Stupid of her to try to kiss him like that. Stupid of her to lead him away from safety. Stupid and foolish, and it could have cost North more than a lot of blood. It could have cost him his life.
“Take your coat and shirt off,” she commanded, her voice hoarse as she stopped pacing the carpet in his office. They had been in his house mere minutes. Mrs. Bunting was fetching supplies to treat his wound, but no one had arrived to tend it.
He held his hand over his injured arm. “I am all right. Francis will look after it.”
He most certainly was
not
all right. Being shot was far from all right. “You could bleed to death before Mr. Francis returns.”
“It is not that bad.”
“Damn it, North!” Her voice was shaking.
She
was shaking. “Take off your coat and shirt!”
Surprisingly, he did as she commanded. Or rather he attempted to do as she commanded. The fingers of his right hand were covered with blood—fresh and dried. They fumbled with the fastenings of his coat, slipping on the metal and staining the soft wool.
“Let me do it. At the rate you are going, you
will
bleed to death.” Perhaps she shouldn’t be so short with him, but seeing him shot had scared her, and then for him to take off as he had…
The buttons on his coat were wet and sticky as she slipped them through their holes, and she could smell a salty, copper scent about him.
Blood
. Her stomach rolled.
He managed to pull his right arm out on his own, but she had to help him with the left. Carefully, she tugged the sleeve, drawing it down so the fabric avoided his wound. She tossed the coat on the floor. It landed with a thud. He had something heavy in one of his pockets. A pistol, probably, but she didn’t want to think about that.
“I liked that coat,” he remarked with enough regret that it would have been comical were she not still so very much concerned about him.
With the darkness of his coat gone, the wound looked much worse. His shirtsleeve was saturated and glued to his flesh with shades of deep and bright crimson. The tear where the lead sliced through the fabric was almost black with blood. Octavia swallowed.
“You are very pale,” he told her. “Really, it is not so bad. Let Francis look at it.”
Her trembling fingers went to his cravat. “Be quiet.” Untying the knot, she unwound the starched linen, tossing the strip on top of his coat when she was done.
She tugged his shirt free of his waistband, catching a glimpse of brown flesh beneath.
God, the sight of his skin was more troublesome than his blood. Shame on her.
“Lift your arm.” She didn’t have to tell him which one. No doubt he couldn’t lift the other. Up the shirt slid, and he pulled his right arm free as she lifted. The neckline came over his head—he had to duck a bit—and then, very gingerly, she peeled the destroyed linen down over his left arm.
She tossed the shirt in the hearth.
North smiled. How he managed it, she didn’t know. His face was pale beneath his tan, but he still wasn’t as white as she was. And now she was all the paler because of this wound. He had to be in pain, but he hid it well.
“You seem to have a penchant for throwing my clothes around, my lady.”
She actually blushed. How could she not when his tone was so flirtatious? The rush of blood warmed her cold cheeks. Now if only it would spread to her—
“Christ, those are cold!”
—hands.
She jerked back. “Sorry.”
He was scowling now. “Warm those things before you touch me again.”
As if on cue, Mrs. Bunting bustled into the room carrying a tray with a basin of hot water, a bottle of amber liquid, and a pile of cloths on it.
“Here you are, my lady. Are you sure you do not want me to tend to Mr. Sheffield?”
Octavia shook her head. It was her fault North had been shot in the first place. She would look after him.
“It is going to need stitches,” North said softly, drawing her gaze to his. He was giving her the opportunity to change her mind about playing surgeon.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bunting.” Her gaze never left North’s. “That will be all.”
North sighed, but said nothing. When the door closed, he seated himself on the corner of his desk and stared at her. “Go ahead then.”
Dipping one of the many cloths in the basin of water, Octavia hissed as the heat scorched her numb fingers. It was too hot, but it felt good—a strange mixture of pain and pleasure as the feeling returned to her hands. She wrung out the cloth and turned to her patient.
God, but he was lovely—even with bloody arm and a frown on his face. The last time she had seen his naked torso she’d had too much to drink, and her memory of the sight was clouded by that fact. The sight of him now was a vision she would carry for quite some time—and not just because of the blood.
Mounds of taut, golden-rose skin, dipping into lines of sinew before rising again in smooth lines of muscle. Jutting bones, deep hollows, he would be a challenge for any painter to recreate. And how could any brush capture the ropey strength beneath the hair on his chest?
“You are damned lucky I’m bleeding, looking at me like that.”
The low timbre of his voice jerked her back to reality—and to the fact that he was indeed bleeding. Here he was injured and she was ogling him like a prize bull at market! She should be slapped—hard.
“A woman would have to be dead not to look,” she replied, wetting the cloth again to warm it. “You do not need me to tell you how fine you look, Norrie. I am sure you already know.”
“I know how fine you looked with your clothes off, Vie.”
Her hands shook as she brought the cloth to his wound,
and it wasn’t because of the shock of the evening. “This might hurt a bit.”
“Just looking at you hurts.”
“You should not say such things.” She pressed the damp linen to the gash in his arm. He sucked in a breath, but did not tell her to stop. She dabbed at the wound and surrounding flesh until the cloth was dark with blood and then wet another, wiping the blood from the rest of his arm.
“You realize that by tomorrow morning I could have this son of a bitch in custody and there will be no reason for us to see each other again.”
“Please do not say such things.”
“I will miss you.”
Tears stung her eyes. “Stop it. I cannot tend to your injury with eyes full of tears.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, feeling something sticky smudge on her cheek. Blood, no doubt.
“Hold this against the wound while I clean the rest of your arm.”
He took the cloth in his good hand and did as she ordered. “I never meant to make you cry.”
“I know.” That was all she could say.
After cleaning the rest of his arm, she stitched the wound shut, wincing every time the needle slipped through his flesh. How could he stand it? He hardly made a noise and yet she knew it must hurt like the blazes.
Finally she tied off the end of the thread and snipped it with a pair of scissors. If only she had given more attention to her needlework as a girl.
North glanced down at her handiwork, the whiteness around his mouth easing. “You would make a lousy seamstress, Vie. Luckily I do not care if it is pretty or not so long as it’s not bleeding.”
“You were right. It was not as bad as I thought.” She didn’t bother to respond to his comments about her stitches.
He nodded at the bottle of amber liquid on the tray. “Pour some whiskey on it.”
“I beg your pardon?” Never had she heard such a ridiculous notion!
“Devlin claims it works better than water for cleaning wounds.”
“And you believe him?”
“He would know better than you or I.”
Good point. She uncorked the bottle, and placing a wad of cloths underneath his arm, poured a liberal amount of whiskey on the newly stitched flesh.
“God damn!”
Eager to have this whole situation over with, Octavia hurriedly bound his arm with the leftover cloths, wrapping the wound with a thick, protective covering.
She could have sunk to the floor and wept when it was all over.
“Thank you.”
She stared at him, tears threatening again. “For what? My God, Norrie, it was my fault!”
“Your fault? Oh, Vie, it was not. Come here. Let me wipe your face.”
She stepped closer, into the V of his legs as he wet the one last cloth and wiped the smudge on her cheek.
“I am sorry.” She sniffed. “I cannot stop thinking that you were shot protecting me.”
He caught her beneath the chin with his finger, tilting her head upward so she was forced to meet his gaze.
“And I would do it all over again. If anything ever happened to you—”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. She knew exactly what he meant, because it was exactly how she felt. How close
they had come to losing each other that night. How empty her world would be without North somewhere in it. It would be like someone killing her twin, her other self.
“I do not want to lose you,” she whispered.
“You won’t.” His hand slid up to cup her cheek. “No matter what else, I will always be there if you need me.”
And she knew he meant it. Despite all their other promises, all their decisions over the years, Octavia knew North would betray every promise and vow for her if she asked him to, as would she for him. She would even risk Spinton learning the truth—risk the entire
ton
learning the truth—if North asked it of her.
But he would never ask it, nor would she. They both knew that as well.
“Norrie—” How could she possibly put what she was feeling into words?
He pulled her closer, his hand now curving around the back of her neck. “I know. I know.”
And then his mouth was on hers and her arms wrapped around his ribs, her fingers digging into the firm warmth of his back.
His tongue parted her lips, sweeping inside with a forcefulness that made her knees quiver.
There was desperation in their kiss—desperation, longing, and a sweetness that made Octavia’s heart ache. How could he want her? How could she want him, knowing it would only lead to sadness and hurt? This attraction between them would only serve to make saying good-bye all the more difficult.
Even if things were different, even if Spinton were not in her life, North would not be comfortable in the world she now lived in, and she wasn’t all that certain she would be comfortable in his. She certainly couldn’t sit by and watch him put his life in jeopardy time and time again, not if tonight was any indication of how dangerous his work was. And yet
that did not stop her from clinging to him like ivy to stone. It did not stop her from wanting this moment to last forever. She could have lost him, but she didn’t. And now she refused to let him go.
“Come to bed with me, Vie,” he whispered roughly against her mouth. “Be mine one last time.”
She would be his for all time, but she didn’t say it. She simply nodded, her gaze held by the blue heat of his.
He took her left hand in his right and led her to the door of the office. Outside, the house was dimly lit and quiet. Had the servants all gone to bed? Did it matter? No. Right now she didn’t care if anyone saw her follow North upstairs. She was not ashamed of wanting him, even though she knew others would expect her to be. How could any woman in her right mind be ashamed of such a man’s desire? North Sheffield wanted
her
. It was something to be proud of.
North’s bedroom was at the far end of the upstairs corridor, at the back of the house. Here the noise outside was muted—nothing more than a low hum.
A lit lamp sat on the bedside table, casting the room in a warm, inviting glow. The last time she had entered this room, she’d been so nervous her palms dripped and her knees knocked. Tonight she was perfectly calm. Perhaps it was the shock of the evening numbing her. Perhaps it was the feeling that spending the night with North was the first
right
thing she had done for quite some time.
He toed off his boots, but when it came to removing his trousers and stockings, his fingers fumbled. His injured arm made him awkward.
“Let me.” Pushing his hands away, she released the buttons on his falls. She was terribly aware of his gaze upon her, hot and predatory. She glanced up, saw the stark want, saw the
need
in his expression, and then dropped her gaze to her hands, trembling.
Slowly, she peeled the fabric down his legs and over his feet. When he was completely bare before her, she slid her palms up the solid, hairy curves of his calves, the dip of his knees, the strength of his thighs. He was golden and warm and beautiful beneath her hands. And when she reached the rigid length of flesh jutting from his groin, she touched it with tentative wonder.
North hissed, but it was a pleasureful sound. “Easy. It has been a while.”
Smiling, filled with a sense of womanly power, she gazed up at him as she continued to stroke the satiny flesh. “Twelve years?”
“No.”
She could be jealous but she had no right, and it wasn’t as though his other lovers mattered. She had been the first. She was the now. And he would always be hers no matter whose bed he was in.
“Then you do not know what it is to suffer,” she informed him softly. “For more than a decade I have remembered the pleasure you gave me but have been unable to ever duplicate the sensation. You have.”
His fingers closed around the ones holding him, stilling her caress. “No, I haven’t.”
The words struck her, and for one brief moment Octavia feared she might cry. Leaning forward, her knees digging into the carpet, she placed light kisses on the hand holding hers, and then she ran the flat of her tongue over the head of his erection.
“Jesus.” His hand released hers, cupping the back of her head instead. He didn’t push, but neither could she move away—not that she wanted to.
She licked him, kissed him, opened her mouth and took him inside, savoring the feel, the musky salt of his skin. His fingers tightened in her hair as she worked him with her
tongue and lips, the desperate feeling blossoming again low in her belly. Her hands clutched at his flanks, holding him exactly where she wanted him.