Elizabeth Beacon - Redemption Of The Rake

The bronzed smoothness of this man’s skin was tight over high cheekbones and she suspected he was forcing stillness on himself now. Perhaps he was suppressing his injuries so as not to shock her little sister with his moans of torment? She refused to think about the chance that really had been a gunshot aimed with deadly accuracy. After all, she had to sit here with her shocked little sister and a semi-conscious and injured man until help came. The idea hostile eyes could be looking for a chance to try again felt intolerable right now, so she wasn’t going to admit it was possible on a sunny autumn day in safe little England.

Mr Winterley must have a very low opinion of her after today. She had stood paralysed with fear while he acted to save the life of a child he must only have had a vague idea existed until today. Rowena shivered at the thought of his contempt for such a useless female and fought not to pass on her disturbed feelings to Hes. Struggling with her horror at being so close to a wounded man after scouring the battlefield for her husband’s mangled body that awful day two years ago, she gently laid the hand she could spare from hugging Hester on the man’s forehead, as if touching him might tell him she was sorry. His skin felt warmly familiar under her hesitant fingers. Seeing his faint hint of a frown smooth out, she made a gentle exploration of his temples and further back and was relieved to see no blood issued from his finely made ears. Not sure how she knew that was a good sign, she sighed and wished she knew more about how a vigorous male should react to the world around him.

Even with that last awful image of him in her head, Nate was little more than a boy in her memory rather than a mature warrior like this one. Why had her imagination painted him as a battle-hardened knight and not an idle gentleman of fashion? Somehow this vital man had lessened her husband in her memory and she’d meant to find out about his hurts, not compare him to a corpse on a godforsaken battlefield a thousand miles away.

Rowena caught in her breath and reminded herself she must be cool and logical, despite her fear that a mortal wound might lurk under this man’s crisply curling black hair. His fine and fashionable haircut wouldn’t guard his head from attack. She recalled the noise as he hit this confounded tree root with horror; it sounded like the crack of doom when he hit the earth with Hes locked in his arms. What a shame he wasn’t wearing the fine beaver hat she could see on the bench where Lord Laughraine usually sat after walking up to his favourite viewing point. It might have shielded his head from the worst Hes and the tree could do. She gently winnowed her fingers though the midnight unfamiliarity of his thick dark hair and felt a slight tightening of his skin. He was awake and suffering as she suspected, so she padded her fingers a little further away so as not to hurt him, then snatched them away altogether. Surely it was wrong to feel so in tune with a stranger that you knew where he hurt even when he was pretending to be unconscious? He frowned almost imperceptibly and she automatically smoothed it away and saw a faint smile relax his stern mouth.

She had touched a perhaps mortally injured man and found him warm and human under the bravado and show of a Bond Street beau. Far from being cold and glaring in death, or alive and somehow desperate to feed off her vitality, he was himself. She stopped again and he shocked her a little by raising the hand nearest to her reaching one and meeting hers as if he knew exactly where she was by instinct and didn’t need to open his eyes. He wanted her touch, it was as plain as if he’d sat up and told her so. And she wanted to touch him back; that was equally plain, since her hand closed gently on his as if it belonged there without any permission from the rest of her. Perish the thought—she reminded herself how firmly she had resolved never to marry again after she found Nate dead that day—but she couldn’t bring herself to slide her hand out of his and break the contact even so.

Tempting to tell herself the warmth spreading through her was caused by the simple human contact of another hand on hers—tempting, but not very honest. A tingle of something more exciting and less understandable ran under it, a feeling of heat and homecoming. She felt shocked to realise this was the first physical contact she’d had with Mr Winterley, a man who stayed with lords and ladies as casually as she might with her sister and Mr Greenwood once they were wed and ready to receive visitors. Even as she did her best to remind herself of the gulf between them, the feel of his hand against hers without pressure bridged it. So she sat and let warmth flow from her hand to his and back again, rather bemused by the intimacy and telling herself her lungs had an excuse to be breathless after such a shock.

Birds were still singing in the distance and Hes was squirming to be let out of the fierce hug Rowena still held her in with her other arm and that made her recall where they were and what had happened. She couldn’t simply let her little sister go or leave this man’s side to watch over her as the wary widow in her wanted to. It would be so wrong to desert a warrior in disguise while he was brought low like this. Although she hated the way his gentle grasp on her hand tugged her back into a world of feeling she thought she’d put behind her with Nate’s death, none of it was his fault. Well, part of it was, but she doubted he’d reached across the gap between them for the comfort of her touch and done it on purpose.

‘Be still, little love, you’ll hurt yourself and Mr Winterley if you flail about so. You’re not going adventuring again until Dr Harbury says you’re over your latest attempt to kill yourself,’ she murmured softly and Hester stilled.

‘I never meant to hurt him, Row,’ she whispered, on the edge of an overwrought storm of tears as the seriousness of what had almost happened finally sank in.

‘Oh, my love, I know that and so will he when he’s awake,’ Rowena said, using her sister’s distress as an excuse to slip her hand out of Mr Winterley’s light grip and stroke the wild white-blonde curls off her little sister’s face. She met her little sister’s teary gaze and did her best to reassure her there was no need for hysterics. ‘You are a dear, you do know that, don’t you?’ she assured her sister with a fond smile as blue eyes so like her own gazed back at her sorrowfully.

‘I don’t think many people would agree with you right now, Row.’

‘This gentleman obviously liked you enough to save your life,’ she said lightly.

‘That was nice of him, wasn’t it?’

Rowena saw Mr Winterley’s surprisingly expressive lips twitch as if he was amused by Hes’s artless comment. Even in such pain as he must be in to lie here as if he’d truly been felled by that blow, he still managed to find her sister endearing.

‘Yes, love, very nice,’ she confirmed.

She let her gaze flick over his compelling face and person once again, lingering on his perfectly barbered dark head and beautiful coat. Such fine tailoring should be forbidden gentlemen with so many natural advantages, she decided severely. Ruffled and slightly battered by his adventures, he didn’t look like a heartless dandy any more and that seemed a little unfair for some reason she couldn’t quite fathom.

‘There’s someone coming,’ Hester whispered.

‘Thank heaven for them, then, love.’ Rowena breathed, a little of the tension easing from shoulders she hadn’t realised she was holding so stiffly until now. He wasn’t going to die in her care; this man wasn’t going to let life slip out of him between one breath and the next as Nate had moments after she found him on that bloody and blasted battlefield, as if she wasn’t worth struggling to live for.