing back at Mr. Dacy’s door, she smoothed her apron with her free hand and tried to suppress her giddiness. She felt breathless and flushed.
His shoulders were so wide, and at one point, his eyes held a fascinating gleam when they had first met and locked gazes...
In that instant, he had seemed to like her. She felt...valuable and pretty. Desirable.
Nonsense.
He had been almost burning with fever—he’d had the same look in his eyes when he spied the bed. In fact, he probably appreciated the bed more and found it a hundred times more desirable.
However, no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t entirely forget the way his glance had made her feel in that brief, breathless moment of their meeting.
She touched her damp hair and her shoulders slumped. As soon as Mr. Dacy healed, he would be gone—hopefully without involving the Archers in anything illegal or immoral. The truth of the matter was, she didn’t know if she had enough strength left to keep both Uncle John and Mr. Dacy out of trouble. She had frantically chased after her uncle and his “friends” too many times in the past.
Frankly, the care of all these men left her as frayed and worn as an old gown washed too many times. Dealing with one more scoundrel—particularly this strangely attractive and dangerous one—was more than she could bear.
And as she wavered in the dim hallway, another worry assailed her.
What if he was some sort of law officer? He could have been shot in the line of duty. Her uncle could have shot him and brought him here, hoping the action would exculpate him.
Only three months ago, Uncle John had unknowingly brought home a Bow Street runner. The detective had apparently formed a ‘sincere and lasting friendship’ with her uncle as part of a plan to hold him fast to his bosom long enough to lock Uncle John away in gaol. Oriana had had a most difficult time getting rid of the detective and convincing her uncle that he hadn’t lost his last friend on earth.
She never wanted to go through that again.
Arching her back, she pressed her hands on her hips to relieve the tightness between her shoulders. The bundle of clothing bobbe
d against her hip—another chore requiring her attention.
A flash of anger heated her cheeks. She was tired of taking care of feckless and dishonest men. Worn clear through to transparency.
And downstairs, her uncle waited for her.
Ever since the loss of his daughter, he had acted more and more rashly—as if his constant activity could keep him from remembering poor Mary. He had yet to learn it wouldn't. No matter what he did, Oriana could still see the ghost of her cousin in his gray eyes.
And over the intervening years, her uncle had grown increasingly reckless until his wife, Lady Victoria, grew desperate. She had finally resorted to assigning him escorts from her numerous nieces and nephews. Evidently, she hoped they could prevent disaster when she couldn’t.
She rubbed her forehead and pushed a lock of hair back under her cap. Behind her, the bed creaked in Mr. Dacy’s room.
Should she go back inside to check on him before going downstairs? She opened the door an inch and peered inside the shadowy room.
Mr. Dacy was fast asleep. His dark lashes fluttered briefly before settling into the shadowy smudges under his eyes. The blue quilt was tucked snuggly over his chest, just the way she had left him. And yet even in sleep, he managed to appear formidable—mere seconds away from alertness.
Her gaze lingered on his hard, dark face and the breadth of shoulders. Then she realized her thoughts about him were drifting toward ones a genteel spinster shouldn’t have. And it didn’t help that Helen’s assessment of his physical state had been completely inaccurate. He was definitely not a eunuch. And the fact that Helen had known that word, and its meaning, was even more shocking.
Oriana flushed, just thinking about it. She shut the door again and moved away, walking with a firm tread. Somehow, she would have to find the resources to deal with the situation.
As she descended the stairs, the enthusiastic barking of the dogs broke the late afternoon stillness. She turned toward the back door, remembering Mr. Dacy’s animal. With a brisk step, she hurried outside.
“Joshua, what have you done with Mr. Dacy’s dog?” she asked as she entered the barn.
She glanced around before thrusting her awful bundle into the pile of rags near the empty stall on her left. One of the dogs wandered over, sniffed, and lifted a leg to saturate the bundle anew. She turned away with a sigh and pretended not to notice. If Mr. Dacy asked about his clothing, she'd simply have to assure him they were gone. Inexplicably vanished. Stolen by the fairies.
A straw-headed youth looked up. He clutched a fistful of straw and rubbed it over the shivering dog. The animal whimpered and twisted, trying to throw the water out of its coat.
“I’ve bathed her, Miss Oriana, but she ain’t what you’d call a prime specimen,” Joshua said.
“Let her go.”
Joshua released the dog and hopped backward, anticipating the dog’s next move. The dog shook its fur, spraying water in long, thin arcs throughout the barn, saturating everything within a five-yard radius.
When the dog stopped, it ambled over to her, yipping cheerfully. Its soft fur was white again. Short tufts curled along the scruff of the neck and around the muzzle as if a few drops of poodle blood were trying to show evidence of good breeding.
She studied the dog and smiled, thinking she detected a certain affinity with its master. Josephine was missing her left front leg, most of her left ear and appeared to be blind in her left eye. Perhaps the dog had been hurt when Mr. Dacy received the scar on his brow. It might have leapt to his defense and received its injuries as a result.
On the other hand, it might have been hit by a carriage Mr. Dacy was robbing at the time.
The animal was certainly no prize, no matter how clean it was now.
Trying to suppress her overly-active imagination, she scratched Josephine’s ear. The dog responded with a good natured nudge. She straightened and it waltzed around her, tongue lolling and eager for the touch of her hand. Warmth tugged at her heart as she stared down at the dog—no matter how much she tried to resist its wiles, she couldn’t ignore it. She bent down and gave the dog a hug, laughing when it licked her neck.
When the animal sat abruptly and scratched its shoulder, she nodded to Joshua. “She may have fleas. Have we any of the citrus oil left?”
“No, Miss Archer. I used the rest of it on Hunter.”
“Then I’ll boil another batch and leave it with Cook. Try to remember to rub it in thoroughly this evening—I don’t want the rest of the dogs to pick up fleas again.”
“Yes, Miss.” Joshua eyed the dog with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.
She laughed again and returned to the kitchen, preoccupied with thoughts of orange and lemon peels. The jar in the pantry contained only a handful of dried rinds, but there were enough left to boil and skim off the requisite oil for Josephine. The other five dogs were finally rid of their various insect companions.
She hoped they wouldn’t have to repeat the tedious bathing and oiling process for them, as well.
As the rest of a lazy, warm afternoon stretched out before her, she spent her time alternately watching Mr. Dacy sleep and waiting for the return of her sister. Strictly speaking, she spent more time staring at the sleeping man than entirely necessary, but she deemed it unavoidable.
She grew tired climbing up and down the stairs every ten minutes to see if he needed anything. It was easier to stay beside his bed and watch his deep chest rise and fall with his even breathing. And she could thereby ensure he didn't awaken and need something.
Finally, as the afternoon lengthened into evening, she dozed off in the chair next to Mr. Dacy’s bed. Shortly after five, she awoke with a start. She glanced at him, but Mr. Dacy continued to sleep, oblivious to her presence.
She got up stiffly and left his room, hurrying to check on her uncle.
“Oriana?” Helen’s voice floated up the stairway. “Where are you?”
“Helen!” She came down the stairs, straightening her cap. “Where have you been?”
“Why, I went to get the tea,” Helen said. Then she blushed prettily and chewed on her right forefinger—a sure sign of guilt. “And I got the most fetching bonnet.”
Oh, no. Oriana held out her hand. “Give me Mr. Dacy’s purse, Helen.”
“Must I?” Helen asked, growing even redder. “Maybe I could give it back to him?”
“No. The purse, please.”
Helen’s blue eyes flickered guiltily toward the front door and escape before she caught her gaze. “I’m sorry—I didn’t spend that much, truly. I am ever so sorry, but my Season is coming. And I just want—I j-just want to make a good impression. I want to look pretty—I know you think I am silly, but if I can just find the right bonnet, I know I could look pretty and make the most wonderful match—”
“Oh, Helen—how many times do I have to tell you? You are pretty already! It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing—”
“It does, too! You know it does! Clothes make the man—or the woman—you know that is true. I just want to be beautiful for once—”
Oriana blinked away sudden tears, knowing only too well how tempting a purse full of money and the prospect of finding true love could be.
“I’m sorry—really.”
“Oh, Oriana, it isn’t your fault!” Helen grabbed both of her hands and pulled her into a tight hug. “It is so dreadful about Lord Willowby. Was it too awful?”
“No, I’m quite over it. Truly. I am just sorry I was ever foolish enough to agree to his proposal.”
A sudden pang of guilt made her wince. She had the unmistakable idea that Helen had taken Oriana’s failed engagement terribly to heart. It had been a simple miscalculation on her part—she thought Lord Willowby meant it when he said he loved her.
But it was silly for Helen to worry. Such a thing would never happen to such a beautiful girl.
“Mama says I’ll marry an earl at least, but I am so nervous,” Helen said in a breathless voice. “I just don’t know. And I didn’t w
ant to take Mr. Dacy’s purse—you know I didn’t. I’m just so worried. And there was so much money in it, and you know how I am when I’m nervous—am I horrible, Oriana?”
She knew quite well what happened when her sister had both money and an attack of nerves. Poor Helen seemed convinced that if she bought exactly the right bonnet or proper shade of ribbon, all her dreams would be fulfilled. She would be beautiful, and she would meet the handsome prince of her dreams.
Nothing could convince Helen she was already quite pretty enough.
“No, dear. We shall make it up to him.” She hesitated, involuntarily glancing up in the direction of Mr. Dacy’s bedroom. “How much did you spend?”
“I’m not entirely sure.” Helen’s voice quavered. “Perhaps five pounds.”
Her heart sank. Five pounds wasn’t a terrible debt. However, the sum was more than she had at the moment in the household accounts. And she didn’t want to owe Mr. Dacy. If he was one of Uncle John’s friends, he wouldn’t be the sort to let a debt go a-begging for long.
Maybe she should drug him with her mother’s laudanum until she could replace the missing money in his purse.
She didn’t relish the task of explaining to Mr. Dacy that they owed him money they couldn’t repay.
“Perhaps we could write to papa for an advance?” Helen asked haltingly.
She shook her head. Their finances were tight with Helen’s approaching Season and their parents’ trip to Europe. Their grandmother had already been exceedingly generous in providing their family with money for Oriana’s parents to take a much coveted trip to Italy and supply Helen’s clothing for her Season.
It seemed ungrateful to ask for more.
“Did Aunt Victoria give you any funds for Uncle John?” she asked, trying not to sound desperate.
“No, she didn’t.” Helen’s lower lip trembled. “I see I’ve been foolish and extravagant, Oriana. Shall I take the bonnet back? “
