“God, I hope so,” Reynaud replied.
He replaced the torn piece of underskirt with the clean cloth. The wound was merely oozing now. That at least was good. He closed his eyes. If he still believed in praying, he’d be on his knees right now.
A commotion on the stairs made him raise his head. A tall thin man in a gray bob wig strode into the room, closely followed by St. Aubyn. The doctor took one all-encompassing look at Beatrice and then turned to Reynaud.
“How is she?”
“She hasn’t woken from her faint,” Reynaud said. “But the bleeding is slowing.”
“Good. Good. A stab wound, I was told?” The doctor stepped close. “May I?”
Reynaud relinquished the bandage, and the doctor raised it, making approving murmurs. “Yes. Yes, I see. Only a few inches and not deep, I think. Good. We’ll close it while she still sleeps. Bring me the water.”
This last was said to Henry, who brought a basin over.
Reynaud stood to give the doctor room, feeling uncommonly useless.
The doctor splashed water on the wound and wiped at the blood. “Need to see to sew.” He took an already-threaded needle from his bag. “Can you hold the edges together?” he asked the maid.
She paled.
“I’ll do it,” Reynaud muttered. He gently pinched the wound closed.
“Ah. Good.” The doctor inserted the needle into Beatrice’s flesh.
Reynaud winced as the blood welled fresh around the needle prick. Beatrice moaned.
“Hurry,” he whispered to the doctor. To see her in pain would undo him now.
“Haste makes waste,” murmured the doctor, carefully pulling the bloody thread through. He placed the second stitch, moving deliberately.
“Christ,” St. Aubyn muttered.
Reynaud glanced up. The usurper’s face was pasty, and for once he felt pity for the man—St. Aubyn looked sick with worry for his niece.
Reynaud looked down again to where the doctor’s needle was poking into tender flesh. “There is no need for so many in here. All of you go, except for the earl and Quick.”
Feet shuffled to the door.
“One more to close it completely,” the doctor said.
Beatrice moaned again.
“Can you hold her shoulders?” Reynaud said tightly to the maid. “Don’t let her move.”
“Yes, my lord.” She went to the head of the bed.
The doctor tied a knot, slowly and carefully. Reynaud frowned at his hands, silently urging him to hurry.
“That’s got it,” the doctor finally said, and snipped the thread.
“Thank God.” Reynaud felt a bead of sweat slide down his face.
“We’ll bandage her,” the doctor said briskly, “and then it’s in the hands of God.”
Reynaud nodded and stood, watching closely as the doctor did just that. He produced a bottle of some potion from his bag, gave instructions to administer the medicine when the patient woke, and then left just as abruptly as he’d come. The usurper followed him out of the room, presumably to see him to the door, and Reynaud turned to Quick.
“Let’s make her comfortable.”
The maid nodded and brought over a fresh basin of water. She sponged and patted dry the area around the bandage while Reynaud gently wiped Beatrice’s face clean. She still had not woken, and he frowned at her as he took the pins from her hair and combed flaxen locks over the pillow. At least she did not look as if she was in any pain.
“She’s as settled as she’s going to be, my lord,” Quick said. “I’ll just stay here if—”
“No,” he said swiftly, interrupting her. “I’ll stay. Leave us, please.”
The maid looked uncertain for a moment, but when Reynaud stared at her, she bobbed a curtsy and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Reynaud unsheathed his knife and laid it on the bedside table. He took off his wig and set it on a chair. Then he pulled off his boots and climbed into the bed. Carefully, tenderly, he gathered Beatrice to him, her uninjured side against him as he lay.
He brushed the hair from her face, feeling helpless. All his strength, all his determination, mattered not a whit here. It was up to Beatrice and what strength she had.
“Wake up, sweetheart,” he whispered into her hair. “God, please wake up.”
THERE WAS SOMETHING warm against her side. Big and warm and, oh! so very nice to lie next to. Beatrice shifted a little, intending to burrow her nose into the warmth, but something cut into her side. “Ouch.”
“Don’t move.”
Her eyes flew open at the deep voice, and for a moment she simply stared up at black eyes framed in thick black eyelashes. He did have such pretty eyelashes; it almost made her jealous. Why a man should have…
Her mind ground to a halt over the thought and then carefully retraced her steps. A man…
Beatrice blinked up at Lord Hope. “What are you doing in my bed?”
“Taking care of you.”
The words were soft, but his face wasn’t. She studied him lazily, too tired somehow to get up. He’d left off his wig, and the hair on his shorn head was barely longer than the stubble on his chin. It lay sleek and flat against his head. She wanted to touch it, to see if his hair was soft or prickly. The three birds flew about his right eye, all of them similar but all slightly different. And his midnight eyes watched her back, his brows knit as if with concern.
“Why do you need to take care of me?” she whispered.
“You were hurt,” he said, “and it was my fault.”
“How?”
“There were three assassins outside of Jeremy Oates’s town house.”
She remembered now—the man with the walleye and the other two smaller men, loitering. “Why? Why were they there?”
“To kill me,” he said grimly.
She reached up a hand and traced one of the bird tattoos near his eye. “Why is someone trying to kill you? Do you know?”
He closed his eyes at her touch. “No, I don’t know. Vale thinks it’s someone from our past.”
“I don’t understand.” Her hand dropped.
“I don’t either.” He opened his eyes, which were blazing black. “All I know is that it’s my fault that you’re hurt.”
She frowned, still confused. “But why is that your fault?”
“I failed to protect you,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows bemusedly. “Is that your job? To protect me?”
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
And he bent his head very slowly toward her. She watched him nearing, the birds getting ever closer, and she thought, He’s going to kiss me.
And then he was.
His lips were far softer than she would’ve thought—and they moved over hers gently but firmly. He’d kissed her once before, but that time it’d been so swift she’d hardly had time to assimilate the sensations. This time she could. His bristly cheeks scratched hers, but she didn’t mind. She was caught up in the sensation of his mouth, the smell of his neck—warm and masculine—and the sound of his breathing coming faster as he kissed her. He ran his tongue lazily over her lips, and she was so enchanted that she parted them, letting him in. He surged into her mouth, tasting of man, and she moaned, softly, just a little, but it was enough for him to pull back.
“I’m hurting you,” he said, scowling.
“No,” she replied, but it was already too late.
He rolled off the bed, taking with him all his glorious warmth and his magical mouth.
Beatrice pouted.
“I’ll send for your maid,” he said as he pulled on his boots. “Would you like anything? Tea? Some broth?”
“I’d like some tea,” she replied. She squinted at the window, but the curtains were pulled. “What time is it?”
“Almost night,” he said. “You’ve slept all day.”
“Did I?” How strange to remember morning and then nothing at all until after dark. The thought jogged her brain. “You were hurt!”
He turned to look at her. “What?”
“Your arm. I saw one of the men cut your arm.”
“This?” He pushed back the sleeve of his coat to reveal a torn and rust-stained shirt.
“Yes, that!” She was struggling to sit up now. “Why haven’t you had it seen to?”
He pressed her gently back down. “Because it isn’t of any concern.”
“Maybe not for you—”
“Hush.” His gaze was quite fierce. “You’ve had a stressful day, and your wound must ache. Rest now and I’ll come and see you when you’re properly attired.”
He strode from the room masterfully.
Properly attired? Beatrice frowned and only then realized that she hadn’t a stitch of clothing on under the covers.
Oh, my.
IT WAS AFTER ten by the time Reynaud got to Vale’s house and started banging on the door. Too early for Vale to have returned if he was out at a social event, too late for him to be receiving if he was spending a rare evening at home. Reynaud banged anyway. Vale was his only ally as far as he could see, and at the moment he needed an ally.
The door opened to reveal the face of a disapproving butler, whose expression modified only a little when he saw it was a gentleman knocking.
“Sir?”
Reynaud shouldered past the man. Damned if he’d stand on the step like a beggar. “Is the viscount home?”
The butler’s brows lowered. “Lord and Lady Vale are not receiving this evening. Perhaps if you—”
“I’m not coming back tomorrow,” Reynaud interrupted. “Either you go rouse him from wherever he is, or I’ll get him myself.”
The butler drew himself up and sniffed. “If you’ll wait in the sitting room, my lord.”
Reynaud stalked into the indicated room and spent the next ten minutes pacing from one end to the other. He was just about to give it up and go find Vale himself when the door opened.
Vale strolled in, yawning and wrapping a banyan about his middle. “Much as I’m glad that you’ve returned from the dead, old man, I really must insist that I reserve my evenings at home for my wife.”
“This is important.”
“So is marital harmony.” Vale went to a tray with a decanter and glasses. He held up the bottle. “Brandy?”
“Beatrice was stabbed this morning.”
Vale paused, decanter still in his hand. “Beatrice?”
Reynaud waved an impatient hand. “Miss Corning. She got in the way of an assassination attempt on me.”
“Good God,” Vale said softly. “Is she all right?”
“She fainted and bled quite profusely,” Reynaud muttered, the image of Beatrice’s soft skin violated still fresh in his mind. “But she woke just an hour ago and seemed in her right mind.”
“Thank God.” Vale splashed some brandy into a glass and took a gulp. “And how closely related to you is Cousin Beatrice?”
Reynaud gave him a look. “Not that close.”
“Glad to hear it.” Vale dropped into a cushioned chair. “I hope she recovers fully so that you can then propose to her. Because I tell you now, matrimony truly is a blessed state, enjoyed by all men of good sense and halfway adequate bedroom skills.”
“Thank you for that edifying thought,” Reynaud growled.
Vale waved his glass. “Think nothing of it. I say, you haven’t forgotten how to treat a lady in the bedroom, have you?”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
“You’ve been out of refined society for years and years now. I could give you some pointers, should you need them.”
Reynaud’s eyes narrowed. “This from the man I had to save from an irate whore when we were seventeen?”
