And then, the rest of her words filtered through to him. She wanted to give him her pistol. His fierce little Virginian miss thought he needed her firearm. Bless her. Of course, who could blame her for thinking him an inept duffer after he’d allowed someone to all but slay him ten paces from his own door? And on their bloody wedding night, of all times.
“Allow me to reassure you that I can protect myself without your weapon, Lady Ravenscroft.” He took great pleasure in reminding her of who she now was. A gash to the head had not altered that.
“Miss Whitney shall do nicely,” she informed him, her tone cool and impersonal. “You must accustom yourself to the fact that I will leave you, my lord.”
“Leave me to be murdered?” Some vicious part of himself, long buried, unearthed itself in that moment. “My blood already stains you, little dove, so you may as well. Tell me, why do you linger here? A servant can do as well as you.”
She blanched. His words had found their mark, but he felt no pleasure in it. The aching in his head was making him peevish. He longed to call back what he’d said. Damn it, he wanted to seduce her, not to push her away. But she was ever stubborn. Ever smug in her unwavering belief that she would sail away to Virginia. He longed to shake her from her position. A woman couldn’t marry her homeland. Couldn’t she see how much he needed her here?
Jesus, where had that thought come from? He was the Earl of Ravenscroft, by God. He’d lived thirty-one years without ever needing a woman. A man required only funds, after all. Not a warm cunny and a luscious pair of tits. What was wrong with him, chasing after this slip of a girl as though no other woman would have him? He ought to let her go. Load her on a Virginia-bound ship. Wave goodbye.
But he couldn’t.
“You need not be cruel,” she said then, her voice accusatory. “I do care about you, my lord. Surely that must be apparent. A woman without feeling would not help carry a wounded man to his bed, clean away his blood, or hold his hand while the doctor stitches his wounds. A woman without feeling would not have prayed for you to wake.”
Her anger coiled in his chest like a serpent ready to strike. His head ached. His mouth was dry. His stomach jerked, threatening to cast up its accounts. Devil take it. He was in no shape for this reckoning.
She had been by his side, tending to him. She’d held his hand. The jagged pieces inside him shifted, fitting together in perfect harmony. He reached for her, clasping the nearest bit of her, those agile fingers.
“Thank you,” he said simply, for he meant it. Never had he been more thankful. “You didn’t owe me that, Clara, and I thank you for it all the same.”
Her expression softened, and she turned her hand palm up, tangling her fingers with his. “You’re welcome, Julian.”
Not precisely an extension of the proverbial olive branch, but he would take it. Yes, damn it, he would take it.
ell me, Lady Ravenscroft, is it true that someone tried to murder our brother last evening?”Lady Alexandra hadn’t even waited to begin filling her plate from the sideboard at breakfast the next morning. She’d pounced the moment she stepped over the threshold.
Someone would have to teach the earl’s sisters some manners. Clara had just been about to take a sip of her ritualistic morning coffee when the wayward duo bustled into the breakfast room, brimming with ill-contained curiosity. She replaced her cup in its saucer. “Lady Alexandra, Lady Josephine, good morning.”
In truth, it was anything but. She’d slept in a chair at Ravenscroft’s side and had only left him to the care of his manservant so that she could break her fast and inform his sisters of what had happened. Worry for him still soured her stomach, and her neck and shoulders ached from the manner in which she’d finally fallen headlong into slumber. It would seem that his sisters had already heard the news from another source. Of course they would have done.
His sisters spilled across the floor in outmoded pastel gowns, crowding her at the table. “How is Julian?” Lady Josephine demanded. “His wits aren’t addled now, are they?”
The girls before her certainly required a great deal of patience.
Lady Alexandra jostled into her sister. “Have they caught the fiend?”
“Lord Ravenscroft is as well as can be expected.” As recalcitrant as the girls were, Clara knew a moment of gratification at their genuine concern. “Your brother was indeed attacked last evening and gravely injured. At last word, the criminal responsible has not yet been apprehended. Fortunately, the doctor assures me that with some rest, the earl shall recover.”
“He has already recovered,” came the familiar drawl of Ravenscroft himself, traveling from behind the wall of concerned femininity obscuring him from Clara’s vision.
His sisters spun, Lady Josephine’s flounced bell-shaped crinolines nearly knocking Clara’s coffee to the floor. She rescued it just in time, righting it in its saucer, before her husband swept into her line of vision. He moved with the same easy grace as always. He wore gray trousers and a black jacket, a silver waistcoat atop his crisp white shirt. His bandage interrupted the inky beauty of his hair, but aside from it, he bore no other sign of the grave injury he’d sustained. He was handsome and debonair as ever.
What in heaven’s name was he about?
Her lips compressed into a disapproving frown. “My lord, you ought to remain abed as the doctor ordered.”
“My lady.” His gaze met hers, warm and intimate. He bowed. “Thank you for your tender care and concern. However, I am, as you can see, mended.”
No man could be mended that quickly after the loss of a great deal of blood. Clara had seen firsthand just how much of his life source had been spilled. Upon further inspection, he did appear a bit pale. “Dr. Redcay prescribed rest, my lord. In matters of an injury to the head he said it was of utmost import. I insist you return to your chamber. I’ll see that your breakfast is brought to you.”
“You insist?” He smiled, as if she amused him.
Perhaps she did. She supposed it wasn’t every day that someone dared to gainsay a peer of the realm. But she didn’t give a fig for ancient English custom, propriety, social rules, or even eloquence. What she did care about was his wellbeing, and if he was too foolish to realize that he ought to take better care of himself, she had no problem telling him.
“Yes.” She stood, pinning him with a meaningful glare. “I insist, my lord.”
She felt Lady Josephine and Lady Alexandra’s wide eyes upon her and turned to find them staring at her as if she’d done something scandalous. Well, wasn’t that rich, coming from those two? She stared them down as well. “If the earl won’t have a care for his person, then who will?” she demanded.
