When a Duke Loves a Woman Page 2

  She wondered how his voice could sound so calm. “He was set upon by thieves in the alleyway. He goes by Thorne. First or last, I don’t know.”

  “Could be his title.”

  “What would a lord be doing in this decrepit part of Whitechapel?”

  “What is a woman of means doing here?” he asked distractedly, as his hands moved swiftly over the man, locating each wound, giving it a quick peek before moving on to the next.

  She hadn’t had the means when she’d begun. Her oldest brother had set her up, and she was still working hard to make something of herself. “Providing drink to those who want it, employment to those who need it.”

  He slid his pale blue gaze over to her. “I was making a point, Gillie. Don’t assume you know what you don’t.” He jerked his head toward the small kitchen area. “Now, can you take his feet, while I lift him by the shoulders, and help me haul him onto the table?”

  It was a struggle, but she had height on her side to give them the leverage needed to get the man off the floor and stretched out onto her wooden table. He was a tall tankard of ale, his legs below the knees dangling off the oak. He had some heft to him. She could see that, splayed out as he was. Broad shoulders, a working man’s shoulders. The lean torso of a chap who didn’t spend the better part of his days or nights engaged in gluttony. Activity ruled him. She very much doubted he was a toff. But based on the fine threads of the clothes that remained to him and how perfectly they were cut to fit him, he, too, had means.

  “Warm water,” Graves said absently, snapping her attention away from a perusal she had no business making. Time was of the essence if this man was to be saved, and the physician, rightfully so, expected her to see to his bidding, to assist with his endeavors.

  She shoved some wood into the stove, got a fire going, filled a pot with water, put it on to warm, then stared at it, suddenly uncomfortable that she had not one but two men in her flat. She didn’t bring men here, didn’t entertain visitors, not even her brothers. These rooms served as her sanctuary, the place where she could escape from the harsh realities of life and find a measure of peace that made it easier to go out in the world. Her tendency had always been to withdraw because the hustle and bustle of a great number of people tended to sap her of energy. In order to survive, she’d taught herself not to retreat, but she still required a haven where she could restore her calm in order to better face the world.

  Testing the water, she decided it was warm enough, poured it into a large bowl used for mixing pastry, turned around, and very nearly dropped the porcelain dish. Graves had removed the man’s clothing, every stitch, and was examining the wound in his thigh—the one near his cock, flaccid but still impressively thick and long.

  As a child, she’d seen her brothers’ personal areas when they got their weekly baths, but they’d been boys, and this gent was certainly no boy. From head to toe, he was quite the imposing specimen, with well-defined muscles. The hair on his chest was dark and curly, arrowed down to his pelvis, down to that part of his person that should not have made it difficult to breathe. She set the bowl on the table near his head, scampered over to the linen cupboard, and yanked out a sheet.

  “Good,” Graves said. “We’ll need some strips.”

  She swung around. “I was thinking of covering him, for his modesty’s sake.”

  Understanding crossed over the physician’s face as he held out his hand. “Sorry, Gillie. I wasn’t thinking.” She realized he was very much aware that it was her modesty at stake.

  Taking the sheet from her, he spread it over his patient, leaving the wounded thigh bared along with most of his torso. The draped sheet molded itself to the man’s contours, did very little to stop her from envisioning what was beneath the white linen. She feared she was blushing like a modest chit, not an experienced tavern owner. “Is he going to live?”

  “Hope so. Shoulder and thigh are the worst, but nothing major hit. He has a deep gash in his backside. Got lucky with the stab to his side and the one on his arm as it appears both were just glancing slashes, not deep enough to have nicked anything important. But he’s still lost a lot of blood.” Looking up, he held her gaze. “He’s fortunate you found him when you did.”

  “Tell me what I can do to help.”

  “I need to thoroughly clean out these wounds, which will be an incredibly unpleasant process for him, and then close them up. I don’t want him waking and fighting me, so I’m going to use chloroform. Once I have him in a good sleep, I’ll need you to keep him that way until I’m finished with my work. I think you’re sharp enough to follow my instructions, if willing.”

  She nodded jerkily. “Whatever you need.”

  “You won’t swoon on me?”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  Although her stomach did get a bit queasy if she watched him work, so she concentrated on studying the patient, searching for any signs he might be stirring from his slumber. His face was marred with bruises, one on his jaw, one on his cheek. His eyelid was swelling. Three punches then. Not to mention the dark discolorations on various areas of his arms and torso. He’d fought. Hard.

  She didn’t understand people not just handing over their valuables. Objects weren’t as dear as life. But then, going by looks alone, this man seemed the uncompromising sort.

  He had a strong jaw, shadowed by dark stubble. He’d not taken a razor to his face recently, so she didn’t think he’d been wandering the area in search of a woman. Most fellows tidied themselves up a bit, even if they were paying for the loving they were going to receive.

  Before Graves had begun his work, she’d poured warm water into another bowl. Now she dipped a cloth into it and gently began wiping away the dried blood on the stranger’s face, not much liking what she was revealing. Even with the cuts and bruises, he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He did funny things to her insides, made them feel all tingly and fluttery, a new sensation for her. Men didn’t usually cause any reaction in her at all, except for a watchfulness. She’d learned early on that when it came to her person, she couldn’t trust men to behave, so she was always ready to put them in their place and ensure they knew they’d get nothing from her that she wasn’t willing to give. Until that moment, she hadn’t even gifted any bloke with the press of her lips to his.

  Her mum had worried about her safety in the rookeries, and as a result of her apprehensions had dressed her in her brothers’ discarded clothing, cropped her hair, and bound her breasts when they’d begun to appear. She was nearly grown before she’d donned a skirt. She was comfortable not garnering attention, preferred it. Even at the tavern, she favored staying behind the bar, seldom going out among the customers, unless trouble was brewing.

  Her presence intimidated. Her height made her impossible to overlook, her glare promised retribution. Not from her fists, necessarily, although she did have a rather decent punch. But she had four brothers with mightier fists who were always at the ready to defend her, and everyone knew it.

  No doubt that was the reason the ruffians had run off when she’d called out to them, which meant they were from the area. That sickened her, the thought someone she might have served would do this to a man, a man as gorgeous as this one, a man it was a pleasure to touch, even if linen separated her skin from his. When all the dirt was removed from his face, she wanted to lean in and kiss away the scrapes and bruises, wanted to heal what she had no power to mend.

  She’d never been very motherly, the reality of her youth shoving aside those instincts. Whenever her brothers had been roughed up, she’d seen to their injuries with a dispassionate air, always mindful of protecting her heart. It hurt too much to care. She knew her limits, knew her path. It didn’t involve marriage, children, or love.

  The injured man made her wish she was softer than she was, that she could wrap herself around him and give him all the comfort she’d hoarded for years.

  “There,” Graves said, breaking the ridiculous spell under which she’d fallen, staring at
a man as though he would awaken and be pleased to find himself within her arms. “That should do him for now.”

  She rather regretted she wouldn’t get to clean the rest of him, was almost envious of the lucky person who would. Setting the cloth into the bowl, she carried both to the sink, knowing they needed to be out of the way for what was to come next.

  “If you’ll give me a hand, we’ll move him to the bed,” Graves said.

  Her heart hammering, she swung around. The bed? It wasn’t supposed to come next. The physician’s carriage was. “You’re not leaving him here.”

  Graves closed up his medical satchel, straightened. “I don’t see that we have a choice.”

  “We put his clothes back on—”

  “Afraid I cut and tore them to get them off.”

  “Well, that was a silly thing to do.”

  “However, it was the most expeditious. Besides, they were ruined.”

  But that left the man with nothing to wear, she wanted to shout in frustration as an odd emotion that resembled fear—when she’d never been afraid of anything in her life, except once—welled up inside her. He couldn’t stay here. What in God’s name would she do with a man in her bed?

  “Then we wrap him in clean linen, a blanket, and cart him down to your carriage.” She was pleased her no-nonsense tone revealed none of her misgivings, her trepidation, her teetering toward terror.

  “Bumping along in a conveyance is likely to reopen the wounds. He’s lost a lot of blood. I don’t think he’ll survive losing much more. It’s better if he remains here for the time being.”

  “It won’t be a jarring ride if you travel slowly.”

  “Gillie.” He gave her a pointed look that made her feel like an unreasonable child asked to sit still in a pew. “If you are willing to risk his dying after I’ve gone to the bother of stitching him up, why send for me at all?”

  “I didn’t think he’d have to stay with me.”

  “He’s going to be too weak to take advantage of you or the situation.”

  She scoffed loudly and in a most unladylike manner. “As though that’s my worry. I have cast-iron skillets about that I can wield with determination, and I have a decent aim. One good whack and he’d be done for.”

  “Then what’s your objection?”

  A man in her bedchamber, in her bed. Nearly thirty years old, she’d never had a male in either. No good ever came from having a bloke in a woman’s bed. Her mum hadn’t found herself saddled with six by-blows because men were such saints.

  “I have a business to run,” she stated succinctly, defensively.

  “You have several hours before you open. Perhaps he’ll be recovered enough to move later in the day.”

  Meanwhile, she’d have to keep watch over him, finish cleaning him. Although earlier she’d been regretting relegating that task to someone else, when faced with the reality of having a man between her sheets for hours, she was embarrassingly unsettled, which only served to irritate her more. She took a deep breath to calm herself, to set her trepidations aside, determined to overcome this concern. “Can you send a nurse over?”

  “You want me to wake someone this time of night?”

  Yes, absolutely. What a daft question. “No. But perhaps first thing in the morning.”

  He gave a brisk nod. “I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile . . .” He moved to the man’s shoulders and arched a blond brow. If he hadn’t once saved one of her brothers, she’d yank that brow right off his face.

  She charged into her bedchamber and tossed aside the covers before joining the physician at the table. With care, she moved the sheet past the man’s knees, determined to keep the most male part of him covered, although every part of him was distinctly masculine. He had long legs, strong legs, muscular hairy calves, large feet. What she’d heard about men’s feet in relation to their endowments was apparently true.

  The chaps who frequented her establishment often became ribald after too much drink and would say things a lady’s ears shouldn’t hear, but then she was no lady.

  She slid her arms beneath his knees, lifted and, like a crab she’d once seen in a fishmonger’s stall, scuttled back. He was a sturdy load, and it occurred to her that if the odds had been slightly more even, he’d have triumphed. Thankfully the sheet stayed in place as they lowered their burden to the bed. Sprawled over it as he was, he dwarfed it, made it look like something in which a child would sleep.

  “In some cultures,” Graves said quietly, “you’re responsible for someone after you’ve rescued them.”

  “He’s not my responsibility.” She wasn’t very pleased that her words lacked conviction. Gently, she pulled the covers over him.

  “I’ll leave laudanum for his discomfort and some salve to help with the healing, prevent infection. Bandages should be changed a couple of times a day. Send word if he becomes fevered and delirious. Try to get water and broth into him if you can.”

  Her long drawn-out sigh echoed her displeasure. “He’s going to be a lot of bother.”

  Chuckling low, he said, “The women I know would tell you most men are. But maybe he’ll be worth it.”

  She very much doubted that. “How much do I owe you?”

  “I’ll settle up with him once he’s recovered.” He grabbed his things, stared at her. “Don’t forget to send word if I’m needed.”

  Giving a brisk nod, she saw him to the door, closed it, and leaned against the oak, more exhausted than she’d ever been in her life. She glanced around, the usual peacefulness of her place missing. It was almost as though it had been violated. Brutality and violence—or at least the results of it—had been allowed in. She had a strong urge to scrub it all down with boiling water.

  Instead, she settled for scrubbing down the table, as well as the pots and bowls that had been used. She gathered up the stranger’s tattered clothes. They could be mended. For all she knew, they were the only possessions left to him. He might have fancy garments, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t fallen on hard times. Otherwise, why was he here? She’d wash them later.

  Only then did she notice her own clothes were stained with blood, his blood. She had to get out of them as quickly as she could, before he awoke, before she needed to tend to him again.

  He became aware of the intense agony first, throbbing through various parts of his body. He tried to recall what had happened. The footpads, the struggle, the theft of his belongings, the man with the angelic voice who had saved him.

  With a Herculean effort, he opened his eyes. The room was dark save for a single lamp on the table near the bed and the low fire burning in the hearth, the glow of which outlined someone standing near the fireplace, dragging a shirt over his head, the short strands of his hair falling quickly back into place as the shirt was tossed aside. He watched in rapt fascination as the person began to unravel linen from about his chest until firelight danced over a magnificent pair of breasts. “You are a woman.”

  A shriek rent the air. Her movements were so quick he couldn’t decipher them with his addled brain, but when the excruciatingly sharp pain tore through his left shoulder, he realized she’d hurled something at him. His anguished groan filled in the space left by her screech coming to an end. Instinctually, he grabbed his shoulder, rolled over, and made matters ten times worse as pain ripped through other parts of his body, mercilessly reminding him that the villains had used knives on him earlier—blast their deranged hearts. He was bloody well going to die because of an innocent comment. How many times could a man face death in a single night and come out the winner?

  He issued another low groan as the bed shifted. Suddenly cool hands were guiding him onto his back. As much as he wanted to fight them off, they felt so marvelous, soft, and tender that he surrendered to their urgings.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but you startled me.”

  He no longer cared about the agony. Suddenly the prospect of dying didn’t seem so dire, not when a man was leaving this world with a lovely bosom swaying i
n his face, near enough to kiss. He might have made the effort to do just that if he didn’t fear she’d smack him hard enough to send him flying off the bed.

  “Damnation, you’re bleeding again.”

  She pressed the heel of her hand in to the curve of his shoulder. He very nearly howled at the jolt of pain, except his pride kept him silent, gnashing his back teeth together, tightening his jaw, determined not to embarrass himself any further than he already had. Stars clouded his vision, darkness began to creep in at the edges, but he fought to stay focused on her because he didn’t want to slip back into oblivion, didn’t want to again become lost. He didn’t want to leave this woman who had saved him, who was his tether to life, who even now shoved her own modesty aside to stanch the flow of his blood.

  Sometime later she stated matter-of-factly, “Bleeding’s appeared to have stopped.” Most women he knew swooned at the mere mention of blood, much less the sight of it.

  Straightening, she eased off the bed. He caught sight of something cradled in her hand, couldn’t determine what it was. Turning her back on him, she said, “I’ll get some linens, change that bandage.”

  She set the object on the mantel from where she’d originally swiped it, marched over to the wardrobe, grabbed some clothes, and headed for the door. Stopping just shy of it, she held the bundle to her chest, leaving her throat and upper shoulders bared, and he imagined the pleasure a man could take from trailing his mouth slowly over them. He had to be fevered to be in such discomfort and have his mind drifting to places it shouldn’t.

  “Don’t leave the bed,” she ordered like a general addressing an army, as though she was accustomed to giving commands and having them obeyed without question. Then she was gone, the door closing in her wake, leaving him alone to count the minutes until her return.

  Chapter 3

  She was trembling with such force that it was a challenge to dress herself. Her nipples were hard little pebbles, aching and painful. Never before had a man’s fevered breath wafted over her skin. The sensation created had been at once alarming and welcome, welcome in ways she’d never anticipated or considered. And certainly never desired.