Chapter Nine
That Wynne did notexpect Lindsay to have company when he returned to their rooms at Locke Court was very evident from the fact that he was in his nightshirt when he opened the door.
“I’m sorry for dragging you from your bed,” Lindsay told him sincerely. “But I have brought Mr. Nicol back with me. We were set upon by thieves and his coat has been torn—I was hoping you could mend it for him. Doubtless he will have some bruises coming up too, so if I you could bring us some of your excellent salve, I’d be much obliged.”
Wynne’s calm expression betrayed no surprise at any of this. He nodded, stepped aside, and murmured, “Of course, sir. Right away.”
“Follow me,” Lindsay said to Nicol, “And I’ll fetch you that brandy. You look like you need it.”
He led Nicol into the sitting room where a low fire smouldered in the grate and several candles were burning. An open book lay on the table—Wynne must have been reading in here when they arrived. Lindsay suppressed a sigh. No doubt Nicol would draw that conclusion too and wonder why Lindsay’s servant was openly using his master’s rooms. Ah well, there was nothing he could do about that.
He turned to Nicol. “Let me help you off with your coat,” he said. “Wildsmith will take it away to mend when he brings the salve.” As he reached towards Nicol, the man stepped back, as though panicked at the thought of Lindsay touching him.
“I can manage,” Nicol muttered, shrugging the garment from his shoulders, though he winced noticeably as he pulled his left arm free.
“Does your arm pain you?”
“It’s nothing,” Nicol said dismissively. “I wrenched it a bit during the scuffle, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry,” Lindsay said, struck by sudden regret. As much as he’d enjoyed watching Nicol fight, the fact that Nicol was hurt bothered him—it was all too easy for Lindsay to forget how fragile humans were, especially when his blood was up. Now he remembered that knife glinting in the darkness and he felt sick
“Why are you sorry?” Nicol asked.
“If I’d asked for a sedan at Dalkeiths as you suggested, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“True,” Nicol said dryly, settling his coat over the back of a chair. “Well, perhaps you’ll listen the next time someone offers you some sensible advice. May I sit down?”
“Of course. I’m being a terrible host, keeping you standing. Come and sit next to the fire where it’s warm.” He pointed Nicol towards one of the deep armchairs that sat on either side of the fireplace, then crossed the room to the sideboard where the brandy decanter stood. Pouring two generous measures, he made his way back to Nicol and passed him one of the glasses, settling himself into the opposite armchair.
Lindsay took a swallow from his own glass and gave a heartfelt sigh of satisfaction. “Ah, now that is a very fine indeed.”
Nicol took a more careful sip, though he closed his eyes in obvious pleasure when the spirit met his tongue. When he opened them again, he said simply “Yes. It’s very good,” and perhaps for the first time that evening, a real smile touched his lips.
The smile transformed him—he was always handsome, grim expression notwithstanding, but when he smiled... he was devastating. Even the cool grey-blue of his irises seemed somehow warmer. Lindsay’s heart stuttered at the sight and quite suddenly, he couldn’t look away.
Nor, it seemed, could Nicol. He stared helplessly back, his smile slowly fading. Lindsay cleared his throat to say something—anything—but before he could utter a word, a soft knock sounded at the door.
God damn it, Wynne.
“Come in,” Lindsay croaked, and Wynne entered, fully dressed now, even his periwig in place.
“I have the salve you asked for, sir,” Wynne murmured, setting a small glass jar on the occasional table at Lindsay’s hand. “Shall I take your guest’s coat away for mending?”
“If you would be so kind,” Lindsay replied. “It’s on the back of the chair, there.”
“Of course, sir. Is there anything else? Do you require any refreshments?”
Lindsay glanced at Nicol who shook his head.
“No, thank you,” Lindsay said. “The brandy will suffice.”
“Very good, sir.”
Wynne crossed the room, lifting the damaged coat from the chair it was draped over. He held it out at arm’s length, examining the tear with a critical eye before saying, “This shouldn’t take above half an hour, sir.”
