The Perfect Bride (14 page)

“A little kick won't hurt him, not at all,” Hardy said as he left.

Blanche nodded at them as they left the chamber. “Thank you,” she gasped. Then she turned to Sir Rex, who looked like death barely warmed over. He remained pale, but with a jaundiced reflection, and his stitches were red, swollen and angry. Blanche caressed his cheek.

“You will be fine,” she managed, praying her words were true. She clasped his cheek, which was stubbly now, and thought she saw his lashes move.

“It's your turn to rest, my lady,” Meg said firmly.

Blanche smoothed her fingers over his strong jaw one final time. Even ill, he was as beautiful as a dark angel. His lashes seemed to flutter this time and she withdrew; she did not want to wake him. He would not feel particularly well when he awoke. He would be feeling the effects of both the wound and the whiskey.

“My lady, please,” Meg said.

Blanche looked up at her, realizing that Anne stood near the door. Both maids had been very helpful, rushing to bring clean water and linens as needed—everyone had been helpful, a testimony to the respect one and all seemed to hold for their employer. “I cannot thank you both enough,” she whispered hoarsely. And now, her stomach ached and felt sick.

“Anne and I will take turns sitting with him. Anne can stay with him first and I'll draw you a hot bath and bring you a fine supper,” Meg implored.

Blanche finally found a semblance of self-control. She wiped the moisture from her cheeks and sat up straighter as she looked at Sir Rex. Although seriously injured, he was resting quietly now. The sheet was drawn up to his waist, revealing his navel. And for the first time that afternoon, she looked carefully at his sculpted body. The man was all male muscle with not an ounce of flesh to spare. No woman could be immune to that figure or that face.

She glanced at Anne, who stared at her, unsmiling. “I'll sit with him,” she said, curtsying. But there was no genuine deference in the action. But then, Anne had never been particularly deferent to her since her arrival. Until then, Blanche had assumed she was imagining it. But she felt certain Anne didn't like her—and maybe, absurdly, considered her a rival.

They were not rivals. Blanche was an aristocrat, Anne a servant. On the other hand, she had been thinking of marriage—and Anne would lose her place in Sir Rex's bed if he ever accepted a proposal from her.

She was feeling oddly possessive now.

Blanche pulled the sheet as high as she dared, to just below his chest, very careful not to cover the stitched wound. She would leave it undressed until the surgeon arrived. She touched his brow, which was warm, but not hot. If he had a fever, it was very low. Then she turned to Meg. “I'm not hungry and I am not leaving him, not yet. However, you may bring me a glass of wine and something to eat, because I should nourish myself. And where is the surgeon?”

Anne walked out.

Blanche stared after her, then faced Meg. “What is taking him so long?”

“I'm sure he'll be here at any moment,” Meg said. Then, “I can sit with him. And I'll send Anne home. My lady, at least take a short rest. And look at your dress! It is stained.”

Blanche stiffened. Did Meg guess that she was fond enough of her host to want to keep his lover away from him? And was that what was happening? Was she worried about Sir Rex's affair? “If Sir Rex becomes feverish, we will need her help.” She smiled then, but felt as fragile as a butterfly. “If he becomes ill, I want to attend him. He has been nothing but generous and kind when I have done little but impose.” She avoided Meg's gaze, turning to touch Sir Rex's cheek briefly.

“He's done so much for me—I have to stay.”

 

B
LANCHE AWOKE
.

She was seated in the same chair beside Sir Rex's bed and the sun was shining brightly, indicating the beginning of a new day. She had fallen asleep around midnight and could barely believe she'd slept for so long, curled up uncomfortably in the chair, her head on the wood frame. Her neck was so stiff she winced as she straightened.

But she was already reaching for Sir Rex's brow. It was cool—if he had ever had a fever, it had been low and insignificant.

So much relief began. And he didn't look ill now; his complexion had returned to normal, in fact, he seemed to be resting very comfortably. She wiped her eyes, which were suddenly moist, realizing that in spite of the rest, she was beyond exhaustion. Her anxiety had known no bounds and she could admit it now.

She allowed the relief to flow over her in waves, but then she began to stare at Sir Rex.

The sheet and thin wool blanket had somehow been pushed down to his hips. She assumed he had tossed and turned at some point in the night. She reached for them to pull them higher, but hesitated. And in that instant, she was acutely aware of how masculine he was and that the two of them had shared a room for most of the night and remained alone now.

Her mouth felt dry. Her heart raced. Her gaze moved slowly over the protrusion of his navel and the square that his muscles and tendons had etched in his tight, flat abdomen. It moved higher, of its own accord, and she was acutely aware of what she was doing—she was openly admiring him. But she simply could not deny herself this opportunity. She felt mesmerized by the sight of so much masculinity. His chest was broad, not quite flat, entirely muscular and just barely dusted with dark hair. Even in sleep, his biceps bulged. His shoulders were three times as wide as her own—and maybe twice as wide as his narrow hips. She glanced down—and saw the sheet stirring.

For one moment, Blanche stared, but without any confusion at all. A ridge had formed, impossibly, but she knew what it indicated…. She started to leap to her feet. Was such a thing even possible?

He seized her wrist, holding her in place.

Her gaze flew to his.

His regard was steady and intent.

She realized he was not only awake, he had been watching her ogle him and was now having a male reaction that only a well man could have—or so she assumed.

“Don't go.”

Blanche inhaled and sat. She felt dazed—and was terribly aware of his grasp. His palm was warm and strong on her wrist. Their eyes remained locked.

She swallowed, trying to look only at his face, except, her vision seemed to have its own accord. From the corner of her eye, she saw his flat belly and a tented sheet. Finally, heat crept into her cheeks. “How are you feeling?” The moment the words were out, she wished she'd asked a different question.

But he didn't smile. He released her. “I feel as if I've been on a binge.”

She swallowed again. “We made you drink over a half a bottle of whiskey. The surgeon never came. There was a breech birth at Tythwrithgyn. But the wound has been cleaned and sewn up and you haven't had a fever.”

His gaze moved to his chest then back to her face. Then he glanced at her skirts. “Thank you.”

She hesitated, aware that he had remarked his blood which stained her skirts. “I hope you shoot the horse.”

His face tightened. “I will if you wish me to, but it was an unfortunate accident.”

She somehow nodded. “How does your chest feel?”

“It hurts. But the whiskey is continuing to numb the pain. How many stitches did I need?”

“Twenty-three,” she whispered.

He absorbed that. “May I have some water?”

She jerked. He must be terribly thirsty, considering. She quickly stood and poured a glass of water from the night table, then paused by his hip. “Can you sit up?”

His gaze drifted aside. “I may need some help,” he said softly.

Of course he needed help, she thought. It would probably hurt terribly to use his right arm—and that meant it would be a while before he would be able to use his crutch. She set the water down, sat down by his hip and put her arm around him. The moment she did so, she felt his warm skin and his breath.

Her skin heated. She did not know what to do with her hand.

He didn't move a muscle.

She put her hand on the side of his lean, hard back, her shoulder now against the left side of his chest, her breast nestled lower. Blanche could no longer breathe. She reminded herself that this was necessary, but she was in a nearly naked man's embrace. Not just any man, but Sir Rex.

He slid his left arm around her, his grasp so powerful she felt faint. She slowly looked up.

She started, becoming impossibly still, because he was staring at her with that distinctly male, smoldering look and his face was inches from hers. For one heartbeat, she was certain he would kiss her.

And her heart fluttered wildly, hopefully.

He said roughly, “You may have saved my life.”

It took her a moment to find her voice. “Can you sit?”

He did not answer. His right hand, which she hadn't realized he could use, lifted, and he touched her cheek. Blanche gasped. His gaze unwavering on hers, he stroked her face, pushed her hair behind her ear and smiled roughly at her. She breathed hard, very certain he would lower his mouth to hers. His hand lingered on her cheek for another moment. Blanche felt her eyes drift closed. She felt herself lean toward him. Her heart was trying to beat its way out of her breast.

He released her and sat up, quite by himself.

She stood, too, flaming, aware now of what his caress had done—a new, very insistent and very definite ache had begun, pounding in unison with her pulse.

He smiled grimly at her, but he had turned pale once again.

“Why didn't you let me help you sit?” she exclaimed. “Did you hurt yourself? Let me look at those stitches!” And she forgot the near kiss, if that was what it had been, because she dreaded having to replace a popped stitch.

He lay back against the pillows and she quickly saw that all the stitches were intact. Suddenly she was furious. Tears came to her eyes. “Sir Rex! Enough is enough!” She brushed her eyes with her sleeve while he started, wide-eyed. “You have no idea what I went through to sew you up! You are not healed and until you are, I insist you behave like a proper patient!”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I forgot about the injury.”

“You forgot?” Disbelief mingled with her fury. “Well I haven't forgotten cleaning your raw flesh and sticking a needle into you—many times! I am not a surgeon! I have never wanted to be a nurse! Until you are healed, you are to lie still—and sit still—no matter how difficult that is for you.” She wiped her eyes again. “If you need to sit up, someone will help you…. Anne can help you!” she cried.

“I'm sorry,” he said, looking ashamed. “I am genuinely sorry. Blanche, you are clearly exhausted. Did you spend the entire night at my side?”

She sniffed, reaching for the glass of water. “Yes, I'm afraid I did.” She sat beside him on the bed, refusing to feel anything other than objective concern for him, and held the glass to his lips. Their gazes met; he drank, draining the glass.

Her hip was perilously close to his thigh. She stood, briskly refilling the water glass.

“I am fine,” he said. “Why don't you go to your bed and rest?”

“You are dehydrated from loss of blood—and the whiskey.” Standing this time, she helped him drink. She was, unfortunately, so close to tears once more.

“I have distressed you,” he said softly. “I am sorry!”

“You should be sorry. “She trembled now. He hadn't even needed her help to sit up. Had he asked for her help just so he could get her into his bed? And how could she think of such a thing now, after the trauma of his accident?

How could he?

Their gazes locked.

“Blanche.” He sent her a smile—it was thoroughly disarming. “I promise to rest…and behave as a proper patient. But only if you promise to lie down in your own bed.”

She didn't hesitate, even though that single look caused her heart to dance, disarming her even more. “You're right, I'm exhausted.” She hesitated, because she needed to ask Meg to sit with him. And then she boldly whisked the sheet and blanket to his chest, aware of his narrowed stare. But he could not possibly guess that she didn't wish for her maid—or Anne—to view his splendid physique.

“There. Meg will check in on you.” She gave him what she hoped was a cool glance. “Anne is busy in the kitchens,” she said, having no idea if it was true.

And he smiled at her as if he knew she intended to keep them apart. “I have one more request.”

She paused at the door.

“In return for my good behavior, you must also promise to sit with me later.” His dimple flashed.

She froze, her heart beating with urgent and rhythmic force. “It is hardly proper, now that you are on the mend.”

“I don't care if it is proper or not,” he said. “And no one will know except for the servants.”

She stared, wide-eyed, and he waited, smiling. “I will know.”

“But if I suffer from ennui, I will wish to leave my bed.”