Georgina Devon - Betrayal

‘You are mistaken, sir. I am a youth, not a maid.’

‘And I am the Prince Regent,’ he muttered, his mouth curving into a rakish grin. ‘No man of my acquaintance has such translucent skin. Nor eyes of such lustre. Green as new grass in a summer meadow. Or are they silver?’ he muttered, his voice turning querulous as he sought to focus in the dim light. Giving up, he closed his eyes. ‘God, but I hurt!’

‘You have been grievously injured,’ Pippa said, forcing her voice down an octave. ‘I…I have been tending you.’

Her subterfuge was wasted. He had passed out again.

Her worry of exposure was immediately replaced by worry for his leg. Was it worsening? Lighting a candle, she quickly examined him. The wound had finally scabbed over several days ago, but the bandage needed changing. Thank goodness there had been enough materials for her to have extra. She changed the dressing quickly and efficiently. Next, she had to lower his fever.

She soaked a cloth in water, wrung it out, and wiped it across his brow and cheeks and down his neck. Hopefully this would bring the fever down while the bark worked from inside. The water was warm, but it was better than doing nothing. She dipped and wrung the cloth again.

If he were not so well muscled and completely inert, she would move him and change the bedding, but she had learned early that he was too heavy for her. Instead, she lifted up his nightshirt as best she could and ran the cloth down his chest and across his ribs, tempted to follow the trail of brown hairs that led beneath the covers. Intellectually she knew that cooling his groin would ease some of the heat from his body, but just the idea of doing so made her stomach knot.

She did not know what was wrong with her. She never had reacted to a patient this way. Never.

She was a healer.

Eyes averted, Pippa carefully peeled back the cover. Soon she would have to look at him, but first she could moisten the cloth. She did so with meticulous care. The last thing he needed was to have sheets wetter than they already were from his sweat, or so she told herself.

Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him. Her gaze travelled slowly down his body, past broad shoulders and flat belly—lower. He was lean and narrow. She gulped and turned hot and cold and hot again.

He was magnificent. Everywhere.

She was a healer. It was her duty to sponge his flushed skin until it cooled, and she would do exactly that.

It seemed a long time before his fever began to break, and every minute was alternating pain and pleasure. Was he as wonderful a person as his body was perfect? She almost feared he would be. He was definitely charming. No man had ever kissed her hand.

He was very likely a rake.

Her hands moved automatically while her mind raced. Perhaps when her quest for her twin was over, she would go to London for a Season. She had refused to do so these many years because she had no wish to find a husband. Now, to her chagrin, she found the idea had some interest. But that was the future. First she had to heal this man and then she had to find her brother. After that would be time enough to think further.

Resolutely, she covered her patient and returned the cloth to its bowl. Next she cleaned up the broken glass she had forgotten about.

When she crawled back into bed, she felt as though she had been riding to hounds and all her energy was spent. All because of him. The way he affected her made it hard to breathe and even harder to think impartially.

Never had she been this attracted to a man, much to her grandfather’s irritation since Earl LeClaire wanted her married. All she had ever cared about was her healing. Now she had found a man who stirred her blood—and she was impersonating a male.

It was a situation she could do nothing about, and morning would come soon enough. She needed rest as tomorrow would be another busy day.

But sleep eluded her. And when it came, her dreams were of a tall, smiling rake who pursued her down a tree-shaded lane. Spring filled the air with the scent of freshly scythed grass; grass the colour of her eyes.

Dev woke slowly, his head spinning, his leg throbbing. Heat was a palpable blanket of discomfort, so he tossed aside whatever was covering him, only to discover he was still twisted in something.

‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered, frustration and pain increasing his normal impatience. Where was he? Why did he hurt? Why couldn’t he move?

Hougoumont. Flames. Pain. The woman.

Memories roared back, bringing agony instead of comfort. But he was alive, he had survived that battle fought in hell. Was it over? Had they defeated Napoleon? What of Patrick?

He tried to sit up and pain shot from his right leg to his groin and up his spine. He fell back, cold sweat breaking out on every part of his body.

Slowly and carefully, he lifted his head only and gazed down the length of his body. He wore a nightshirt that reached down to his thighs, ending—

His right leg was encased in a wooden splint from foot to knee.

He groaned and let his head drop. He vaguely remembered someone saying it would have to come off and him telling a lad not to let it happen. It seemed the youth had done what he asked. Relief washed over Dev.

It was instantly replaced by anxiety. He was alive and whole. Was Patrick? Had he saved the French lad?

And what about the woman? The one who had cared for him. Or had she? The memory was not solid. It seemed to float in and out of his mind. Maybe it was a dream. Perhaps it had been the lad, if there had been a lad. He was delirious.

Yet, the image of a beauty with ebony hair and green, green eyes haunted him. Her face was an oval with high cheeks, a wide mouth and flawless skin. Unless there was no woman, and his mind was playing tricks with him—which was quite possible under the present circumstances.

Perhaps he was even crazy. He would not be the first to go insane after a battle. His older brother, Alastair, had suffered nightmares for years that made him relive the battles against Napoleon in Spain.

Wearily, Dev rubbed a weak hand over his brow. If only someone were here to tell him what was going on.

The sound of an opening door caught his attention. Turning, he saw a youth pause in the act of entering the room.

Pippa stopped flat. Her patient was awake and alert, his gaze fixed on her. Taking a steadying breath, she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

His cheekbones were rouged with fever or exertion, but his eyes were aware and intelligent. ‘Who are you? Where am I?’ he demanded in the tones of one used to being obeyed.

She smiled in spite of herself even as she bristled at his order. He reminded her much of Philip, her twin. Moving to the bed, she said, ‘My name is Pippen LeClaire, and you are in my room.’ At his frown, she added, ‘No one knows who you are, and I am the only one with room for you. I could not leave you in the street or have you taken to the hospital with the other wounded.’

The scowl faded from his face when she laid the back of her hand lightly on his forehead to feel for fever. He had none.

‘Then I have much to be grateful to you for. And my name is Deverell St Simon.’ His brow furrowed again, and his eyes took on a faraway look before coming sharply back to her face. ‘Are you the lad who saved my leg from amputation?’

She nodded.

‘Then I owe you my life,’ he said gravely. ‘I would not have wished to live a cripple.’

‘You owe me nothing,’ Pippa said hastily, feeling uncomfortable at his solemnity. ‘I am a healer and helping others is something I must do. Besides,’ she said as matter-of-factly as possible while her heart pounded in discomfort, for she had known exactly how he would feel and that scared her. ‘You will never move comfortably and most likely that leg will plague you until you die.’