Ann Lethbridge - Regency Proposal

Blood from where he’d pulled the shirt free of his skin trickled down to his elbow. She grabbed up the flask. ‘If I recall correctly, this is better than water for a wound.’

‘A terrible waste, lass.’

‘I’ll save you a drop. Give me your knife.’

He eyed her aslant. ‘Why?’

‘Unless you have a nice clean handkerchief, I need some cloth to pad the wound. We will use your stock to hold it in place.’ She looked at his shirt. He’d need to put that on again, bloody sleeve or no. She lifted up her skirt and looked at the hem of her petticoats. The lace of the top one was in tatters after being soaked in seawater, straddling a horse and dragging through heather. Now it would serve to staunch the blood.

He pulled his dirk from his sock and handed it to her, hilt first.

She shook her head. ‘I’ll hold the fabric taut while you cut. I am sure you will do a better job than I.’

An eyebrow shot up and he looked at her rather oddly, but he bent to the task. It felt a little strange with his face so close to her legs, even though he must be able to see little more than her shoes, since there were two more layers of cloth beneath the first petticoat. Portuguese women adored petticoats.

He soon had a long strip cut from around the bottom.

‘Cut it in two,’ she said, ‘and I’ll use one piece as a rag for washing.’

A frown creased his forehead. ‘Where did you learn such skill?’

‘I wouldn’t call it skill. I hate the sight of blood. But my friend, Lady Hawkhurst, convinced me to volunteer at the hospital she funds for injured seamen. I read to them and roll bandages.’ She soaked one of the rags with whisky.

‘So you have no experience in binding wounds and such like?’

‘None at all,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but I have seen it done.’ No point in telling him she’d thrown up in the nearest chamberpot when she’d looked at the wrong moment. Instead, she gritted her teeth and dabbed the cloth at the ragged cut.

He hissed in a breath and she waited for a spewing of swear words.

He remained utterly silent.

Impressed, she continued dabbing. If he could put up with the pain, she could put up with the sight. Although if anything the dizziness of earlier was growing worse. She continued dabbing and wiping until all the dried blood was gone.

The wound looked nasty—ragged edges and fresh welling blood.

Black edged her vision. She felt herself sway. She squeezed her eyes shut, regaining her balance and fighting the sickness.

This wound was nowhere near as bad as the one to her own leg. One brief glimpse of that and she had passed out cold.

Jaw clenched, she tried to remember what Alice had said about the symptoms of spreading infection. Redness? Yellow pus? No sign of anything like that. Yet.

She looked away and drew a deep breath in through her nose. ‘There is not much more I can do, except bind it.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said wryly.

Her gaze flew to his face. His mouth was set in lines of pain. She’d been so busy trying not to pass out that she hadn’t thought about how much she must be hurting him, because he hadn’t made a sound.

Because he was strong and she was weak.

‘Hold still,’ she said gruffly. She placed the pad over the wound, then wrapped his neckcloth around it, tying it off with a knot.

He flexed his hand and she watched, fascinated by the way the muscle in his upper arm bulged against the bandage. He did it again. This time something happened to his chest; it seemed to grow firmer and develop more definition. It almost made her forget just how ill she felt, until her gaze fell on his torn and bloody shirt.

The room wavered in and out of focus. Her knees buckled and the shadows leaped out from the corners to take over the room. And she was falling.

‘Selina?’ he asked as though from a great way off.

A strong arm banded around her waist. It pulled her against something warm and hard. She collapsed against it, her stomach heaving as the candle refused to remain in one place.

‘Selina.’

Ian. Ian had hold of her. She closed her eyes and waited for the horrible sensations to pass. Slowly she became aware that she was sitting on his knee, cradled within his arms. He was stroking her back. She opened her eyes and was glad to see that nothing was spinning.

‘Feeling better?’ he murmured, his voice low in her ear, the roll of his ‘r’ a sweet comforting sensation in the pit of her stomach. She always seemed to feel better when he had his arms around her. Too bad he couldn’t keep them there.

‘I’m such a coward,’ she said, trying to sit up, but he held her against his chest and she realised he was rocking gently back and forth.

‘No, you are not. You have been very brave. I promise everything will be all right,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll get you safely to your friend and we will sort it all out.’

She half groaned, half laughed. ‘I’m not worried about that. The sight of blood always makes me feel ill.’

His rocking ceased briefly, then continued. ‘Then I am all the more grateful, lass.’

Oh, that wonderful deep velvety voice, so close to her ear. She was melting, burning up with a fever of longing and desire.

‘You must think me completely useless.’

‘You are braver than anyone I know, because you knew how it would affect you.’

But she hadn’t been thinking. She’d acted on instinct. She never seemed to think straight around him.

A prickle of awareness made her look up at his face. A slight curve to his mouth and the twinkle in his eye caused her heart to clench.

She couldn’t resist the temptation. She reached up and put her hands on his nape and kissed him full on the lips.

He groaned softly.

His lips parted against hers. His tongue traced the seam of her lips. It felt delicious. Her spine tingled, her hands cradled his head, feeling the soft curl of his hair between her fingers.

His hand came to her cheek, his fingers shaking with the power of this moment between them. Never had her heart raced so fast or her body grown so warm with such a whisper of touch.

He was a big man, huge in comparison to her, and for him to tremble at the mere touch of her lips was heady indeed.

Many men had desired her over the years, lusted for her and declared their love, but they’d only ever seen what she wanted them to see. The perfect nobleman’s daughter. The diamond of the first water. The impeccable manners. The flirtatious wit. This man knew her weaknesses, and yet he trembled.

The knowledge melted her bones.

She parted her lips and let him into her soul. The kiss wasn’t all one-sided. Oh, no. Her tongue slid wantonly along his, tasting whisky and earthy man, while she inhaled the scent of horse and leather and fresh air tinged with peat smoke. Sensual sensations rippled through her body with every beat of her heart.

She arched against him, pressing her breasts against his hard wall of a chest, wound her arms around his neck and submitted to her hunger.

He growled deep in his throat, shifting beneath her, making her aware of the male part of him that pressed against her thigh through her layers of clothing.

She breathed his scent, revelled in his heat and the feel of hard muscle and sinew beneath her exploring hands.

Breathing hard, he slowly pulled away, looking into her face. Could he see in her face the awe and wonder rioting through her body? Could he feel the heat burning in her belly, in her breasts, flowing through her veins?

Helpless with need, she gazed up, waiting.

‘You’d tempt the devil himself, Lady Selina.’

She didn’t want the devil. She wanted him. She gazed back at him with longing and desire and a sweet softness that made her insides feel open and yearning.