An Affair of Honor (Rebel Hearts Book 2) (4 page)

“I think he’s ready. Fetch the laudanum and a narrow spoon. I recall seeing one for infants in the nursery cupboard.”

The captain’s fingertips dug painfully into her knee.

She glanced down at him, startled by his response. “I am not suggesting you are a babe in arms. The smaller spoon will make it easier for you to take the medication.”

His stare promised retribution and equal humiliation if word of him eating from an infant’s spoon spread beyond this room. That was exactly what she’d hoped for. He still had fire in him if he could be so easily offended, and that fire would help him fight for life.

“Hold that anger close to your heart and let it lend you strength for what is to come, Billy Boy.”

He stared at her, breath churning as tension between them grew.

She smiled with satisfaction that her jibe, use of his childhood nickname, got under his skin. “This will hurt.”

His fingers squeezed her knee painfully again.

“Be still now. You’ll need your strength for what is to come.”

Mrs. Young sobbed. “This is madness. We’ll be blamed if he dies.”

Matilda spared her a fleeting glance. “Better to do something than nothing at all. Do it. Do it quickly and all at once,” she urged, resettling herself over the captain’s body. It was a strange perch, but at least from here she could observe Mr. Simmons at work and distract the patient while he endured the pain.

Mr. Fellows returned and carefully spooned laudanum into the side of Captain Ford’s mouth. It was a higher dose than she’d expected him to be given, and she prayed the man knew what he was about. The doctors turned away to discuss the procedure in private.

Matilda watched Captain Ford sink slowly under the influence and breathed a sigh of relief when he struggled to keep his eyes open and the pressure of his gripping fingers softened and slipped away. “He’s almost out,” she called to them.

She moved to brush a lock of hair back from the captain’s brow and then snatched her hand back. He deserved her compassion but wanted none of her affection. If he had, he’d never have tried to pay for her favors.

She settled her hands on his chest and felt the strong beat of his heart. He would live. Later she would decide if she could remain in his employ now that he’d returned to shore. It was almost certain that his recovery would take many months.

While he convalesced she would have time to think of what to do while she awaited her beau’s return.

Two

About three months later

T
he dream always started the same way. Fabric rustled and William Ford became aware of Matilda Winslow creeping into his room through a connecting door. Candlelight played over her features and prim nightgown, and he was spellbound in a way he had no right to be.

When the woman set her candle aside and climbed onto his bed to reach him where he lay in the center, he remained still lest he shatter the illusion that such moments could last.

Tonight he was properly awake and aware he was not dreaming this visitation. Matilda Winslow, a provocative maid in his employ, was in his bedchamber and crawling close. He had no idea when the woman’s nightly visits had begun, but they couldn’t continue without consequences for her.

He had been convalescing for several long months, and tonight was the first time he truly cared what had happened to him or around him.

He’d almost died, many times in fact.

He could still feel the slice of the blade through his cheek; he could still remember parts of battle and the harrowing journey to make landfall in England. He dreamed of that often. Vivid recollections that soaked his skin in sweat. The surgery performed on his face in this very bed he’d prefer to forget except for one small detail.

He’d rarely been alone since he’d returned to this house.

He’d had Matilda Winslow to watch over him every day and night it seemed.

An unbearable torture for him.

Matilda inched toward him, always so gentle in her movements to avoid jostling him and causing further pain. She had taken on her duties as nurse to an invalid with complete dedication. He sometimes forgot they were virtually strangers. She was a maid. A young woman in his employ. A pretty maid whose frequent touches caused his palms to itch.

Her fingers ghosted over his brow, no doubt checking him for fever as she so often did, and then she peeked at his face.

Her eyes widened. “I didn’t mean to wake you, Captain.”

Matilda had spent every night since the surgery at his side or leaning over his bed, tending to him as if he were her only concern. He’d grown used to her being around, but it had to stop. Especially now he was feeling more himself. This one last night was all he could permit himself of her gentle company.

He licked his lips as the scent of her body curled around them, waking him to the fact that he was only human and weak. If she remained close, he’d become aroused, and that wasn’t something she wanted from him.

He eased a little to the side, turning his hips so the bedding did not lay too tightly over his growing arousal. “You didn’t,” he whispered. His voice was rusty from disuse, and he felt that he slurred thanks to the hideous scar dissecting his cheek. “I was not sleeping.”

Matilda beamed at him warmly, a smile so welcoming he feared it. “You spoke.”

“Obviously. Did you really think me silent because I couldn’t find the words?” He’d kept silent so he wouldn’t reveal how often the woman was on his mind. He considered her, and what she should be doing for his care, far too often for his own peace of mind. “I’d never let you get the last word,” he said stiffly.

Matilda cried out and impulsively flung herself against his chest in an unwarranted display of affection. Maids did not embrace their employers unless they had an intimate and forbidden relationship. Matilda Winslow had rejected his passions by running from him once before. He feared revealing his needs to her yet again.

It wasn’t right to torture himself like this, but he did not immediately push her away. Matilda was a soft, impulsive woman though who didn’t have the faintest inkling of how great a test she was to his honor. He’d already failed once quite spectacularly.

He kept his hands down, pressing them into the sheets.

“I knew you’d recover,” she whispered.

“So you did.” He’d not been so overwhelmed with pain that he could forget how Matilda had fought with the surgeons on his behalf. She had insisted the doctor not give up. She had not been turned from her conviction he wanted to live, even if she’d been so very wrong.

Before her arrival in his bedchamber, William had fought off the hands that clutched at him so he might be left alone to die in peace. Matilda hadn’t allowed him any peace since the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, and today was no different than any other.

His wish to die had changed the moment Matilda Winslow had sat on him. She’d been impassioned that day. Enough so he’d allowed her will to hold sway over his life. She’d issued orders for his care with authority, understanding what needed to be done to save him with surprising interest for his welfare.

He would be grateful until his last breath that her faith in his recovery had been greater than his own, but expressing softer feelings was not easy for him. As it was, they’d already passed too close to the bounds of propriety and his own limits.

He hesitantly touched her loosely tied hair as she clung to him, and desire pecked holes in his defenses and restraint, urging him to act and take what he wanted from this infuriating creature and damn the consequences. He’d done that once and frightened her. That day he’d found her at his mirror, admiring herself in the mask he insisted his lovers wear during discipline, had proved his wickedness knew no bounds.

He would not make that same mistake again.

Matilda was very warm against his body and fragile. She was nothing like his usual lovers who knew what to expect from him and enjoyed being disciplined by his hand or by a riding crop. She wasn’t the sort of woman who could want him.

Her hair was tied back with a white ribbon, and as he pushed her back, he kept hold of it. Her hair spilled forward over her shoulder in a lush dark wave, and his breath caught. If only she weren’t so shy, or a maid, he would pursue her. He’d catch her and bend her over his knee.

Again.

He cursed under his breath, denying himself what he wanted even though he yearned for her. Their relationship needed to go back to the way things had been before he’d spanked her if he was to have any peace, but this was not the way to do it. He had to do a better job of keeping a proper distance, and toying with her hair wasn’t it. He had to be strong and strict with her. “I’d have a chance if you’d stop crushing me,” he grumbled meanly.

She sat up, supporting herself on one arm but still smiling down into his face, failing to be put off by his harder tone. “I also suspected that you could talk all along. How could you stay so quiet for so long?”

“Habit, and I happen to like the sound of your voice,” he whispered, then cleared his throat, uncomfortable when her eyes widened in surprise and pleasure. He hadn’t meant that how it must have sounded to her, but to him he might have asked her to dance on his cock until the sun rose.

He struggled to purge that thought from his head. Matilda Winslow deserved his utmost respect and courtesy—and that meant keeping his desire to discipline her to himself. “The wound pained me a little on first try, so I thought I had better wait a good long while before further attempts. I’d rather not be stitched again.”

She rubbed his arm, a soothing gesture she’d done many times over the past weeks and months. At first he’d been uncertain of the gesture and what it signified, but Matilda had appeared to sense his melancholy.

She settled more comfortably. Closer. “Well, that was sensible. How do you feel?”

Dear God, the woman didn’t make anything easy.

“Like I’ve been to hell and back.” He glanced at the ceiling. He should send her away, but after all she’d done for him, the woman deserved a little conversation. “I don’t think I can adequately describe how surprised I am to be alive. When I was wounded, I feared for my life.”

“We all did, but in usual Ford fashion, death must wait till you are ready to go and not a moment sooner,” Matilda remarked humorously. “What do you remember?”

“Too much,” he whispered, drowning in memories for a brief and unpleasant moment, instantly annoyed when she brushed her hand over his shoulder once more. He owed this woman his life, and he should say something about her actions. The dimness of the chamber only added to his wicked train of thought.

Despite the impropriety, he found her wrist and held it tightly. Restraining her made him feel more settled and confident for what he needed to say next. “I cannot properly express my gratitude for the care you’ve given me. I don’t know what would have become of me had you not wished to save me.”

“You saved yourself.” Her posture softened, and he could just make out a gentle smile curving her lips. “Whatever influence I managed to have over your recovery was purely so that your sisters had no reason to cry.”

He frowned. “Why are you here?”

She sighed softly. “Dawson insisted that I sleep in the dressing room in case you needed anything during the night. I always peek in on you before bed.”

“Why you particularly and not another?”

“My father was a penny surgeon during his life, and I had the necessary experience of tending wounds and a stronger disposition than anyone else. Mrs. Young and the other servants have done nothing but weep and wail for months.” She paused a moment, then shook her head. “And Dawson remembered your instructions that only I was allowed to be in your rooms. He said you would prefer me over anyone else.”

“Ah,” he said, remembering that long-forgotten discussion with some discomfort. At the time, he’d wanted to ensure that no one else accidentally found his sex play implements. It might have also had something to do with making sure Matilda’s hair never mimicked a birds nest again as it had done earlier that morning. “I had forgotten your father’s career, but I did not think you had much interest in it. Have you studied much?”

“Some.” She shifted a little, as if embarrassed by having an education. Matilda had not always been a servant, that much he knew. She’d come into his employ not long after her father’s death. He’d been moved by her bleak face on the day they’d met and had impulsively employed her, even though Mrs. Young had not been in favor of employing a pretty girl when she had no letters of recommendation.

“I am grateful for your experience.” He shrugged. “The other maids would indeed have been too foolish for the sickroom.”

She cleared her throat. “My father believed a familiar face could aid in the recovery of a grievously ill patient.”

“He was correct. I would rather have your pretty face hovering over me than a stranger’s.” He frowned. He had not meant to reveal a partiality, but Matilda’s presence had been an excellent distraction from the pain and frustration. Had she any idea of the effect her innocence had on him? The danger she placed herself in was foolish. He released her wrist and sat up a little, keeping the sheets high over his hips still. “There were a few occasions I feared the doctor would resign because you made them wash their hands so often.”