that.
He waited until Dodd’s footsteps echoed down the hall, then grimaced at the stuff the physician had left. The tea he could brew, the laudanum he could dose, but damn if he did not have to half undress Miss Carville all over again to spread the healing salve on her wounds. He’d done the same many times for soldiers, he told himself. And for his horses. This was another act of charity, nothing else.
Then why was his sight swimming in a sea of red lies? Because no matter what he told himself, he wanted another glimpse of Miss Carville’s delectable body, hoping the sight was not half as lovely as he recalled.
It was.
Murchison finally arrived. The valet clucked his tongue when Dodd brought him to Miss Carville’s bedchamber, but blessedly did not say anything about the highly irregular situation. Verity the mastiff skittered around the room in joy at being reunited with Rex, then took an interest in Miss Carville—or the salve on her face. She was fast asleep. Rex had spooned some food into her, a thin soup that was all the weepy scullery maid could manage, along with the physician’s powders. Her skin was cooler to the touch, her breathing more even, the pucker between her eyebrows smooth, her cheeks showing some color besides the purplish bruises.
“She’ll live to the trial, at any rate. Call me if she wakens.”
Murchison’s jaw dropped open, but with Dodd in the room he could not curse or complain in any language.
Rex took the opportunity while Miss Carville slept to claim a suite of rooms across the hall for himself, one with a dressing room with a cot for Murchison. He desperately needed to wash and eat and rest his leg, too. And figure out how he was going to find a respectable woman to come take over the sickroom until the countess returned. He refused to think about the situation if Lady Royce, as was her wont, turned her back on her responsibilities. Heaven help them, but Murchison would have to do for now.
But the mademoiselle slept on, and Murchison’s duty was to his master, whose instructions were to keep the viscount looking and acting as civilized as possible, like a proper heir to an earldom. So the valet left Miss Carville’s door open and went across the hall to unpack a change of clothes for Lord Rexford, while his lordship bathed. The captain’s uniform, to Murchison’s disgust, was covered in dirt and soup and dog hair, with a trace of Miss Carville’s blood. At least Murchison hoped it was Miss Carville’s, lest Lord Royce’s son be charged with murder, too. He took the coat below stairs to sponge it off and press it.
Amanda was having another dream. She was drifting on a cloud; no, she was being carried aloft by a great bird, held gently between its feet. The giant eagle would never let her fall, never let her grow cold or weary or hungry. When the bird bent its neck to look down at her, she smiled. Then she noticed that her winged companion had flashing blue eyes, not the fixed, staring golden ones she expected. The bird’s eyes were brighter than the skies they flew through, circled with a black rim, and shielded by thick black lashes. She laughed out loud. Eagles did not have blue eyes or eyelashes, but this was her dream, and the bird could have a mustache if she wanted, or a scar down its cheek. Either way, she could sleep in safety and wake in peace, watching soft white clouds pass by.
She never wanted the dream to end, but her mother was washing her face. “Do not scrub so hard, Mama. I am too tired to get up now. My head feels heavy. Maybe I do not need to go to church this morning.”
Her mother did not listen. She never did. Amanda opened her eyes to argue some more—then screamed. No gaunt, scarred pirate with a knife hovered over her this time. No calm, confident soldier, either. No blue eyes looked at her with concern. Instead, beady, bloodshot eyes watched her from mere inches away from her face.
Great gods, a hound of hell was about to claim her
He waited until Dodd’s footsteps echoed down the hall, then grimaced at the stuff the physician had left. The tea he could brew, the laudanum he could dose, but damn if he did not have to half undress Miss Carville all over again to spread the healing salve on her wounds. He’d done the same many times for soldiers, he told himself. And for his horses. This was another act of charity, nothing else.
Then why was his sight swimming in a sea of red lies? Because no matter what he told himself, he wanted another glimpse of Miss Carville’s delectable body, hoping the sight was not half as lovely as he recalled.
It was.
Murchison finally arrived. The valet clucked his tongue when Dodd brought him to Miss Carville’s bedchamber, but blessedly did not say anything about the highly irregular situation. Verity the mastiff skittered around the room in joy at being reunited with Rex, then took an interest in Miss Carville—or the salve on her face. She was fast asleep. Rex had spooned some food into her, a thin soup that was all the weepy scullery maid could manage, along with the physician’s powders. Her skin was cooler to the touch, her breathing more even, the pucker between her eyebrows smooth, her cheeks showing some color besides the purplish bruises.
“She’ll live to the trial, at any rate. Call me if she wakens.”
Murchison’s jaw dropped open, but with Dodd in the room he could not curse or complain in any language.
Rex took the opportunity while Miss Carville slept to claim a suite of rooms across the hall for himself, one with a dressing room with a cot for Murchison. He desperately needed to wash and eat and rest his leg, too. And figure out how he was going to find a respectable woman to come take over the sickroom until the countess returned. He refused to think about the situation if Lady Royce, as was her wont, turned her back on her responsibilities. Heaven help them, but Murchison would have to do for now.
But the mademoiselle slept on, and Murchison’s duty was to his master, whose instructions were to keep the viscount looking and acting as civilized as possible, like a proper heir to an earldom. So the valet left Miss Carville’s door open and went across the hall to unpack a change of clothes for Lord Rexford, while his lordship bathed. The captain’s uniform, to Murchison’s disgust, was covered in dirt and soup and dog hair, with a trace of Miss Carville’s blood. At least Murchison hoped it was Miss Carville’s, lest Lord Royce’s son be charged with murder, too. He took the coat below stairs to sponge it off and press it.
Amanda was having another dream. She was drifting on a cloud; no, she was being carried aloft by a great bird, held gently between its feet. The giant eagle would never let her fall, never let her grow cold or weary or hungry. When the bird bent its neck to look down at her, she smiled. Then she noticed that her winged companion had flashing blue eyes, not the fixed, staring golden ones she expected. The bird’s eyes were brighter than the skies they flew through, circled with a black rim, and shielded by thick black lashes. She laughed out loud. Eagles did not have blue eyes or eyelashes, but this was her dream, and the bird could have a mustache if she wanted, or a scar down its cheek. Either way, she could sleep in safety and wake in peace, watching soft white clouds pass by.
She never wanted the dream to end, but her mother was washing her face. “Do not scrub so hard, Mama. I am too tired to get up now. My head feels heavy. Maybe I do not need to go to church this morning.”
Her mother did not listen. She never did. Amanda opened her eyes to argue some more—then screamed. No gaunt, scarred pirate with a knife hovered over her this time. No calm, confident soldier, either. No blue eyes looked at her with concern. Instead, beady, bloodshot eyes watched her from mere inches away from her face.
Great gods, a hound of hell was about to claim her
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