Intimate Deception (18 page)

“Press that cloth here,” Herman said to Grace, pointing to the spot where blood still seeped from the larger of two wounds. A bullet had torn through his side, but whether it had nicked or cracked a rib, she couldn’t tell. Two wounds showed the deadly missile’s path, one clean and not bleeding terribly, the other a ragged, bloody mess.

Raeborn sucked in a harsh breath when she pushed against the long, jagged tear in his flesh, then dropped his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. The muscles in his jaw tensed as he clenched his teeth against the pain.

“The bullet didn’t do as much damage as it could have, Your Grace.” Herman lifted the cloth to examine the wound more closely. “But you’ve lost a lot of blood. We’ll need to stitch you up.”

Grace kept her hand pressed against Vincent’s side, all the while trying to focus her gaze on something other than his face and naked torso. On something other than what was covered by the thin sheet pulled low on his waist. She couldn’t. He was just as she remembered from the night
she’d lain with him. Just as magnificently muscled as she remembered from when she’d held him and run her hands over his lean, taut flesh. Her body turned uncomfortably warm with the memories.

His flesh was dark by nature, and clinging drops of rainwater still beaded on his chest and shoulders. With her free hand she reached for a dry towel and wiped the wetness from his face. His eyes slowly opened and he looked at her. His gaze was filled with pain.

“Maudie will be here in a moment,” she whispered, brushing the soft cloth over his flesh. “You’ll be better soon.”

“Promise you’ll…not leave…my side.”

“I promise,” she said, drying as much of him as she could without getting too close to the wound.

Grace turned her gaze to the open door when Maudie rushed in, a tray with warm water and ointments and salves in her hands. She had a half-full bottle tucked under her arm.

“Here, my lady,” she said, handing Grace the bottle and a glass. “Have His Grace drink a glass of this before we start.”

Grace put some of the liquid in the glass, then lifted Vincent’s head and put the glass to his lips. He took two huge swallows, then dropped his head back to the pillow.

“That’s enough,” he rasped. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Grace went around to the other side of the bed so Maudie had plenty of room to clean the wounds and do the stitching, and Vincent’s gaze followed her as if he were afraid she’d lied to him and intended to flee the second she could.

“I’m just going to clean the wounds first, Your Grace,” Maudie said. “I’ll use some of Herman’s fine brandy to make sure the wounds don’t get infected.”

Grace couldn’t bring herself to watch what the housekeeper was doing. Instead, she kept her gaze locked with his.

“I’ll be sure to replace your brandy,” Vincent said, his breathing more labored, his complexion a pasty white. He kept his eyes still focused on her.

“I’ll hold you to that, Your Grace,” Herman said in an attempt at humor.

There was a slight pause, then Maudie spoke. “This is going to sting something fierce, Your Grace.”

“I anticipate…as much,” Vincent gasped. “Fine brandy…is bound to…do that.”

“That it is,” Maudie answered. She barely finished the words, “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” before she poured a goodly dose of brandy over the wounds.

Vincent’s body flinched, but other than the tightening of his grip around Grace’s fingers, he showed no reaction.

“It will be over soon,” she whispered as Maudie poured another dose of brandy onto the raw, gaping flesh.

A heavy film of perspiration covered Vincent’s pale complexion. The combination of exertion and pain was taking its toll, and Grace knew he was close to losing consciousness. Although she knew it would be a blessing, she also knew how much he would fight it. The grim determination in his eyes and the rigid set of his mouth told her he’d stay conscious for every agonizing moment of it.

“There, Your Grace,” Maudie said, threading the needle. “The worst is over.”

Vincent sank back into the covers and breathed heavily.

“I’ll try to be gentle. I’m a fair hand at needlework but can’t say it’ll win any prizes,” she said, settling back down on the side of the bed. “But it’ll heal nice and proper. That I can promise.”

“I have…every confidence…in you,” Vincent told her, still focused on Grace’s face.

Maudie gave him a warm smile, then stuck the needle through his flesh.

“What happened, Vincent?” Grace asked, partly to keep his mind occupied so he wouldn’t feel the pricks of the needle. But more because she couldn’t imagine how he could have been shot. “Do you think it was a hunter?”

Vincent broke eye contact for the first time. He moved his gaze to where Herman stood holding a lamp so Maudie could see better.

Herman cleared his throat. “There ain’t no hunters ’round here, my lady. Not this close to the manor house.”

The air caught in Grace’s chest. “Vincent?”

The Duke of Raeborn closed his eyes. “You’ll not…leave the house…unless I am with you. Do you understand, Grace?”

Grace watched Maudie’s nimble fingers work the needle in and out of the flesh of Vincent’s side while her mind tried to read the meaning behind such a demand.

“Yes, but surely—”

Raeborn’s eyes snapped open and the hand she’d been holding shot upward, palm out, stopping her from finishing her sentence. “Do you?”

She swallowed hard. “Yes, Your Grace.”

He breathed a heavy sigh, then closed his eyes again. Grace saw the determination and the pain etched on his face and prayed Maudie would finish soon.

“Keep an eye out, Mr. Featherly,” he said through clenched teeth. “Don’t let anyone in.”

“No, Your Grace. You can count on me.”

A thousand questions raced through her mind, and the staggering implication of Vincent’s orders frightened her. She’d have to think on that later, but right now she only wanted this to be over so he could rest.

“All finished,” Maudie said, snipping the last thread. “Give His Grace another swallow of brandy. I imagine he needs it.”

Grace lifted the glass to his lips and let him drink, then lowered his head back to the pillow and pulled the covers up to his chin. He watched her through pain-filled eyes.

“Don’t leave me, Grace.”

“I won’t.”

He closed his eyes and slept.

Grace brushed her fingers through his hair, lifting a stray lock from his forehead. Herman and Maudie gathered the blood-soaked cloth and Vincent’s clothes and quit the room, leaving her alone with him.

Grace stood at the side of the bed and watched the rise and fall of his chest. Even asleep he was the most magnificently handsome man she’d ever seen. Every feature of his sculptured face was perfectly formed—his wide forehead, thick eyebrows, high cheekbones, and rugged jaw. She shifted her gaze to his lips. They were just soft enough that when he kissed her she melted against him, yet firm
enough to carry her to a world totally unknown to her before she’d lain with him.

She remembered the color of his eyes, so dark and deep and penetrating she was sometimes afraid when she looked at him, yet so warm and comforting she could lose herself in the depths of them. He was perfection to her plainness. He was a replica of the kind of man she’d always dreamed of finding, of marrying.

But that was when she still had dreams. Before the weight of protecting her sisters from their father’s greed had destroyed any hope she’d had for her future. When she still believed someone could look beyond her very ordinary outside covering and see something special inside. And want to spend his life with her.

Instead, she’d deceived a man, and now he had no choice but to take her as his wife.

Grace pushed a chair close to the bed and sat down. His hand lay atop the covers, his long, graceful fingers clutching at the material as if he fought the pain even in his sleep. She reached out to touch him, to take some of the pain onto herself—then stopped.

Holding him, binding herself to him even more, was not wise and she knew it. She knew to come to care for him would only bring her pain. But she knew with that same certainty that it was already too late. She’d passed the point of protecting her heart. It had happened because of her deceit, on the night she’d given him her body. On the most glorious night of her life.

Grace held his hand in hers, entwined his fingers with hers, placed her palm snugly against his. A warm heat so intensely alive it stole her breath raced up her arm,
through her breast, then dropped as it swirled in the pit of her stomach.

She closed her eyes and prayed she could live without the part of her heart he possessed but did not want.

V
incent opened his eyes just a slit at first and tried to remember where he was. He moved, then tried to remember why he hurt so damn bad.

The room was unfamiliar, the burgundy roses on the wallpaper unlike any room in his house, the forest-green draperies completely foreign to him. He closed his eyes again, then breathed in a deep rush of air through his nose. His side burned like hell and his head throbbed as if he’d been on an all-night drunk. He pried his eyelids open a little more and moved his head to look around the room. And saw her.

She lay curled in a cushioned wing chair, her legs tucked beneath her and a dark quilt under her chin. Her eyes were closed, and more than once while he watched, her shoulders lifted and fell when she took a deep breath and released it.

Her wheat-colored hair was tied at the nape of her neck by a pink ribbon. Sometime during the night she’d changed out of the blood-splattered gown she’d worn while she tried to stanch his bleeding.

She shifted in her sleep and the quilt fell over one shoulder. She wore a nightgown with a very proper robe fastened high at her neck. She was less exposed than when
she wore one of the ball gowns that were in fashion now, but knowing she was no doubt naked beneath the nightgown affected him more than he wanted it to. Visions of how she’d looked the first night he’d met her refused to go away.

As if she realized he was awake, she opened her ebony eyes. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

Her voice was little more than a whisper and he wondered if she realized how sensual it sounded. “Good morning.”

She pulled the quilt up higher beneath her chin and leaned forward. Her hand reached out and she placed her fingers first against his forehead, then against his cheek. He didn’t let his gaze move from her face and was blessed with a warm smile.

“You’re not hot. That’s good. Would you like some water?”

“Yes.”

She moved to fill a glass with water but had to release the quilt in order to use her hands. He saw her cheeks darken before she turned her back to him and placed the quilt over the chair. She paused.

“I suppose you think it’s silly to be modest in front of you after what we’ve…” She turned to the small table beside the bed and filled a glass with shaking hands. “I didn’t intend to fall asleep and thought to be dressed before you woke.”

“It’s all right, Grace.”

She lowered the glass to his lips. He drank a few swallows, then lowered his head.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Like hell.”

“I don’t wonder.” She sat back in the chair. “Did you see who shot you?”

He decided to ignore her and change the subject. “Why did you run away?”

A frown creased her forehead followed by a look of understanding. “You did. You saw him. Who was it?”

“Surely you must have known I would come after you.”

“You’re not going to answer me, are you?”

“No. Why did you run?”

She rose and walked to the grate to place another log on the dwindling fire. She took an inordinate amount of time. Her delaying tactic only stretched his already fragile temper.

“Don’t ignore me, Grace. I’m not in the mood to play games.”

He heard her harsh sigh from across the room; then she turned and faced him squarely.

“I needed to be away, Your Grace. I needed time to be by myself where I could think.”

“About what?”

“Surely you know what I had to think over,” she said, the expression on her face one of incredulity.

“I’m not sure there is much for you to think over. It is much more the time to take action.”

She paled, her face losing all color.

“No. Not yet,” she whispered.

“Why? Is the idea of marrying so terrifying?”

“To me or to you?”

Her words affected him like none others could. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard, Grace, but—”

With their penetrating gazes locked, she held out her hand to stop him. “I know you do not want to marry. I know when you lost your last wife you vowed never to marry again. Even abandoned the need for an heir. Did you love her that much?”

Vincent felt as if the air had been knocked out of his lungs. “She was very special. Both my wives were.”

“Then we will hope it is not too late.”

“I think you already know it is.”

“No. I don’t.”

Vincent pressed his head deeper into the pillow and closed his eyes. “Why did you come here, Grace?”

Confusion was evident in her voice. “I’ve already explained that.”