She paused there, her eyes misting as she thought of that little girl and wondered where she was right now. Venice? Rome? Felicity hoped so much that Mary was enjoying her adventures. She didn’t want her to ever regret a thing.
If she could have, she would have handed that locket back to the little girl to remind her that she, too, was like a lion and should never forget it. But Mary had insisted that the locket was meant for Miss Felicity. After all, she’d said, the opposite side was inscribed with a large, ornate C. For Chambers.
“Don’t you see?” the little girl had demanded, breathless from running to catch her. “It was always supposed to be yours.”
It was. Even hours later bouncing along in a mail coach to London, when Felicity had looked more closely to see that the C was actually a G.
* * *
By the timeFelicity returned to the library, the little necklace draped from her closed fist, it was to find Mrs. Windom laying out her supplies on a towel she'd spread on Flint’s desk alongside his discarded cravat. He was faced away from the woman, struggling to get his shirt over his head, but Mrs. Windom didn’t seem to notice that his torso was exposed up to his neck.
Felicity was sure she should feel relief at the small size of the wound on his arm, or distress at the remaining evidence of his other brushes with death, nicks and a slash that transected his flank. But truly she couldn't take her eyes off his magnificent back. Lean, taut, not an ounce of fat.
Breathtaking.
“Miss Felicity?”
She startled, realizing she'd shuddered to a stop at the door. Blinking, she saw that Mrs. Windom was gesturing to where Flint was trying to get his shirt over his head past his wounded arm.
Felicity almost flinched. The housekeeper wantedherto help?
Mrs. Windom glared at her. The housekeeperdidwant her to help.
Pocketing the necklace, she took a steadying breath, stepped up behind Flint and almost fainted. His back. His side. His chest. Just as lean and muscled, dusted in hair the same deep auburn as his head. Glistening a bit from the sweat of his ride. Felicity reached up to help pull his shirt over his head and deliberately took in a slow breath. She smelled horse and clean sweat and a tang of evergreen and sunlight. She felt smooth, tight skin beneath her fingers. She heard the small gasp he let out when she inadvertently touched him.
Well, maybe not so inadvertently. Her fingers tingled. They actually tingled as she carefully stripped the sleeve off the wounded arm. She found herself standing far too close and not wanting to budge. She wanted to soothe his pain and incite a fever. She wanted to wrap him in her arms and not ever let him go.
He'd been shot, and she simply didn't know how to feel about it, except that she was terrified. And not just from the danger.
And then he turned just a bit more and Felicity’s breath caught in her chest. Sweet God. His other arm. With his shirt off, she could see a line of red, ropy scars that traced his muscles all the way down, almost to his wrist. Burns. She wanted to reach out to touch them, to soothe them as if they were still fresh.
What had happened to him? What had he suffered? The scars weren’t that old, still looking angry and swollen. Weeks? Months? No wonder a gunshot to the arm had barely bothered him.
“Well then, young sir,” Mrs. Windom scolded, rag in hand as she examined the jagged edges of the slice the bullet had taken out of Flint's arm. “It's certainly bled well for ya. Keeps infection down. Poacher, was it?”
“You know there are no poachers here, Mrs. Windom,” he said through gritted teeth.
She shrugged. “Billy Burke'll sort it out.”
Felicity stepped carefully away, needing a bit of room from her own reaction to the complex story of Flint Bracken’s body. Before she could get out of range, Mrs. Windom caught her by the arm and handed her a pad to press against the wound as the housekeeper threaded her needle. Felicity closed her eyes, as if that would help.
“Mrs. Windom,” Flint said. “Can you ask if Lord Brent spoke to any of the staff about Miss Chambers while he was here?”
Pulling away the pad, Mrs. Windom bent to her task. “Wasn't here long enough, my lord. Never left the back salon. Where the drinks table is, isn't it?”
“Anyone else happen to mention her?”
Focused on her work, the housekeeper just shook her head. Felicity was about to make a strategic retreat when the housekeeper turned and handed her a pair of scissors. Oh, blast. Felicity hated this part. Taking in a surreptitious breath, she stepped closer. When Mrs. Windom finished the stitch, Felicity cut the thread. She was proud of herself. She didn’t even shudder.
“Substitute teacher for battlefield medicine?” Flint asked.
Felicity smiled. “Little girls are more rough-and-tumble than men think.”
She cut another thread, wanting all the while to ask about those burns. She tried not to notice that Flint’s hands were curled in on themselves or that she could hear his teeth grind. Knowing how much this must hurt did nothing for her peace of mind. She wanted to hold his hand. She wanted to hold his head. She wanted to go back an hour and prevent this from happening at all. She wanted to go back far enough to prevent every scar on his body.
The only thing she could think to do was distract him.
“Here,” she said, pulling out the locket.
