“To get you fixed up.” Turning, she led the way back to the stillroom.
Chapter Nine
This was undoubtedly one of the most surreal moments Sinjin could recall—and that was saying something, given what he’d been through in the past month. There was a dream-like quality to the scene: sitting on the edge of the work table, he felt as if he’d landed in a magician’s laboratory.
Lamplight illuminated the bottles of potions lining the shelves of the stillroom, showing off their rainbow hues. A large apothecary’s cabinet dominated one wall, and the magician’s daughter was there, rummaging through the cupboards. She had her back to him, and he couldn’t deny that it was a lovely view. Free of its usual confines, her hair fell in a thick, wavy cascade to her hips, the mix of gold and bronze as lush as a Titian painting.
When she bent over to search in another drawer, he was met with another revelation. As prim as her wrapper was, it clung faithfully to what was inside. The belt cinched around a ridiculously tiny waist. The robe flared to accommodate sweetly rounded hips and, as she leaned over more, the material stretched over her derriere for a taut and transcendent instant.
By Jove.He’d been right about her figure. Her dowdy frocks hid a fortune of feminine bounty.
A buffle-headed sensation stole over him. He must be woozy from the injury… or from the enforced celibacy. Yes, that must be it. Blood loss combined with pent-up seed would make any man crazed.
Get it together. You need Kent’s help, and you’re not going to get it by ogling his sister like some randy schoolboy.
Although it hadn’t been easy, he’d laid out his situation to Kent, asking for help. The investigator, to his credit, had seemed to take the story in stride. Perhaps it was the fact that he considered himself indebted to Sinjin for rescuing his daughter. Either way, he jotted down the information in a notebook, stopping Sinjin now and again to ask for clarification.
Kent’s neutral posture and patient questioning had made it easier for Sinjin to talk about that night. He’d divulged every detail he could think of, including his belief that his whiskey had been drugged and the distinctive male voice that had surfaced in his dream.He supposed some might think that he sounded like a lunatic, yet Kent had lived up to his reputation as a fair and deliberate man who didn’t jump to conclusions.
He’d refused to take a retainer fee, saying that he needed more facts before deciding whether or not there was a case to take on. He’d agreed to interview Nicoletta on the morrow to get her side of the story. He’d also taken Sinjin’s concerns about being followed seriously and allowed him to stay the night.
Sinjin was grateful to his host, even if his guest quarters were situated above the stables. He understood the other man’s caution. If he were a husband, papa, and brother, he wouldn’t want himself spending the night under the same roof as his womenfolk either.
By the time Miss Polly returned bearing a tray, his somber thoughts had helped to rein in his wholly unsuitable reaction to her. She set the tray down next to where he was sitting on the table and handed him a paper sachet.
“Here you go. Willow bark,” she said.
Unfolding the paper, he downed the contents in a practiced gulp. When she offered him a glass, he took it, the cool water washing away the bitterness.
“Thank you,” he said.
She regarded him with pursed lips. “I’ll have a look at your head now.”
“That’s not necessary—”
“Hold still.”
Ignoring his protests, she reached up, tugging his head down gently. She ran her fingers lightly through his hair. At her probing touch, he felt a line tighten from his gut to his balls.
“Oh, dear,” she said with obvious remorse. “There’s a bump forming already.”
Luckily, his untucked shirt covered his loins, where the bump was growing larger by the moment. Seeing her worried expression, however, he felt an odd twinge in his chest. Perhaps it was the novelty of a female evincing concern over his welfare. He was not used to being coddled. His fleeting memories of his mama’s tenderness were tainted by the fact that she’d abandoned her own sons. Whenever he chanced to hear the lullaby she’d sung to him, the longing that welled was bittersweet.
As for his stepmama, he hadn’t received an ounce of kindness from her. He’d been a rough-and-tumble boy, and she and His Grace had treated his injuries with scathing lectures, eventually packing him off to Creavey Hall when they no longer wished to deal with him. At the school, his feats had earned him beatings from the staff and respect from his wild cronies, who crowned him their leader. His scars became badges of honor, a symbol of neck-or-nothing rebellion. The females he later consorted with claimed that the rough marks enhanced his virility.
But Polly Kent, the odd creature, seemed genuinely disquieted by, what was for him, a negligible hurt. He could only imagine what she’d say if she saw the scars on his back… not that she ever would.
Gruffly, he said, “’Tis but a scratch.”
“You’re dripping blood onto the table.”
“I have plenty to spare.”
“Hold still, or you’ll only bleed more.” As appeared to be her wont, she showed no sign of deferring to him. She fussed with something on the tray, returning with a handkerchief. “This may sting a bit.”
“What are you—bloody hell.” The sudden burn blurred his vision. “What in blazes is that?”
“Spirit of witch hazel. Our physician recommends it for cleansing wounds.”
