After several minutes there was a disturbance in the water. Mr. Thurlowe’s head popped up. He pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. “Drop the reins. He won’t step on them.”
As if seconding the order, the horse gave a snort and another annoyed pull of his head. Gemma dropped the reins... but not because of a conscious effort.
No, she dropped them because Mr. Thurlowe had started walking out of the pond. Water sluiced down over his naked torso in rivulets that followed his muscles. Every stitch he still wore molded almost obscenely to his body, and yet, she was not offended.
She’d been married. Many of her patients were men. She was accustomed to the male anatomy. It was no secret that Ned Thurlowe was an excellent specimen of masculine beauty in its prime.
But no man, not even her husband, had made her jaw drop in lascivious admiration as if she had the manners of a sailor. She couldn’t stop herself.
Or control the sharp yearning that radiated from the pit of her stomach to the essence of her being. Even her breasts tightened, and it took all her strength to bite back the half whimper before it escaped her lips, and fortunately the only one who heard was the horse, who cocked an ear and then snorted his opinion.
Paul Estep’s looks had turned heads, even hers. She had been flattered that, out of all the lasses in Manchester, he’d singled out her.
But never, not once, had he inspired in her this almost overwhelming reaction to his body. She wanted to step forward into Mr. Thurlowe’s arms, to see if he was as strong and safe as she remembered.
He, on the other hand, acted completely oblivious to her. He raked his hair back from his face as he made his way to the bank. Reaching the grassyarea, he threw himself upon the ground. He rolled to his back, closed his eyes, and groaned.
The sound of pain broke through her ogling.
She reached for his jacket she’d draped over the saddle. She walked over to the prone body. “Mr. Thurlowe?”
He didn’t move. His eyes were closed.
Had he lost consciousness? Was there something wrong with him internally? She’d been appalled at the beatings the doctor and the duke had given each other.
She dropped to her knees beside him and tucked the jacket around his chest. His skin was cold to the touch. She cupped his face in her hands. “Mr. Thurlowe?Mr. Thurlowe?”
He shook his head as if she had startled him from sleep. “What?” He squinted up at her.
Gemma sat back, a touch chastened that she’d laid her hands on him. “I was checking if you were all right.”
Wincing as he propped himself up by his elbows, he declared, “I’m not. There isn’t a muscle in my body that doesn’t ache like a bloody—” He stopped eyeing her as if her presence was an annoyance and finished tamely, “With pain. I ache with pain.”
“You didn’t need to correct yourself. I am not critical of strong language. Sometimes it has its place. My father was quite fond of it.”
He looked at her as if she spoke gibberish and lay back down.
Gemma sat in silence. Not asking questionswent against everything her gran had taught her. Her purpose was to heal.
She leaned over him. “I have a salve—”
Without opening his eyes, he shushed her.
“I could run back to the vill—”
He snapped his fingers. “No.”
She had to try again. “It will help you feel better.”
“What would help me feel better is—” He paused as if for dramatic effect.
“Yes?” she prodded.
“If I would stop fighting with men younger than I am.”
Gemma sat back, confused. “You make a habit of fighting?” That was contradictory to her image of him.
His eyes opened with a frown. Golden eyes. Annoyed eyes. “No, I don’t make a habit of it. However, today was not wise.”
