“He should be his old self in no time,” the doctor murmured as he worked, his voice carrying to her where she stood. “Assuming infection doesn’t set in.”
Astrid prayed it did not. She did not want this man’s death on her head. Her conscience was already burdened enough. It could not endure more.
“There now,” the doctor announced, rising to his feet.
Astrid returned her attention to the man asleep on the narrow bed, wrapping her arms around her middle.
Some of the color had fled his skin. The physician finished securing a stark white bandage to his head. A small stain of blood already spotted it.
“Change his bandages periodically, and keep the wound clean.” He set two small vials on the wood-scarred bedside table. Moving his hand from one jar to the other, he explained, “A salve for the wound and laudanum for the pain. Administer the laudanum with care. See he gets no more than a few drops a day.”
Dr. Ferguson looked directly at her as he spoke. “If infection sets in, send for me.”
“And how will I know if it does?” she asked.
“If the wound turns foul or a fever arises”—his mouth set in a grim line—“you’ll know.”
She glanced down at the man who had somehow fallen under her care, frowning at that irony. She did not possess a nurturing instinct. Not like other ladies—friends included—that cooed over kittens and babies in prams.
“He’s strong.” The physician’s voice broke through her musings as he shrugged back into his black wool coat, pulling up the thick collar in preparation for the cold. “I suspect your husband will pull through.”
She opened her mouth to correct him, but his next comment froze her, flooding her mouth with a sour taste.
“Now, my fee…”
Reluctantly, she walked to her reticule lying on the table, thinking how quickly her funds were dwindling. She had not taken unforeseeable possibilities into consideration.
She fought back a cringe as she handed a coin to the man. He waggled his fingers, indicating more. Sighing, she added another.
At least she was close to her destination. According to the innkeeper, Dubhlagan loomed only a day’s ride ahead. At the first opportunity, she would reach the village and learn where Bertram took lodgings. Hopefully he did not reside with his heiress’s family. She had no wish to arrive on the doorstep of some young woman’s home and put her to shame with the announcement that she was Sir Edmond Powell’s wife—that her beloved fiancé was in fact the Duke of Derring, imposter and fugitive from law.
Astrid cringed, imagining the ugly scene. She merely wished to stop Bertram’s farcical wedding, to speak her peace. Then she could return to her life. One that did not particularly fill her with happiness, but she had settled into an easy sort of routine nonetheless. Tea with Jane and Lucy. Juggling account ledgers with a negative balance. Attending select
ton
galas so that she might eat.
She deserved no better. On those rare occasions when she had been granted choices, she had failed.
Herself and others.
Astrid grimaced at the familiar pinch near her heart. It was the failing of others that stung. That remained her cross to bear.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.” Astrid held the door for the physician.
“I’ll see these are cleaned and bring you a bite to eat,” Molly said, following him out, arms full of the man’s garments.
“Thank you,” Astrid murmured, shutting the door behind them, her stomach clenching at the mention of food.
She had not eaten since earlier that morning, and then only tea and toast—the cheapest fare to be had at the inn where they stayed the night. But then she was accustomed to skipping a meal here and there.
A brisk knock sounded at the door. Astrid hurried to open it, knowing it was too soon for Molly to return, but hopeful that another servant had been sent ahead with a tray.
“Coral,” she acknowledged upon opening the door.
Her maid entered the room, glancing at the man on the bed as if he were some dangerous animal that might waken any moment. “A coach is heading south within a few hours.”
Astrid blinked at the young girl. “What has that to do with us? I cannot leave yet.”
Her gaze strayed to the man who lay naked beneath the blankets. She winced. Her first thought should not have been for him. A stranger. Her thoughts should be on Bertram—her
husband
. On stopping him and setting matters to rights. That alone should be her primary reason for remaining.
Coral’s thin nose lifted a notch. “Then I insist you pay my fare and send me home.”
Astrid waved to the motionless man on the bed. His muscled chest lifted distractingly above the blanket’s edge. “And what of him? Shall we leave him unattended? To say nothing of the business that brought me to Scotland in the first place. We are only a day’s ride from Dubhlagan.”
Coral shrugged. “Let the innkeeper see to him. He is not our concern.”
“And yet he certainly made us his concern,” she countered. “I would think a little appreciation would be in order.”
“I’ve had my fill of this inhospitable country.” Coral wrapped her arms about her as if she still wore her ravaged gown and sought to shield herself.
They had both changed clothes upon arriving at the inn. Even though Astrid’s dress hadn’t suffered the damage of Coral’s, she too had felt the need to don grime-free clothes—to put distance from the day’s sordid events. “Just another day. Perhaps two,” she appealed.
“I’m going home. With or without you.”
Astrid nodded grimly, once again moving across the room to her reticule. Returning, she placed several coins into Coral’s hand. “Without, then.”
Coral shook her dark head. “Very well. I will return to Town alone.”
“Do what you must.” As would she.
“I trust you will still grant me character letters.”
Astrid smiled tightly. “Naturally.”
“I fear you’re making a grave mistake in staying, my lady,” Coral announced. “I hope you don’t come to regret it.” With that, she departed the room in a flurry of skirts.
The only mistake Astrid feared she had made was in selecting Coral to accompany her. Not that she had much choice. It was either Coral or Cook. The other three servants she had managed to retain over the years were all elderly men. Astrid had bowed to propriety in selecting Coral. And yet she was no fool. She knew the former scullery maid only used her, accepting a paltry wage, exploiting her situation as lady’s maid to a duchess—even an insolvent one—in hopes of one day securing a better position.
She would have been better off with Cook, old as she was, or one of the men.
Her gaze flitted to the man on the bed.
Now she would be sharing a room with him. And without Coral to act as chaperone. A man whose name she did not even know, yet whose lips, wide and almost too lovely to belong to any of his gender, made her mouth tingle. No matter how unwanted or inappropriate, she yearned to touch them, to feel for herself. A wholly intolerable impulse.
Each day she woke to the unwelcome fact that she was the Duke of Derring’s wife. A married woman. Even if
he
had forgotten, she had not. Could not.
Moving to the corner, she removed her shoes and lowered herself to the hard-backed, utilitarian chair that overlooked the inn’s yard. From her vantage point, she wriggled her stiff toes and watched Coral stride across the yard, never once looking back. And why should she? She had met her goal to further her credentials.
On the other side of the busy yard, John talked to a cluster of men near the stables, motioning to his head, no doubt diverting them with his tale of near death at the hands of highwaymen.
Astrid rubbed her forehead tiredly, easing the worry lines with her fingers. At least the innkeeper was letting John bed down in the stables at no cost. Perhaps not the most comfortable arrangement for the coachman, but one less worry for her. And his bed of hay was doubtlessly better than the chair in which she would sleep.
She glanced across the room to her rescuer, eyeing the steady rise and fall of his muscled chest, the dark stain of his hair on the white pillow…helpless against the quickening of her pulse. The virile sight of him certainly bore no resemblance to the properly dignified gentlemen in Town. Astrid’s lips twisted. But then she knew most of those gentlemen to be anything but proper or dignified.
She shifted on her seat, searching for a comfortable position. Finding that elusive, she gave up. A long night loomed ahead.
The man on the bed moaned and shifted restlessly. The blanket slipped lower, revealing a glimpse of lean hip and a dark line of hair trailing down his navel.
Definitely a long night.
A
strid woke with a jerk, lurching upright in her chair. Her body protested from the sudden change in position. Pain lanced her neck, shooting down her spine. Rubbing at the painful crick, she blinked against the gloom, wondering if the floor might not have been more comfortable.
Scrubbing her eyes with the base of her palm, she surveyed the darkened room. The tray Molly had brought sat where she had left it on the bedside table, not so much as a crumb littering the dishware. Astrid had devoured the tasty soup and bread, falling asleep shortly after.
The lamp had burned out sometime during the night and the coals in the grate smoldered low. Moonlight spilled through the mullioned window, making the hardwood floor gleam as if it had actually been cleaned in the course of the year.
It soon became clear what woke her. Her patient thrashed on the small bed, moaning unintelligible words. Rising, she drew closer, the hardwood floor cold and gritty against her stocking-covered feet.
Peering down at him, she hesitated before finally pressing a hand to his brow, frowning. The late winter chill permeated the room, enough to keep one from feeling so warm. Yet his skin roasted her palm.
She trailed her fingers down the plane of his cheek, over the dark bristle, telling herself that the texture of his flesh, so unlike hers, did not intrigue her in the least…that the
man
did not. Her nails gently scoured the stubble over his hard jaw, enjoying the sensation.
“No!” His sudden hoarse cry caused her to jerk her hand back.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Not her! Leave her be!” With his eyes still closed, his head tossed wildly against the pillow. “Sorry,” he muttered, his voice quieter, smaller, almost like that of a child. “So sorry.”
Astrid felt his despair as keenly as a blade to her skin, could not stop herself from reaching down to stroke his burning brow.
His hand flashed out with the speed of wind, ripping a cry from her throat. Hard fingers locked around her wrist, the pressure excruciating. With a tug, he brought her tumbling over his chest.
With a cry, she pushed against the feather mattress on either side of him, arching her back, staring down into eyes that glowed through the room’s gloom, lucid and awake, a pale blue, frosty as ice-covered water. Clearly, he had escaped whatever nightmare had held him in its grip.
Inhaling through her nose, she grasped for the composure that always carried her through. Of course she had never found herself in a situation like this before. Since Bertram, she had been careful to keep men at arm’s length. Her life was difficult enough without adding a man into the fray.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded in that velvet voice, the deep, guttural incantation unidentifiable to her ears.
His gaze skipped beyond her, assessing their surroundings. “Where am I?”
“You don’t remember?” Astrid asked, her voice a breathless croak. “Earlier today? The highwaymen on the road?”
“Highwaymen?” he echoed, scowling, dark brows drawing tightly over his eyes.
She studied him carefully. Sweat beaded his upper lip, and his eyes seemed to look through her. Grimly, she acknowledged that he was in the grip of fever.
Adopting the voice she heard Jane use when talking to Olivia, she said gently, “You’re ill. Release me, so I can tend to you.”
His brow furrowed as if trying to decipher her words.
“Release me,” she repeated, “and I can help you.”
His fingers came up to her arms, flexing into her flesh, and for a moment she thought he would hold her all night.
“Please,” she added, her voice a ragged whisper. His hands loosened, dropping to the bed.
Clambering off him, she relit the lamp on the small dresser and slid her boots from underneath the chair. Sitting, she slipped them back on her chilled feet.
With one last glance at the man lying on the bed, head moving listlessly on the pillow, she slipped from the room in search of Molly.
The inn was quiet as she made her way down the worn wood steps. In the taproom, a few men lingered over tankards, huddled in their cloaks and tartans, tossing her speculative looks as her gaze searched the room.
Failing to spot Molly, she moved on until she discovered a set of stairs leading down into the kitchen. She descended the steps to a toasty room that smelled of grease, yeast, and sweat.
Two maids slept on pallets near the fire, shadows dancing over their still forms, the outline of their bodies like shadowed hills in a distant horizon.
“Molly,” she whispered, recognizing the dark braid over one of the women’s wool blankets. Creeping closer, she shook the servant awake. Molly sat up with a startled snort.
“I need your help.”
The groggy-eyed maid nodded and slipped on the shoes waiting for her beside the hearth.
Following Astrid back up the steps, she grumbled over the loss of her warm pallet as they made their way to the second floor.
Once in the room, Molly leaned over the man, pressing both hands to his face. He opened his eyes and looked up at her with a wild unseeing gaze.
“I know, love,” she cooed in her thick burr. Glancing to Astrid, she said, “He’s feverish.”
“Should we send for the physician again?”
“If you want to waste good coin for him to tell you what I already know.”
“What do we do, then?”
“We need to bring down his fever,” Molly replied, undoing the buttons at her cuffs and pushing her sleeves up to reveal brawny forearms. “And clean the wound,” she said as she peeled back the bandage to inspect his injury. Whatever she saw had her shaking her head. “I’ll fetch some water. You’ll need to help me bathe him.”
Astrid stared after Molly long after she left the room. Undressing him had been bad enough. Now she must bathe him?
She approached the bed. Biting her bottom lip, she stared down at him—at the bronzed muscles waiting for her ministrations. Her palms tingled and her fingers twitched at her sides.
Familiar self-loathing rose up to choke her. She was a married woman. One of the few things left to her was the fact that she had remained faithful to her vows. She had not caved to any of the propositions put to her these many years, even when it had been clear that to do so—to say yes—could help restore her funds and save her from the sneers of the
ton
’s dames when she passed by them in a gown four seasons old. The tremor of anticipation now coursing through her was just another strike to her self-respect. She was above base desire for a man not her husband.
“Here we are,” Molly announced, arriving back in the room, several linens tucked beneath one arm and a basin of fresh water in her hands. Setting the basin on the side table, she dipped one of the cloths within. Wringing it dry, she laid it on one side of his wide chest.
“Straight from the well,” she murmured in a soothing voice. “There you are, lad. Nice and cold for you. Doesn’t that feel better?”
Nodding, she instructed Astrid, “Pull the blanket off him.”
The command gave her a jolt, but she obeyed, baring the man before them and schooling her expression into the neutral mask that had become second nature.
Molly soaked another cloth for his chest.
Astrid followed suit, gasping as her hands met the cold water. She pressed the wet linen to his face, wiping the beads of sweat away.
He moaned and turned his face into the linen.
Her belly tightened at the sound, low and primal. The image of his big body, hot and naked—like now—tangling with hers amid the sheets flashed through her mind.
“Och,” the maid tsked, spreading a dry linen towel over his hips and groin area. “Even cold, he’s impressive to behold.” She winked at Astrid. “No diminishing this man, that’s for certain.”
With a disdainful sniff, Astrid continued her ministrations, moving on to his neck, reminding herself that she was no green girl fresh out of the schoolroom but a married woman. She should not be affected by the mere sight of a man’s body.
The maid chuckled. “You’re an icy one. Likely not had a proper bedding.”
“I’m a married woman.”
“What’s that to do with it? If you ever had a man plow you good and well, you wouldn’t look at this one with such cool eyes,” Molly chuckled roughly, adding, “Let’s roll him over now.”
They rolled him onto his side, paying special heed to his injured head.
Her chest grew heavy and tight. Molly’s coarse words played over in her head.
Likely not had a proper bedding
. Astrid supposed she hadn’t. Or else she had forgotten. But then she suspected that was the sort of thing one never forgot.
Molly slapped another damp linen over his impossibly broad back, the skin smooth and flawless save one crescent-shaped birthmark. Suddenly, Molly paused with a stillness that Astrid found uncustomary in the woman, even in their short acquaintance.
“What is it?” Astrid queried, looking back and forth between Molly and his naked back.
Molly traced the small birthmark that rested high on his shoulder, an odd expression on her face.
“N-nothing,” the maid murmured, her gaze dipping to study the man’s profile with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of Astrid’s neck prickle.
She, too, studied his face as if she should see something there. Something beyond the handsome man that made her feel things she had no business feeling.
“Nothing at all,” the maid repeated and fell into a silence that lasted for the remainder of the night. They placed cloth after cooling cloth over his big body, cleaning his wound several times and reapplying the salve Dr. Ferguson had left.
When dawn broke, its misty light peeking through the mullioned window, she felt certain she knew his body, every ridge and hollow, every scar, every muscle and sinew, better than her own. Even his smell—wind and man—seemed imprinted in her nose.
Astrid glanced to the silent maid as she gathered the heap of damp linens, piling them on a tray before moving to the door.
“I’ll send breakfast up shortly. See that you eat. Doesn’t look like there’s much to you beside bones, and he’ll be in need of your care.” Her gaze fell on the man and that strange, intense look came into her eyes again. “We can’t have anything happen to him.”
Then she left the room. Astrid stared after her, wondering at that parting remark. It sounded almost like Molly had a personal interest in his survival.
Bone-tired, Astrid shook her head and dragged the chair from the window to the bed. After tending to him through the long hours of the night, it seemed natural to stay close, to feast her eyes on him, to perhaps even hold his hand while he slept…
She snorted lightly and pushed that mad impulse from her head. Foolish sentiment. And so unlike her.
He seemed less restless. Almost as if he truly slept. Leaning over the bedside table, she blew out the lamp, allowing the dim gray of dawn to light the room.
Settling back in the stiff wooden chair, she laced her fingers over her stomach. Eyes achy and heavy from lack of sleep, she cocked her head, studying the steady rise and fall of his chest through slit eyes, wondering what had motivated him to stop and help her today. To put himself at risk for strangers.
Her father would not have done so, would have considered it beneath him to assist a pair of unknown women. He had not even helped Astrid’s mother when she sent word, pleading for his help to come home after she had run away with her lover.
Bertram would certainly not have stopped to lend aid to them either. Not at risk to himself.
Sighing, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
Tried to forget.
Only the years had taught her she could never forget. The past could never be outrun.