Yankee Earl (12 page)

      
“If you'd be so kind, my dear fellow,” he said, handing the reins to the servant, who took them mutely.

      
By this time the front door had opened and a tall, cadaverously thin man with the officious air of an upper servant made his way down the stone stairs to where Jason stood. Taking in the situation with one haughty glance, he summoned two additional footmen from the house. Jason waved them away and succeeded in climbing the steps unaided. He had no more than set foot inside the foyer when Rachel and her father appeared in response to the commotion of the servants.

      
“My apologies for bleeding on your carpet, m'lord,” he said to the viscount.

      
“Dear heavens, whatever has happened?” Hugh Fairchild croaked, staring with disbelief at the gory mess of Jason's sleeve.

      
“Don't be a cake, Father. 'Tis obvious someone has shot the earl,” Rachel said, calling out for one of the maids to have someone called Beatty fetch her medicinal basket and a pot of water.”

      
"Egad! Shot?" Harleigh echoed. "What possible reason would someone have for doing such a thing?"

      
Rachel cocked one eyebrow, studying Jason as she replied, “Father, I can think of legions of reasons.”

      
“Now, daughter, there is no cause to be uncivil.”

      
“Come, before you utterly ruin the carpet,” she instructed Jason, ignoring her father's remonstrances. She took his uninjured arm and guided him into a small sitting room off the foyer. The viscount trailed behind them, wringing his hands.

      
“Was the villain planning to rob you?” Hugh asked.

      
“Since he, or they, shot without first demanding that I hand over my purse, I somehow doubt it, although 'tis always possible that he, or they, simply intended to strip my corpse and steal my horse as well,” Jason replied.

      
“You do seem to possess an extraordinary talent for getting yourself into trouble,” Rachel said tartly as she shoved her patient into a lyre-back chair.

      
“I fear 'tis a lifelong talent,” he replied.

      
“But not one conducive to long life,” she retorted.

      
Just then a short, squat woman with a huge wart on her chin waddled through the door bearing a basket of medical supplies. “Here's yer basket, m'lady. Farley'll be about with the water anon,” she said with obvious disapproval in her voice as she watched Rachel removing the injured man's jacket. “Ye'd best be letting me tend to him.”

      
As the servant placed the basket on a Pembroke table beside the chair, Rachel replied, “That is all right, Beatty. I can manage.” She moved in front of the much heavier woman and opened the lid.

      
“It is not proper, Rachel,” the viscount interjected. “You are an unmarried lady and should not be viewing a gentleman who is not fully clothed.”

      
“Might I remind you that as per the connivance of Cargrave and yourself, this ‘gentleman’ is my betrothed? Besides, I am the best doctor in seven counties.”

      
“You doctor animals, not men,” the viscount reminded her with a worried frown.

      
Rachel looked down at Jason; but before she could retort, he cautioned, “Don't say it.”

      
“Whatever could you imagine I might say, m'lord?” she replied primly, but the unholy gleam in her eye when she removed a scissors from the basket was apparent to him. “I must cut away that shirt before I can assess the damage.”

      
The blood had begun to clot, and the sheer lawn fabric was fused to an ugly long gash sliced deeply into his biceps. Jason used his good hand to unfasten the studs in his shirt. ” Tis ruined anyway,” he murmured as he shrugged it from his good shoulder, wincing when he inadvertently moved his injured arm.

      
Rachel tried not to look at the broad, hard planes of his chest or the pattern of black hair dusting the muscled surface. “Here, you'll be about it all night,” she said, using impatience to cover the disquietude his nearness evoked. “Do try not to faint when I cut the cloth from your skin.”

      
He looked dispassionately down at the seeping wound. “I have survived far worse…unfortunately for you, Countess.” His dark blue eyes lit with faint amusement as he said, “Perhaps I should inquire of the stablemen if you have just returned from a hard ride.”

      
“If I were the one shooting at you, I would not have missed. Now hold still. This will hurt like the dickens.”

      
“How considerate of me, making your evening such a delight,” he groused, but did not make a sound when she inserted the scissors beneath the shirtsleeve and slowly began cutting it free of the long gash.

      
“Twill require at least a dozen stitches,” she said, forcing her hands to remain steady in spite of the way his nearness caused her heart to pound.

      
“I doubt that you acquired skill in plying a needle while doing genteel embroidery.”

      
“I acquired my skill while sewing up the hurts of animals too stupid to avoid doing themselves harm. Rather like you.” She tossed the bloody cloth into a Wedgwood bowl sitting on the table, then turned to Beatty, saying, “Where is Farley? I need to cleanse the wound before I can see to stitch it.”

      
As if conjured up, the old servant entered, carefully carrying a large bowl and pitcher filled with water. She directed him to place the bowl on the table and pour, then dismissed him and turned to her father. The viscount was by this time as white as parchment and dabbing at his sweat-beaded brow with a handkerchief. “Father, you know how this oversets you. Perhaps it might be best if you were to wait for us in the study.”

      
“Quite so, m'dear,” he replied, moving to the door with great alacrity. “I shall order Perkins to break out my best port. Nothing better to revive an injured man,” he said to Jason before he beat a hasty retreat.

      
“The last time he attempted to help me, when his prize mare was foaling, he collapsed, poor man,” she whispered to Jason.

      
“I shall endeavor to remain conscious, if for no other reason than to keep you from stitching my arm to my leg or some other such mischief.”

      
When Beatty snorted in amusement, Rachel cast a sharp look at the servant, then turned her attention to bathing the wound. The gash was long and jagged, bleeding freely again now that she had removed the shirtsleeve. Once she was satisfied that she had gotten rid of every tiny bit of fabric, she dusted the wound with yarrow powder and turned her attention to threading a needle with which to suture.

      
Keep your hands steady.
She focused on the eye of the needle, trying not to think of the man sitting so close to her and of the considerable pain that she would soon be inflicting upon him. She could feel his body heat, smell the now all too familiar male musk emanating from him. And his eyes. She knew those cool blue eyes were studying her intently. She refused to meet his mocking gaze. 'Twould serve the lout right if she did stitch his arm to his leg—or some other far more sensitive part of his anatomy! Doggedly she set to work.

      
Jason was growing increasingly dizzy from blood loss, but willed himself not to fall into a vaporish faint in front of this very unvaporish female. After all, he had given her his word that he would not do so. The sudden sting of the needle puncturing his flesh served to clear his head. He must also, at all costs, not let her know she was causing him discomfort. To distract himself, he studied her hands.

      
Although she had long, slender fingers, her nails were short, the joints innocent of any rings. These were the capable hands of a woman used to performing manual labor, not those of a finely bred English aristocrat. “You are quite good at stitchery, Countess,” he said softly as she tied off the thread.

      
“I’ve little appetite for embroidery, as you surmised. Fortunate for you that I have had a deal of practice stitching up injured dumb animals.” Giving him no time to retort, she turned to Beatty. “Please fetch one of my father's shirts for his lordship.”

      
Nodding sourly, the servant waddled from the room.

      
“Twill be a bit small, but you shall have to make do,” Rachel said to Jason, measuring the breadth of his shoulders and comparing them to the thin viscount's.

      
Suddenly she realized that they were alone and he was but a foot from her, half dressed. The episode in the water flashed through her memory, causing her breath to catch as she recalled the crisp texture of the hair on his chest and the way her nipples had felt when they came into contact with it. She could feel again the hardness of his muscles…and the hardness of that other place, so masculine and demanding. She had nearly succumbed—would have if not for the mastiffs dashing to her rescue.

      
What am I thinking?
Rachel chastised herself. She bit her lip, turning away from his probing gaze to extract a length of gauze from the basket. “I’ll have to wrap your arm—”

      
“What's happened to that cool doctorly air, Countess?” he asked, raising his good arm and taking her hand in his. As he raised it to his lips, he could feel her tremble.

Chapter Seven

      
Jason expected her to jerk her hand away and berate him for being a lecher, but she surprised him. When he raised his eyes from her hand, she met his gaze without so much as a flutter of her lashes. Reading what lay beyond those luminous hazel-green eyes was quite another matter. “A physician without words of advice?”

      
“You'd not heed one thing I said, so why should I bother?” she replied, still not withdrawing her hand from his. The cheeky devil was casting a spell, trying to intimidate her. She fought the impulse to pull away abruptly and instead slowly let her fingers disengage, teasing his large palm with her fingertips as she did so.
You are playing with fire,
she admonished herself.

      
“You might be surprised at how much I do heed you, Countess,” he said, starting to rise.

      
Rachel knew that if she let him tower over her, she would be at a disadvantage, so she placed her hand on his uninjured shoulder and pressed him back into his seat. Best to turn this brief period while they were alone to practical considerations. “You'd better have a care. This is the second time someone in the vicinity has taken a shot at you. First he missed; now he's wounded you. The next time he may finish the job.”

      
“Actually, 'tis the third such attempt. There was one in London as well.”

      
She sucked in her breath. “My regard for you grows apace, m'lord. To inspire irritation is common. To engender murderous hatred is remarkable. Who might wish you dead?”

      
“With the possible exception of yourself, I can think of no one…at least, no one this side of the Atlantic.”

      
“Pray cease your foolish banter. Much as I might wish my father and the marquess had not hatched their cork-brained scheme, I have not attempted to shoot you.”

      
“As you have already assured me, you would not have missed.” He sighed and combed his fingers through his hair. “I have a friend in London looking into the matter. There's little else to do now.”

      
“As difficult as it might be for you, you could exercise a bit of judgment and not ride alone through woodlands where anyone with a musket can make a target of you,” she replied heatedly.

      
“Why, Countess, I'm touched. 'Twould seem that you care.”

      
“Indeed I do, m'lord dolt. As I thought I had made clear this afternoon, we need each other to avert a mutually distasteful fate. In spite of the inestimable strain of doing so, please try holding that in mind. Perhaps if you wear a cap, it might help.”

      
“See there? I knew you would offer words of advice,” he said with no particular rancor in his voice.

      
Rachel was even more concerned, now that she knew without doubt that someone was actually trying to kill him, although why she should be, she refused to consider. Instead she said, “I must bandage your arm.”

      
“As you wish,” he replied, his voice low and husky.

      
She turned away from his penetrating blue eyes as conflicting emotions warred within her. Still uncertain, she took a long strip of linen from her basket and reached for his stitched arm. “Hold the end of this while I wrap it,” she said, placing his good hand over the bandage to secure it in place as she began to wind the material around and around his arm.

      
Jason could smell the perfume in her hair—a subtle, honeysuckle sweetness quite at odds with her characteristically sour disposition, he thought wryly. She leaned down, biting her lower lip in concentration as she applied the bandage. Now that the sharp pain from the stitching and the light-headedness had faded, he was increasingly aware of how fetching she looked in a simple gown of dark green mull. The gently rounded neckline was demure by the standards of the ton; but when she leaned forward, reaching around his arm as she did now, he could see the deep vale between the swell of her breasts. Stifling a groan, he looked away, knowing that she would soon be able to discern a telltale bulge in his britches if he did not avert his eyes.