Kathryn Smith (9 page)

He hooked one arm beneath Blythe’s knees, the other around her back, and lifted.

“What are you doing? Devlin, put me down! I am too heavy.”

He hefted her against his chest, grunting with the effort. “You’re heavier than a feather, I’ll give you that, but I can carry you just fine.”

She kicked her feet. “No you cannot. You will hurt your back. Put me down. I can walk. It doesn’t hurt that much.”

“Blythe,” he growled between clenched teeth as he struggled to keep her from slithering out of his grip. “Shut up and keep still.”

She stared at him in shocked silence, but at least she stopped
squirming. She even wrapped her arms around his neck as he quickened his pace through the path toward the house.

The servants gawked in wonder as Devlin barged through the back entrance, Lady Blythe in his arms.

“They will be talking about this for days,” Blythe muttered as they swept through the bustling, humid kitchen.

“They’ll be talking about me,” he grunted, trying to make light. “You they will forget about as soon as they learn you are not seriously injured.”

“If I am not seriously injured, why are you carrying me?”

He scowled at her. “Because a gentleman always carries a lady in need.”

Blythe snorted. “In case you have not noticed, Mr. Ryland, I am not a typical lady.”

As if he hadn’t noticed! “You called me Devlin before. And in case
you
haven’t noticed, Blythe, I’m not a typical gentleman. Now, unless you want to truly test whether you can walk on your own, kindly tell me where to take you and then be quiet until we get there.”

“The front parlor,” she replied petulantly, her jaw tight as she shut it.

Was it a coincidence that the front parlor was the room the farthest distance from where they now stood? Devlin didn’t think so. Still, he managed to arrive there with her in his arms, despite the fact that he was losing all feeling in his biceps, and his back was as bowed as a cheap whore’s legs.

When he set her on the sofa in the parlor, it was all he could do not to collapse on it with her. Instead, he whipped a blade out of the sheath on his belt and sliced the left leg of her trousers from boot top to thigh before she could utter a word.

“Mr. Ryland!”

“Devlin,” he corrected without thinking as he parted the edges of her trouser leg. There was a long, red mark marring the ivory flesh of her thigh. It was wider toward the
back where the hoof first struck, and some of the skin had been abraded where the rough edge of the hoof had caught on the side.

“Can you move your leg?”

She did.

“Does this hurt?” He ran the flat of his palm up the front of her thigh.

She jumped, color flaring in her cheeks. “N-no.”

“This?” Moving his hand between her thighs, he pressed on the warm flesh there as his other hand slid beneath her injured leg to probe the bone there.

“No.”

There had to be something wrong because her voice was little more than a squeak. Then Devlin realized just how improper the situation was. He had only wanted to ascertain the extent of her injuries and hadn’t given thought to how a gently bred lady might react to his shoving his hand between her legs, much less to what he had done to her trousers.

He was also suddenly aware of just how warm and silky the flesh beneath his hands was.

Snatching his hands away, he jumped to his feet. “Your leg isn’t broken, but I want you to keep cold compresses on it for the swelling, and I’ll have the cook make up a poultice to help with the bruising.”

“What the hell is going on?”

Devlin closed his eyes and sighed. Miles. At least he hadn’t come in when Devlin had his hands in his sister’s trousers. Oh wonderful, he had Carny with him. Both men looked like they could cheerfully take his head off.

“Devlin was showing me how to shoe Marigold and she kicked me,” Blythe replied, pulling the cut edges of her trouser leg together.

Miles’s eyes narrowed. “Devlin, eh?” The intimacy of first names was not lost on him, Devlin could tell. “Is it broken?
And why the devil did you allow her to shoe an agitated horse?”

“She wasn’t agitated when we began,” Blythe jumped in before Devlin could respond. “Devlin tried to warn me that she was starting to fidget, but I wanted to finish. It is my own fault I was kicked. And no, my leg is not broken.”

Miles nodded, much of the tension leaving his features. “Very well. We will have to get you upstairs to your room. Carny, help me carry her.”

Help him! Good Lord, a man Miles’s size could carry her on his own. She wasn’t an ogre, for Christ’s sake!

“I can take her,” Devlin retorted. Before either Miles or Carny could disagree, he bent down and once again picked Blythe up.

He glanced at Miles as they passed him in the door. “Have someone prepare a cold compress and bring some whiskey to her room for me to clean the scratches. Oh, and a poultice for the bruising.”

As he started across the great hall toward the stairs, he heard the two men talking.

“Strong bastard, isn’t he?” he heard Carny remark.

“Yes,” Miles agreed. “He’s going to have to be.”

B
lythe did what she was told and spent the rest of the day in bed, after being assured that Devlin would look after Marigold and see that she broke the new shoe in properly. She even took a tray for dinner. And now she was debating whether to go downstairs for breakfast. Truth be told, she was rather glad for the excuse not to join the others. She absolutely could
not
face Devlin again.

After leaving Miles and Carny gaping behind them, Devlin had carried her up to her room, set her down on her bed, and wouldn’t leave until he was sure that the maid had properly cleaned the scratches on her legs and that the poultice and cold compresses were applied correctly. It was unsettling, having him in her bedroom, hovering over her bare leg, watching everything that went on it.

No man had ever seen her bare limbs before. They were too long and far too big and firm to be considered the least bit feminine, but still, wasn’t bare skin supposed to inflame a man’s desire? Devlin hadn’t seemed the least bit interested in her flesh outside of the damage done to it. And Blythe had
been extremely aware of his hands upon her. His touch had given her gooseflesh, despite the pain she was in.

Her leg didn’t hurt as much now. The pain had faded to a dull ache. It hurt to walk, but she could still get around. Thank God it had been nothing more than a glancing blow.

But she couldn’t forget what it felt like to be in Devlin’s arms. He had picked her up as though she were the daintiest of women and carried her, not once but twice!

He made her feel womanly, delicate. It both thrilled and scared her. She wanted to give in to it, to flirt and hope that he would flirt back. She wanted it to go further. She wanted him to court her, woo her, seduce her.

Love her.

That was what she wanted—to love and be loved. But did she love Devlin? Was it possible after only a few days’ acquaintance? Certainly not. She was infatuated with him because he was a hero—her hero. It was the same old trap she kept falling into. She thought it had stopped with Carny. Obviously it hadn’t.

And her new friendship with Teresa didn’t help things. She had come to sit with Blythe the night before while the other guests played at cards and charades. The way the Spanish woman went on about Devlin, a person would think him ready for sainthood. Apparently Carny wasn’t the only soldier who owed his survival to Devlin. There were more. Teresa claimed that he was quite the surgeon. Blythe didn’t doubt it. There probably wasn’t anything Devlin Ryland couldn’t do if he put his mind to it.

Crawling out of bed, Blythe hobbled across the cream and white carpet toward her dressing table, her injured leg sore and stiff, and rang for her maid. Gingerly, she lowered herself to the dressing table stool and began brushing her hair.

Her bedroom door opened, but it wasn’t her maid arriving surprisingly soon. It was Varya, barging in like a woman
with a mission, the skirts of her violet morning gown swishing violently.

“Oh good, you are up. I was afraid I was going to have to carry you downstairs myself.”

Now
there
was something Blythe would like to see! “Whatever is the matter?”

Agitation colored Varya’s cheeks and brightened the dark blue of her eyes. “If you do not come downstairs so that Teresa and I can dote on you, I am going to strangle Lady Ashby!”

She would like to see that as well. She ran the brush through her hair. “What has she done this time?”

Varya scowled, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “She keeps touching Miles.
He
says he does not notice, but I know he is just being polite. He does not want me to make a scene. At least she seems to have left Mr. Ryland alone.”

That was good. Otherwise, Blythe might be tempted to strangle her as well. This jealousy was not something she wanted to think about.

Varya wasn’t finished. “Teresa cannot stand her either, but it would be rude of us just to ignore her. That is why you have to come downstairs. You must give us a reason to stay away from her.”

Blythe laughed. “All right, you have convinced me. I shall come downstairs.”

“Good!” Varya’s face brightened. “And Miles will be so happy to see you up and about when he returns.”

Blythe began coiling her hair into a neat topknot. “Where has he run off to now?”

“He accompanied Mr. Ryland into town. They have gone to talk to some solicitor about buying that little estate just west of here.”

The pins dropped from Blythe’s numb fingers. “Rosewood?”

Varya nodded, seemingly unaware that her sister-in-law had gone still and pale. “Yes, that is it. It seems that Miles showed the property to Mr. Ryland last week and he was quite taken with it.”

Lord, she was going to be ill. Devlin wanted Rosewood? Devlin was going to
buy
Rosewood? It was too absurd! He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Rosewood was hers. It was meant to be hers.

“Dearest, are you quite all right?” Varya demanded, her voice heavy with concern. “You are very pale.”

“No, no,” Blythe assured her sister-in-law. “I am quite well, Varya. Just a little pain in my leg, that is all.”

She couldn’t tell Varya the truth. As much as she adored her sister-in-law, she couldn’t trust her not to interfere. Varya would go to Miles and ask him to help his sister, but Blythe knew her brother. Miles would do everything in his power to make certain she didn’t get that property. He wouldn’t do it to be vindictive. He would do it because he thought he knew what was best for her.

No, she would just have to be calm and rational. Mr. Adams and Lord Dartmouth both knew how much she wanted that estate. Mr. Adams had told her that she would always have first priority when it came to selling it. No doubt she would hear from him once he had discussed the situation with Devlin. He would tell Devlin that someone else was interested in the estate. Perhaps Devlin would change his mind. And if that didn’t do it, Blythe would have to risk telling him her plan. Surely he wouldn’t go through with his intent to purchase Rosewood once he discovered how much Blythe wanted it for her own.

There was a knock on the door, and Suki scurried in. Within minutes she had Blythe dressed in a morning gown of bronze muslin and ready to go downstairs.

“Take my arm, dearest,” Varya instructed as they made to leave the room. “I will help you.”

Blythe leaned on Varya for support as she limped down the broad, morning-dim corridor. The pain in her leg was nothing compared to the tightness in her chest.

She had to have faith that it would all work out. She had to believe that neither Devlin nor Mr. Adams would intentionally do anything that might ruin her plans. There was nothing to be upset over. She would just be patient and wait for word from Mr. Adams.

Everything would be all right.

“There is someone else interested in the property,” Mr. Adams revealed late Tuesday morning as he shuffled a stack of papers. “I will have to contact Lord Dartmouth with your offer.”

The slight, middle-aged man faced Miles and Devlin from behind a large oak desk that seemed to dwarf him somewhat. The shiny pink of his pate showed through the thinning lines of his neat, sandy-colored hair, and his eyes lost some of their shrewdness behind the gleaming glass of his spectacles.

There was something odd about Adams’s demeanor. Miles couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he had never known a solicitor not to jump immediately at an offer as generous as Devlin’s.

Devlin, however, appeared unruffled. Then again, Miles couldn’t recall ever seeing his friend truly ruffled at all. He sat somewhat slouched in the hard, polished oak chair, his long legs stretched out before him, arms folded across his chest. “Of course. There are several other properties I can look at in the meantime.”

Now
that
put a little concern in the lawyer’s eyes. “Er…yes, of course. I wonder, Lord Wynter, if I might bend your ear for a moment over another matter?”

Miles fought a frown. Something was definitely amiss.
Adams wasn’t the type to mix business with more business.

“Of course, Adams. Excuse me for a moment, Ryland.”

Devlin nodded. “Take your time.”

Miles rose from his own chair—which was deuced uncomfortable—and followed the shorter man outside into the corridor. Adams shut the office door behind them.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Adams murmured, not quite meeting his gaze, “but there is something I think you should know about this other probable buyer for Rosewood.”

He knew it! “And what is that?”

Adams practically cringed. “It is Lady Blythe.”

What?
“My sister?”

The solicitor nodded. This time his eyes met Miles’s, but briefly. “Yes. She says she will come into some money soon and has asked for first consideration should someone else make an offer.”

Well, damn it all. The little brat! She was going to take the money that should be her dowry and use it to buy a house? A house! All those times she told him she’d “consider” going back to London and looking for a husband were just lies. She had no intention of returning to town, and it appeared as though she had no intention of looking for a husband either. Little idiot. Had she not learned that not all men were untrustworthy? No, how could she when she spent her days isolated in a tiny Devonshire village?

Since Blythe’s
disappointment
with Carny she’d done nothing but hide. At first she had refused to leave the London house, and then, as soon as she got the chance, she left for Devon. Initially he thought it a good idea to let her get away and lick her wounds. God knew he would have done anything to take away her pain. But that had been two years ago and she was still hiding from the world. He didn’t want to see his baby sister end up a spinster, alone in a big house with no one to love her as she deserved.

Her hiding was going to stop now. God help him, but he still had a few options left. It was time to exercise them, even if it could mean earning his sister’s hatred. She’d forgive him eventually, especially once she was happily married.

He glanced at the office door. God help him if he was wrong about the attraction between Ryland and Blythe.

“Adams, there seems to have been some kind of mistake.”

The smaller man raised bushy eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Yes. I would appreciate it if you would keep what I’m about to tell you just between the two of us.”

“Of course.” Adams’s chest puffed out. “I assure you I am the soul of discretion, my lord.”

He was counting on it, because what he was about to tell the lawyer was a complete fabrication, little more than wishful thinking on his part.

“My sister will still be the mistress of Rosewood, even if Mr. Ryland buys it.” If Miles had any say in it, that was.

Adams’s eyes widened behind his spectacles. “Well, that certainly changes things, doesn’t it?”

Miles nodded. “Indeed. In fact, I believe that Ryland’s taking possession of Rosewood will only hasten the happy event. Neither you nor Lord Dartmouth need worry about any promises made to Lady Blythe.”

The lawyer was happy—and very eager to oblige. “Oh, well, in that case I do not see why we cannot precipitate proceedings. I shall write to Lord Dartmouth and inform him of the sale directly. I am quite positive he will brook no opposition.”

Miles almost breathed a sigh of relief, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet. There was going to be hell to pay when Blythe—and Varya—discovered what he had just done. Regardless, it was for Blythe’s own good. She couldn’t stay hidden in the country for the rest of her life just because one man had disappointed her. She deserved better.

And “better” was Devlin Ryland.

“You are buying Rosewood?” Blythe tried to keep her horror hidden as she stared at Devlin. “Lord Dartmouth said yes?”

Apparently she did a good job of hiding her reaction because Devlin smiled as though he hadn’t just dashed all her hopes and dreams. “Not yet, but Mr. Adams is certain he will.”

They were in the middle of dessert alfresco, all of Miles’s guests gathered around almost a dozen canopied tables in the courtyard as the sun began its leisurely descent into the western sky. Were it not for those many, many guests Blythe very well might have screamed.

But she wasn’t the kind of woman who screamed, so she kept her tone as even as possible as she pushed a grape onto her fork with her knife. “I am surprised there were not other offers. It is a very pretty property.”

“There was another offer,” he surprised her by replying. “But Mr. Adams said the person could not afford to buy right now.”

Was it her imagination, or had Miles just winced? She cast a sharp glance at her brother. Did he know? Had Mr. Adams told him? Two things were for certain: If Mr. Adams had told Miles, he hadn’t told Devlin. And if Miles knew, then it was he who had talked the solicitor into backing his friend rather than his sister.

Bastard.

“When will you know for certain?” Oh, she sounded calm and completely disinterested, but inside she seethed and shook. Was Miles capable of such meanness? Would he be so deliberately cruel and callous?

Yes, he would. Especially if he had some twisted notion that he was acting in her best interest.

But now wasn’t the time to ask. She would corner him later. For now, she had to put on a pleasant face and pretend to be happy for Devlin, but later she would write a letter to Mr. Adams demanding to know why he was so ready to sell
to someone else the house he had, for all intent and purposes, promised to her.

“I hope to hear in a few days,” he replied.

One thing was for sure, Devlin didn’t know he had yanked Rosewood out of her hands. She didn’t know him that well, but she had an idea of what kind of man he was, and he was not the kind who would revel in destroying someone else’s happiness.

Blythe shoved another forkful of fruit into her mouth and considered reaching for a pastry or six. Her house might very well be lost to her if she couldn’t think of a plan quickly. And the man who had ruined her hopes was the same man who had unknowingly ruined her hopes two years ago. Had fate purposely put Devlin Ryland on this earth to foil her at every turn?