A Scoundrel by Moonlight (10 page)

Nell had developed a taste for the dark and dangerous since arriving at Alloway Chase. Heaven help her.

Alarmed at the admission, she headed for the kitchens. She poured warm water into a bowl, refilled the kettle, then set it to heat on the hob.

When she returned to the library, she heard Mr. Crane saying, “I don’t want to cause any fuss.”

“My good fellow—” Leath’s impatience melted into a smile when he saw Nell. “Oh, bless you.”

He stepped back to allow her to place the bowl on a table. He’d undressed down to shirtsleeves. Despite the fraught circumstances, she couldn’t help inhaling his scent. Clean male and rain and horses. After their encounter in his bedroom, the scent was perilously familiar. And as heady as wine.

Nell struggled to concentrate on poor Mr. Crane as she kneeled at his side. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”

The gallantry in Mr. Crane’s smile touched her and he
bore her ministrations without complaining, although the lines bracketing his mouth indicated discomfort.

John returned, his arms piled high with bedding and towels that he placed at her side. Nell passed a towel to the marquess, who watched her with a level gaze that set her nerves prickling. “We need to get him out of his wet clothes.”

“I tried to get his coat off, but it seemed cruel rather than helpful.” He rubbed at his hair, although it no longer dripped water onto his wide shoulders.

“I’m all right, sir.” Mr. Crane’s strangled tone indicated that he lied.

“Perhaps we could cut off the coat,” Nell suggested. She tried not to look at the marquess. He was dangerously approachable—and appealing—with his damp black hair ruffled and tumbling over his brow.

“Good idea,” the marquess said. “John, will you fetch a knife from the kitchen?”

John scurried off. Nell turned her attention to drying Mr. Crane as best she could and tending his scrapes and bruises. The water in the bowl was soon cloudy with blood and dirt. She dropped the cloth into the water and started to rise, but to her astonishment, the marquess’s elegant hand landed on her shoulder.

The contact shuddered through her. And strangely bolstered her strength. “I’ll go. Your presence calms him.”

Whether that was true or not, Mr. Crane breathed more easily.

“My lord, you shouldn’t wait on me,” the injured man objected.

“Stow it, Paul,” Leath said.

“Thank you,” Nell said quietly. “The kettle’s on the hearth. The handle is likely to be hot, so you’ll need a cloth to lift it. Or perhaps John can help.”

The marquess sent her a mocking glance. “I’ll have you know I can fend for myself.”

She blushed, too conscious of that strong hand resting on her shoulder. She was glad she hadn’t given him directions to the kitchens. She nearly had. But it was a stretch to imagine the magnificent Marquess of Leath in that workaday setting.

He lifted his hand, which offered her racing heart a reprieve, and collected the bowl. “Try and get some more brandy into him, Miss Trim.”

When they were alone, Mr. Crane regarded her with rueful amusement that made her commend his courage. “His lordship is too kind.”

“He values you.” She rose to fill the brandy glass.

The liquor added a trace of color to his cheeks. She prayed that the broken arm was all that was wrong. He seemed cogent, but she needed to be sure. She set the glass on the table and collected a candle.

“Any other man would have left me on the moor and fetched help, instead of putting me on his own horse. The rain was coming down in sheets.”

Nell wasn’t sure what to say. The more she saw of James Fairbrother, the less she believed that he was Dorothy’s treacherous lover.

She was passing a candle before Mr. Crane’s eyes when the marquess returned bearing fresh water and a clean cloth. “I don’t think he’s done his head any lasting damage.”

“You seem to know what you’re doing.” She heard the question in Leath’s voice.

“I nursed my mother and my sister. And helped the village doctor when he needed an assistant. Apart from his arm, I doubt if Mr. Crane’s seriously injured.”

“That’s a relief,” her patient said as Leath placed the bowl on the table.

John came in and Nell bit back the urge to say “at last.” Then she saw that he’d brought a large pair of scissors as well as a knife. “Well done, John.”

Leath seized the scissors. “John, wait in the hall for the doctor.”

“Very good, my lord.” The young man bowed and left.

“I’ll hold him.” Leath passed her the scissors. “You cut.”

“My lord…” Mr. Crane bleated.

Nell struggled not to jar her patient, but before she’d finished both she and Mr. Crane were sweating and shaking. After she’d splinted the broken arm, Nell felt ready to collapse. Mr. Crane was barely conscious and shivering under the blankets. Only Leath appeared in a good state as he stoked the fire to a roaring blaze. Nell admired his stamina. After all, he’d transported his secretary through a storm before assuming sickroom duties.

Mr. Crane looked tired, but more comfortable, by the time the doctor arrived. Nell stood wearily and collected the bowl, intending to fetch more hot water. And to save Mr. Crane’s blushes when his breeches came off.

She was in the kitchen filling the kettle when some change in the air alerted her. She raised her head to see Leath in the doorway, studying her with a brooding expression.

Dear heaven, he was a gorgeous man. In his loose white shirt and with his hair untidy after the night’s exertions, he made her heart turn over. Her hand began to shake and the kettle sloshed water over her dress. She hadn’t been alone with the marquess since he’d kissed her. The memory was painfully vivid.

The memory. The shame. The confusion. The… desire.

He strode forward with his purposeful step and grabbed the kettle from her precarious grip. “Pass that over before you flood the place.”

The brush of his hand made her wayward heart lurch with a dizzying mixture of fear and excitement. “I don’t—”

“You’re safe.” He placed the kettle on the hob, giving her a chance to catch her breath. When they’d worked together to help Mr. Crane, they’d been a team. Now all the bristling, difficult awareness revived.

“I know.” She wished that she didn’t sound like she regretted the fact.

L
eath leaned his hips against the draining board, studying Miss Trim. Nell. Eleanor.

She looked tired and jumpy. And beautiful. Her dress was damp and stained after helping Crane and a streak of dirt marked her lovely face. A strand of silvery blond hair escaped her daunting coiffure and dangled onto her breast. His hands curled against the cold stone bench behind him as he fought the urge to tug the pins away and see her hair tumbling around her like moonlight.

Two nights ago, she’d given him too much.

She hadn’t given him enough.

“Thank you for your help.”

“I told you—I’ve done a lot of nursing.”

Lit to spellbinding shadow in the turned-down lamps, she stood on the flagstones. Her stance betrayed uncertainty and her eyes were suspicious. She was
always
suspicious. He was devilish tired of it.

He glanced down at his filthy boots. Selsby would haul him over the coals for the state of his clothes once he finally made it upstairs. “So you really are an orphan.”

She stiffened, hostility replacing uncertainty. “Why would I lie?”

He fixed his gaze on her. “I don’t know.”

Pink tinged her cheeks and she avoided his eyes. Was that because she was a liar, or because she was a respectable woman alone with the man who had taken liberties? As always with Miss Trim, he wasn’t sure of anything.

“My mother was ill for months before she passed away.” She sent him a look which felt significant. He had no idea why. “And my sister Dorothy died in May.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” She seemed to expect a stronger reaction. Again, he sensed that there were levels of meaning here that he missed.

“Your father was a soldier?”

“I’m surprised you remember that.” She didn’t sound pleased.

“Of course I remember.” He recalled every encounter with this woman and every word she’d said. Perhaps because she was so damned elusive. There was nothing like mystery to whet a man’s interest. “You intrigue me, Miss Trim.”

To his surprise, she didn’t take up the challenge. Instead she straightened with that innate pride so incongruous in a housemaid. “My father was a sergeant major in one of Rowland Hill’s brigades. He was killed at Vimeiro in ’08. I was only five, but my mother talked about him all the time until I’m not sure whether the memories are mine or hers.”

“What was his name?”

“Robert.”

So much loss in Eleanor’s life. He’d wondered if she’d used the orphan story to gain his mother’s sympathy, but looking at her now, he saw that whatever other lies she’d told,
she hadn’t lied about losing her parents. Compassion pierced him, softened his voice. “I’m sure he was a brave man.”

“I believe he was. He was decorated and mentioned in dispatches.”

The sorrow in her face made him long to draw her into his arms. Purely for comfort, he told himself. And didn’t believe it.

She went on. “I’ve always been sad that his service record was lost. Along with his medals and his effects.”

Leath stepped toward her. “That’s a blasted shame.”

“I’ve been thinking of him lately.” Her attempt at a smile touched him in a place deeper than lust. He suddenly realized that cozy chats deep into the night were as dangerous as forbidden kisses. “Perhaps because… you call me Eleanor.”

Leath knew he shouldn’t touch her. If he touched her, her unusually confiding mood and the hunger that had tormented him since he’d kissed her would lure him to more. And she was a virtuous woman. While he was a gentleman. An affair would do neither of them credit.

It was a struggle to sound merely kind when his pulse pounded like a battalion of drums. “Have you contacted the War Office?”

She sighed. “My mother must have written a hundred letters, but at the time, the war was raging. They had more important things to think about.”

“More important to them,” Leath grunted. Sergeant Major Trim had given his life for his country. That deserved more respect than he’d received.

Behind him, the kettle boiled. Leath lifted it and poured water into a bowl. He expected Eleanor to smile to see him using a cloth to hold the handle, but she seemed lost in memories. It was as if she’d forgotten his presence. He should be grateful. There was safety in distance. But he couldn’t help
mourning the end of an interval when they’d spoken almost as… friends.

Hell, Eleanor Trim befuddled him more than anyone he’d ever met. He needed to talk to Dr. Angus about Crane. But still this woman held him as captive as if she’d cast a net over his head. He had a grim feeling that like a fish in the sea, he was well and truly hooked.

What in blazes was he going to do about it? He couldn’t even blame Eleanor. She wasn’t trying to captivate him. He retained a lurking suspicion that she didn’t like him, however smitten she claimed to be, however hot her kisses.

“I wouldn’t have managed nearly so well tonight without you.” He hated how stilted he sounded. The awkwardness that abruptly descended reminded him that he’d been in the saddle most of the day and that hauling Crane through the rain hadn’t been easy. He was cold and weary and, as he met Eleanor Trim’s cool gaze, discouragingly lonely.

“I’m here to serve, my lord,” she said neutrally.

Was she mocking him? He remembered all his reasons for avoiding this woman, not least her dashed slippery behavior. His eyes sharpened on her. “In fact,” he said thoughtfully, “you were astonishingly quick to serve. You appeared out of nowhere.”

She stared back as uncompromisingly as a young saint facing martyrdom. Except now that he’d kissed her, he’d learned that, with the right encouragement, she could sin gloriously. “I waited up to talk to you, my lord.”

“What the devil have we been doing for the last twenty minutes?”

His sharp question made her frown. “I’d like to know your plans, given what happened the other night.”

With a loud clank, he slammed the kettle back on the heat. A mixture of hope and disbelief set his heart banging
against his ribs. He’d convinced himself that she was out of reach. Was he mistaken? “My plans? For bedding you?”

Her eyes widened with shock and she stepped back. Much further and she’d be in the corridor. “No, of course not.”

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it,” he muttered, disappointment descending like a landslide. He wanted Eleanor Trim. At this moment, he wanted her more than he wanted his political career or his good reputation. For a brief, dazzling moment, he’d wondered if he might yet get her.

She licked her lips, setting his blood to flame. He needed to get out of this kitchen before he abandoned his honor. Her hands twined nervously at her waist, another characteristic gesture. “When are you going to dismiss me?”

He scowled, cranky with her, the world, himself. Heaven had created her to lie in his arms. Why did this world make that perfect outcome impossible? “What bloody rot is this?”

The tense line of her shoulders eased until she stood more naturally. How interesting that she was more comfortable with his bad temper than his questions. More than ever, he was convinced that she hid something.

“I can’t bear this waiting, my lord. It’s cruel. I know you want me gone. I heard you talking to your mother last week. When you caught me—”

“When I caught you red-handed in my bedroom,” he said silkily, perversely beginning to enjoy himself. He’d had no idea that she’d been on such tenterhooks.

She nodded. “It’s a good excuse to get rid of me.”

“I have no intention of telling my mother that I kissed her companion. I told you that what happened was my fault.”

“You also told me that gentlemen didn’t chase the servants,” she retorted.

“Miss Trim…” Although in his heart, he called her
Eleanor. “That night reflects badly on both of us. Perhaps we should close the door on it.”

She regarded him uncertainly. “You don’t want me to leave?”

Hell, no.

He bit back the quick reaction and spoke with as much avuncular reassurance as he could muster. By the look on her face, that wasn’t much. “My mother is in better spirits these days.”

“That’s because you’re home.”

He frowned. “Not completely.”

“That night you thought I was stealing.”

A few days ago, he’d pushed for her banishment. Now he must have gone mad, because the thought of her departure made him want to punch the wall. “Nothing’s missing.”

“I could have been deciding what to take.”

“Was that what you were doing?”

“No.”

He waited, wondering if she’d confess her reasons for invading his apartments. But she remained silent. And watchful. Always watchful.

“I will discover your secrets, you know,” he said evenly.

She started, then stood tall in the lamplight. “Your imagination runs away with you, my lord.”

A faint smile curved his lips. “I don’t think so.” He collected the bowl and the cloth. “My instincts never fail, Miss Trim, and they scream that you’re not what you seem.”

“Then why keep me here?” she asked, puzzled rather than pert.

He shrugged and met her eyes, feeling as though he drowned in autumn gold. “Heaven knows, Eleanor, heaven knows.”