He took up a position between her and the massive oak desk perched in front of the even more massive windows. The sun slanted in, dust motes dancing and his hair gleaming like dark fire as he leaned over her. His eyes were gleaming even more darkly, which made Felicity shiver. That gleam was solid rage.
“What have I done?” she asked instinctively, wishing her voice didn't sound so small. Wishing her hands weren't trembling as reaction set in to his arrival.
He was safe. He was standing. She hadn't realized how important that was to her until now.
“I don't know yet,” he said. Before she could respond, he spun around to the drinks table in the corner. “Brandy?”
“I don't suppose you have ale.”
“I do not.”
“Then brandy.”
She saw that his hand was shaking as he poured, and that he was only using his left arm. Then she saw a puddle forming on the floor.
“Before we go a minute more,” she said, springing to her feet, “you need to take care of that arm.”
He glared at her, brandy decanter rocking gently in his hand. “I do not...”
She pointed down. He cursed and slammed the decanter down. Then, using that same arm, he downed the brandy he'd poured and slammed the glass back down as well. “It can wait.”
“No,” she retorted, “it cannot. Wrap it or suffer your housekeeper's wrath when her staff spends the next week trying to get blood out of the carpet.”
She headed for the bell pull, but he intercepted her. “No. Here.”
With an abrupt motion, he stripped off his cravat and handed it to her. Felicity accepted it and was immediately distracted by the warmth of it. The scent. Even over the metallic tang of blood, she could smell fresh air and evergreens, healthy male and something just a bit darker. Her heart started to gallop.
What a reprehensible time to have this happen. She could have withstood him without it. But it was something so personal, so vital that she felt as if she had inhaled the essence of him, and that it was bold and free and strong. Everything she wasn't. Everything she wanted.
“Well?”
He didn't look as if he had been having the same thoughts. Startling to attention, Felicity walked up to him. “Remove your jacket, please.”
He did. She suffered another setback. Of course, he would be a bit sweaty, enough that the fine linen molded to his sleek frame. Blast, she was never going to get anything done if he kept enticing her. Her own hands were beginning to sweat.
He'd been shot, she reminded herself and briskly wrapped the warm linen tightly around his arm, not even bothering to demand he slip out of his shirt. He wouldn't have stood for it.
She might not have survived it.
Before she was finished, he was already moving back to the table and another pour of brandy. She followed along, tying the knot as quickly as she could.
“It is still bleeding,” she all but accused, giving her work a final pat and stepping back. “You should have it stitched.”
“Not now,” he retorted, pouring another glass of brandy for her. “Now sit. And tell me about Teesdale.”
She sat. She did not reach for the glass. She was too busy staring at him, completely nonplussed.
“Teesdale?” She gave her head a shake. “Oh, you mean Bucky. What about him? What does he have to do with you being shot? Wasn't it a poacher?”
“It was not.”
She finally remembered to take the glass from his hand. “How do you know?”
He started pacing again, his own brandy glass in hand. “That was a Baker rifle you heard. Used by the 95thRifles during the war. Excellent weapon for snipers. Not,” he said, turning back on her, “poachers.”
She felt her skin go clammy. “Theymeantto shoot you?”
“No,” he said, his voice sharp as cut glass. “I believe they meant to shootyou.”
