Her Defiant Heart (9 page)

"It's warming on the stove. I can have it brought up whenever you want it."

"I'll come down with you and get it. Christian can stay with our patient for a while. You can do that, can't you, Chris?"

Christian knew that Scott had some ulterior motive for accompanying Mrs. Brandywine, but he didn't bother pointing it out. Let them make their plans, he thought, magnanimous enough to be amused. If it gave them so much pleasure to discuss his welfare, who was he to stand in their way? Their meddling was generally harmless. "You go on. I'm sure I can manage." He waved them off with an impatient gesture and returned to the bedroom. "You can depend on it, Jane Doe," he said, shutting the door behind them. "They will be back here with broth for you and a small feast for me." He tapped the flask in his pocket. "They are both of the opinion that I've had too much to drink this evening." He shrugged and pushed away from the door. He moved the rocker toward the bed and sat down, propping his feet on the side rails. "They're right, of course, but then neither of them saw what I saw today. I make you to be something otherworldly. Not many people could have survived what you did."

Christian was staring at the polished tips of his shoes as he spoke, so he did not see Jane's lashes flutter or notice that the cadence of her breathing had changed. "The question remains, how well did you survive it?" His brief smile was self-mocking. "I know something about the aftermath. We could compare notes, you and I. Over drinks, I think. How would that suit? I prefer whis—"

He broke off in midsentence, taken completely off guard by Jane's sudden movement. She scrambled to the far side of the bed, hugging a pillow protectively about her middle, and stared at him darkly. Though she opened her mouth and made some attempt at speech, the sounds were guttural, pained, and unintelligible.

Christian's feet dropped to the floor, and he leaned forward in the rocker but did not make a move toward her. "Please don't try to talk," he said. "You don't do it very well, and it can't be good for your throat."

Her pale lips came together in a tight, mutinous line.

"Since you're a guest in my house," he went on evenly, "you may take it as an affront that I am in your bedroom, invading your privacy. It's for your own good, you know. And we won't be here alone for long. Dr. Turner will return soon. So will Mrs. Brandywine. She is my housekeeper and a thorn in my side, but we deal well together so she permits me to think I still have say in my home." He drew his brows together, and he lifted the left one fractionally, hoping he looked properly bemused and perhaps a little skeptical. "Was that a smile I just saw hovering about a pair of colorless lips? That will not do. Scott will berate me for taxing your energies, and Mrs. Brandywine will think I am trying to wheedle my way into your good graces and possibly into your bed." He held up his hands, palms out. "Nothing could be further from the truth." Christian saw her shoulders slump slightly as she relaxed her posture and her guard.

"Your hands and feet are wrapped in those towels for a reason." He watched her look down at her hands and register mild astonishment that they were covered. "It's for your protection. You have frostbite. Your skin is blistered, and if you're not careful you'll break the blisters. I imagine your fingers and toes are tingling now, but that's to be expected. It would be better if you would lie down again."

Jane's soft doe eyes widened. She dropped the pillow and shook out her hands trying to get the towels off.

"No! Don't, Jane! You'll hurt yourself!"

She stopped what she was doing and recoiled as Christian came out of his chair. She pressed her back flat against the brass head rails.

Christian held himself in check. Jane looked prepared to shimmy between the rails if that was what was required to get away from him. "I've frightened you, haven't I? I'm making a mess of things." He swore softly under his breath and gave her a sheepish glance. He warned himself not to overplay his hand. If she thought he was too helpless, she would not trust him to assist her. "Could I perhaps sit here on the edge of the bed? I could remove those towels for you, and you could twiddle your thumbs. Dr. Turner said that finger exercises would be good for you."

Jane continued to stare at him, confusion and wariness darkening her eyes. She finally gave him a short nod.

Christian sat down slowly and drew one bent knee onto the bed, twisting slightly toward her as he did so. "If you're worried about what happened earlier today, perhaps I can ease your mind. I don't hold it against you. All things considered, I thought you were rather intrepid. Oddly enough, I would not have considered that a quality I would discover in you, but there you have it. You are intrepid. Hold out your hands, and we'll take another measure of your courage."

She hesitated. Her eyes darted over him.

"Please? I really do want to help you."

Two large tears formed in her eyes, and before she could blink them back, they slipped over her lower lashes and slid down her pale cheeks. Embarrassed, she turned her head away, and tucked her chin against her shoulder. She held out her hands in a gesture that was at once defiant and helpless.

"Good girl," Christian said gently. He slid more fully onto the bed in order to reach her. With infinite gentleness he removed the damp towels from Jane's hands and then demonstrated how he wanted Jane to exercise her fingers. "Just like that," he told her when he caught her attention. "Not too quickly. Just enough to aid your circulation." He tossed the towels carelessly on the floor and took Jane by her chafed wrists, circling them lightly with his thumb and forefinger. They seemed incredibly fragile to him. He turned her hands first one way, then the other, checking them for broken blisters. "You're going to be all right, you know," he said, wanting to believe it was true. "You're lucky. Liberty brought you here in time. She took you right to the stables where Joe found you." He released her wrists and watched her withdraw her hands and cross them modestly against her chest. To Christian it seemed an odd thing to do. It had not been so many hours ago that she had pressed her body intimately to his. She was full of interesting, intriguing contradictions. He wondered if she was even aware of them.

"That nightshirt is perfectly respectable," he said, not quite able to mask his grin. "It seems of late that I'm sharing a great deal of my wardrobe with you. Ah, you blush, as well you should." He smiled more openly to take away the sting of his words. "You took terrible advantage of me earlier. I, on the other hand, gave you over to the tender ministrations of my housekeeper." Christian had no regrets over the lie when he saw relief clear her clouded eyes. "May I remove the towels from your feet?" he asked, edging the tangle of sheets and blankets over her knees. Christian thought his question and his movements were casual, but his guest took almost immediate exception. She skittered away from him, drawing her knees to her chest. As a result, she lost the protection of the blankets, but she also removed herself from his easy reach.

"Would you like to remove the towels yourself?" he asked. "The way you're sitting now is putting too much pressure on your feet. Dr. Turner is going to skin me alive if you hurt yourself. Why don't you stretch your legs?" Christian could tell that she wanted to. There were clear signs of pain in the tight set of her mouth and in her pale, waxy complexion. He glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the mantelpiece. Where the hell were Scott and Mrs. B.? He considered ringing for them, but he was afraid to leave the bed. Given Jane's fragile state of mind, he thought it was too likely that she would take the opportunity to get out of bed herself. She did not seem to fully comprehend there was any danger to herself other than the danger she attributed to his presence. Christian could not help wondering what it was she expected him to do.

"I would appreciate some reassurances on your part, Jane," he said.

She stared at him, uncertainty giving rise to a small vertical crease between her eyebrows. Her beautifully molded lower lip trembled slightly. She caught it between her teeth and held it still.

"I would like to think that you aren't going to hurt yourself more than you already have this evening. It was a dangerous stunt that you pulled earlier. I'm not certain you grasp what could have happened to you. You were half frozen when Liberty delivered you here. You were unconscious. Another hour or so out in the cold and you very well may have arrived here dead. My only motive in bringing you inside was to see that you survived. Now, if you prefer to survive as a cripple that is entirely up to you. But permit me to give you a small idea of what you can expect that to look like." Hoping that he had her full attention, Christian moved to the edge of the bed and stood. Without exaggerating his limp, he slowly walked to the fireplace before he turned around.

Jane's blistered hands flew to her face. She smothered a gasp but could not suppress the look of horror in her eyes.

Christian was embarrassed by her reaction. There was no amount of whiskey that could numb him to what he saw in her face. He felt heat creep into his cheeks. In contrast, he imagined every other part of him had iced over. He knew his limp made him ungainly, but it damn well did not unman him. After Gettysburg, that was one of the first things he had proven to himself, as well as to a succession of painted ladies at Mrs. Quilley's House of Blue Hearts. There was no reason that he could see for her complete revulsion to his infirmity. Gritting his teeth, his voice as tight as the fists at his side, he said, "It's not pretty, is it?" When she continued to stare, he advanced on the bed again, unaware that his approach was menacing or that his aquamarine eyes were colder than anything his guest had experienced during her escape from the hospital. "The same thing can happen to you," he said. "Why do you think—"

Christian did not have the opportunity to finish his sentence. He stopped as Jane scrambled off the far side of the bed. She wavered on her feet for a few seconds, barely able to remain upright. The towels on her feet nearly unbalanced her, and before he could offer advice to the contrary, she shook out her legs and kicked the towels away.

"Jesus, Jane, what do you think you're doing?" He unclenched his fist and threw up his hands, palms out. "Didn't you hear anything I said? Are you out of your mind?" Christian swore softly as he heard himself. He knew he could be an insensitive bastard, but he believed he had finally crossed some invisible line that marked the difference between callousness and cruelty. Frustrated, he ran his fingers through his hair and raised his eyes upward. "What in God's name am I doing here anyway?" he said under his breath. He caught a glimpse of Jane as her eyes darted about the room and settled momentarily on the door. There was no doubt in Christian's mind that she had every intention of trying to escape. He quickly moved to the foot of the bed so that he could block her way. "I'm not sure what just happened here, but I'd be a lot happier if you'd get back in that bed. I'd prefer not to have to put you there, but I'll do it if I have to." Unconsciously his hand dropped to his thigh and he massaged his wound. "And I can. You were lucky earlier, but I don't think you'll be so lucky this time."

Jane's dark eyes dropped to Christian's leg and the horrified look appeared again.

It came to him suddenly, if somewhat belatedly, but Christian finally understood the bent of her mind. Jane thought
she
had caused his limp. The idea was laughable because it was so absurd. "I don't think you understand," he said, rounding the corner of the bed. "You didn't—"

Once more Christian was forced to stop in midsentence. As soon as he came around the bed Jane threw herself onto the mattress, rolled to the other side, and dropped to the floor. Before Christian could reach her she was hobbling toward the door.

Christian had seconds to decide his best course of action. Every step she took was doing her harm, and she did not seem to comprehend the effects of her own recklessness. Christian's choices were clear. Two years ago, two months ago, even two days ago, he might have let her experience the consequences of her own folly, but that was not what he wanted to see happen now. Something—someone—had changed his thinking. He acted on it without understanding it.

Christian flung out his left arm and managed to grab a handful of his nightshirt as Jane skittered past him. He yanked hard and caused her to lose her footing. She cried out as the soles of her feet slid painfully against the polished hardwood floor. Christian tightened his grip on the nightshirt and used it to lift her. His free arm slipped neatly beneath the back of her knees. She was so light that she bounced in the cradle he made for her as he let go of the nightshirt and supported her back. He had to lift her high to his chest to keep her from wiggling out of his hold. Her arms flailed at him, but he noticed that she did not hit him with her fists. She pounded him with her forearms and the heel of her hands.

Unlike the first time she had fought with him, Christian commanded the position of strength, and her blows were ineffectual even if they were not particularly pleasant.

He drew in a sharp breath as Jane managed to chop him on the side of the neck. "Easy, Jane," he said, turning on his heel. "You have no cause to beat me. I am going to put you down on the bed." He groaned as she landed another well aimed blow to his temple. "God! Where do you come by that reserve of strength?" He dropped her on the bed. "I could have used a few more like you in my company. No, you don't," he said as she started to roll toward the other side of the bed. Christian reached out, caught her by the nightshirt's collar, and hauled her back. He winced as he heard the material give way around the buttonholes.