Never a Mistress, No Longer a Maid (2 page)

He lay down on the ground and closed his eyes. 

“I need to check your wound,” she said.  Then he felt her
knife cut away part of his breeches.  A moment later, he felt her small hands
tentatively probing his thigh.  In other circumstances, it would have been highly
erotic.  In this one, he simply wanted to sleep.  Which was when he realized he
must be far more seriously wounded than he thought.

She continued to speak in quiet, calm tones.  She had a
dulcet voice.  Maybe she was an opera singer or an actress.  He felt her hands
go through his pockets.  First his jacket, then, after a moment’s hesitation,
his breeches.  He heard her say something about a flint, then he drifted off to
sleep.

Some time later, he woke to her telling him to take a sip of
water.

“Why can I drink it now, when I couldn’t earlier?” he asked
the breasts that were pressed once again so close to him.

“Because I boiled the water, driving away the spirits of
disease.”

Ned took a sip of water from the canteen she handed him,
then saw a fire burning deeper in the cave, where it couldn’t be seen by anyone
passing by.  He only hoped no one was around to smell it.  She took the canteen
from him, then gave him a bottle of whiskey.          

“Scots whiskey?  Where did you get this?” he asked, as he
took a sip.

“I’m never without it,” she said, taking the bottle and
pouring it on his thigh.

“Good Lord woman, are you trying to kill me?” he asked,
wincing.

“Hardly,” she said rather primly for a woman so deliciously
endowed.  She handed him a stick.  “You’ll need to bite on this. We can’t
afford to have anyone hear you.” 

She picked up a knife from her satchel.

“Miss Johnston, I will not allow you to cut into me.”

“Mr…what is your name?  I know it’s impolite to ask, but it’s
no more impolite than not making yourself known to a lady in the first place.”

“Lord Edward Kellington.”

“Well, Lord Kellington…”

“Lord Edward.  I’m a brother to the Duke of Lynwood.”

“Well, Lord Edward, if I don’t remove that bullet, there’s a
very good chance you’ll henceforth be known as a late brother to the Duke of
Lynwood.  Bite the stick.  You needn’t worry about becoming ill from it – I’ve
soaked it with whiskey.”

“I don’t fear becoming sick from a stick, madam.  I fear
being killed by a female wielding a knife.  I prefer to wait for a surgeon.”

“I prefer keeping you alive, although if you were to ask me why,
I’m sure I couldn’t give you three good reasons.  I’m not sure I could name
one.  But fear not.  I’ve soaked the leg, the knife, the needle and the thread
in whiskey.”

He knew the leg needed to be tended to, even if he didn’t
quite trust the person would do the tending.  But, given the lack of options,
he resigned himself to it.

“You have absolutely no respect for good Scots whiskey.  May
I have another drink?  I assure you I’m filled with plenty of spirits that would
be well assuaged by the potion.”  Then he gave her the smile that had melted half
the hearts in the
ton
and spread a good portion of their legs.

She gave him the drink.  Then the stick. 

He obligingly bit down.                     

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Madam,” he said, taking the stick out of his mouth, “I will
never be ready for you to cut into me.  However, I am resigned.”

He replaced the stick and bit down hard.

With surprisingly steady hands despite her fear, Jane sliced
into his thigh.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw him clench the stick with
his jaw, but he didn’t make a sound.  She probed for the bullet, praying she’d
find it quickly and in one piece.  After an agonizingly long moment, her knife
connected with metal and she was able to withdraw it.  The bullet was whole. 
She breathed a sigh of relief, then picked up the needle and began to sew.

He removed the stick from his mouth.

“I hope you’re sewing the wound expeditiously and not
creating an embroidery pattern as if amusing yourself on a winter’s day.”    

She smiled at his admirable attempt at humor, given the
considerable pain he must be feeling.  “Alas, Lord Edward, I’ve left my embroidery
threads at home.  But if you were to ever find me on a winter’s day, I would
gladly stick a needle in your leg and make any design you wish.”

“Why, Miss Johnston, I believe you’ve made a jest.  It is
the second greatest miracle to occur today, after my having survived your
surgery.”

Three hours later, she wiped his brow as he fitfully slept. 
A light fever had set in and she prayed it wouldn’t worsen.  More men died from
fever and disease than from the bullets, swords and shells of Napoleon’s army.

She’d learned a great deal during the month she’d tended the
wounded.  A month her grandfather believed was being spent socializing with the
families of London who thought it would be great fun to come to Belgium to
witness Napoleon’s defeat.  She certainly had no love of war, but it had taught
her more about medicine than anything she’d ever learned from her father, and
he’d been a most exemplary surgeon. 

 She also knew it’d be impossible to become a surgeon yet
remain a lady in the eyes of the
ton
.  But ever since she’d been a girl,
she’d been drawn to helping the ill.  When the tenant farmers on her family’s
estate had become sick or injured, Jane had always accompanied her father on
his visits.  If her parents were still alive, they would be doing what they
could to help her skirt the rules of society that they themselves had never had
much use for. 

But as it was, she had only her grandfather and his
opposition had been firmly stated. 

The man lying next to her didn’t seem like the brother of a
duke, and it wasn’t just the fact he was here on the front line of battle. 
There were many second sons of the nobility who fought for England, but most of
them spent their time far from danger.  This man, this spy, had placed his life
in real danger.  And the fact he did it as a spy, which would be looked down
upon by his peers, made Jane accord him her grudging respect.

He was also unlike a nobleman in his build.  He didn’t need
padding to fill out his clothing, like so many of the society bucks and
dandies.  He was leanly muscled all over.  Not that Jane was noticing as a
woman might judge a man.  She looked at him with the dispassionate eyes of a
medical professional.  But when she’d examined his thigh for injury, she’d made
a note to herself that any future drawings she might make on the anatomical
male should be based on Lord Edward.

*                    *                 *  

Ned woke up to darkness inside the cave and out.  His head
was considerably better than it had been earlier and the pain in his thigh had
subsided into a dull ache.  There was, however, pressure on his chest.  A
rather pleasant pressure, caused by Miss Johnston sleeping with her head on it. 

Her hair was billowed out in all directions.  He picked up a
strand.  It smelled like lavender water and he idly wondered how she’d managed
to come across some in a war zone.  Probably a gift from one of her admirers.  She
undoubtedly had many.  Maybe even a protector.  The thought made him scowl.   

Ned took an inventory of himself.  There seemed to be no new
injuries from the fight.  He was pleased to see he was clean, but surprised to
learn he was missing most of his clothing.  He was still wearing his breeches,
although the right leg had been cut nearly to the top of his thigh to allow
access to his wound.  His boots were still on, but his shirt and jacket were
neatly folded a few feet away.    

Unfortunately, Miss Johnston was still clothed, but he was
determined to do something about that.  He was, after all, feeling quite a bit better.

As if sensing his innermost wishes, Miss Johnston – Iris,
was it? – stirred.  She lifted her head and gazed at him.  Her long beautiful
hair was thoroughly tousled and her half-lidded eyes looked sated.  He didn’t
have to use any imagination to picture how she’d look the morning after a full
night of lovemaking.

“How long have I been unconscious?” he asked, fighting the
urge to kiss her.

“More than twelve hours.  Your fever climbed rapidly during
the late afternoon, but thankfully, you came through it.”

“Thanks to you and your care.”  He stroked her back, and she
shivered, which sent yet another surge of lust to his groin, when surely more
was not needed.

“Thank you for saving me yesterday,” she said, her voice
suddenly deeper and her mouth quite dry.

“You’re welcome, Iris.”

Something flashed in her eyes, then she rose from him.  He
reluctantly let her go.

“You must be thirsty.  I’ve been giving you as much water as
possible, but you weren’t always a good patient.”

“My apologies.  But apparently I was cooperative enough to
allow you to remove most of my clothing.”

It was hard to tell in the darkness of the cave, but it
seemed like she blushed.  An odd reaction for a woman of experience.  Could he
be wrong about her?

“Why did you come to Belgium?” he asked.

“I came to nurse the men and serve my king and country.”  His
surprise must have been evident, because she continued on. “Do you think only
men are capable of patriotism?”

“Of course not.  But I know few ladies who’d go to such
extremes.”

“Why do you think I’m a lady?”

Ned knew he had to tread carefully here.  “Your speech, your
use of French.”

“A parrot can learn to talk like a lady and probably speaks
French with a better accent than I.  It took those men no time at all to
realize I wasn’t a native speaker.”  She shivered from the memory.  “If you
hadn’t come along…”

“If I hadn’t come along, you would’ve coshed the one
senseless with a rock, then forced the other to drink water brimming with…what
did you call it, agents of disease?”

“Spirits of disease.”

“Of course.  Do you have any of that Scots whiskey left?”

“You needn’t worry about cleaning your wounds.  I believe
you’re well on the way to recovery.”

“While that is good news, indeed, I had another purpose in mind. 
Would you join me in a drink of your most excellent whiskey?”

“I should really save it for medicinal purposes.”

“But we’re leaving in the morning and I think we should do
something to celebrate our survival up to this point.  Just one drink?”

Against her better judgment, Jane handed him the bottle. 

“And for yourself?”

“I don’t wish to have any.”

“Miss Johnston, how are we going to celebrate if only one of
us is drinking?  Here, take a sip.”

He handed her the bottle and she drank.  She immediately
began to sputter. 

He patted her on the back.  “Sounds like the spirits of
disease are fighting back.”

“I’m simply unaccustomed to drinking whiskey.”

“I’ll see what can be done to remedy that.  Tell me about
your family.”

There was that flash in her eyes again.  What was she
hiding?

“There’s not much to tell, really.”

“Who are your connections?  I haven’t gone much into society
since I only just finished my studies at Cambridge.  Would my brother know your
family?”

Yes, his brother the duke would most certainly know the earl. 
And then he’d tell him exactly what she’d been doing this past month. 
Grandfather would put her under lock and key, then keep her there until he
could arrange a nice boring marriage. 

“I’m a widow.  From Shropshire.  My late husband and I
operated an inn there.”  Jane was dismayed by how easily the lies flowed from
her.

A widow.  Ned couldn’t believe his luck.  He might not have
followed his instincts if the delightful Iris with the golden hair and lovely
eyes had been a gently-bred miss, but a widow from Shropshire and whatever else
she’d been talking about – he’d stopped listening after he heard the word “widow”
– was fair game.

It’d been months since Ned had last been with a woman.   He
was already hard and began to fear he’d disgrace himself before he got the
chance to touch her.  His only hope was that the pain in his leg would delay
things just enough that he could put in a decent showing.  But the more he
watched her lips as she spoke, the less he counted on it.

He leaned in and kissed her.

He was met with some initial hesitation, but as he licked
the seam of her lips, she opened them in surprise and then there was no
stopping him.  He invaded her mouth with the confidence of a true rake of the
ton
. 
But as he stroked his tongue against hers, Ned was hit with the strongest surge
of desire he could ever remember.  He pulled her to him, then rolled her beneath,
continuing the kiss.  He moved his lips to her neck and felt her shiver.  A
good sign.  As he continued kissing her, his hand came up and cupped a breast. 

*                   *                    *

Jane couldn’t believe the touch of his hand on her breast
could be felt throughout her entire body.  It was scandalous.  And it felt much
too good to stop. 

She was far removed from her comfort zone.  She’d been
kissed twice before, but they’d been simple pecks on the cheek, although one
had come within an inch of her mouth.  But nothing had prepared for her this.  There
was no explaining the effects his caresses had on her body.  The body that
supposedly belonged to a widow whose late husband would have touched her just
this way.  Could that be true?  Could anyone be touched like this, caressed
like this, then simply return to day-to-day living?           

Jane was afraid all her lies would soon be exposed because
she hadn’t the faintest idea how to respond to what he was doing.  She was
mortified to hear herself moan, although it didn’t seem to put him off in any
way.  He actually seemed to like the noises she made and he was even making
some himself.  In exactly three minutes she was going to push him away and tell
him she wasn’t the type of widow to frolic on cave floors.  Even though she
apparently was.  But during those three minutes, she wanted to touch him.  She
wanted that very much.