Cold-Hearted Rake
Page 65
Helen nodded and slipped into the room.
The atmosphere was warm and stuffy, the air pungent with sweat, medicine, and plaster. Winterborne’s large, dark form writhed on the bed amid tangled sheets. Although he was dressed in a nightshirt, with one leg encased in a cast from the knee down, Helen had a glimpse of swarthy skin and hairy limbs. The locks on his head were obsidian black and slightly curly. His white teeth clenched with pained effort as he tried to pull the bandages from his eyes. Helen hesitated. Ill though he was, Winterborne seemed like a feral beast. But as she saw the way his hands fumbled and shook, she was filled with compassion.
“No, no…” she said, hurrying to him. She laid a gentle hand on his forehead, which was as dry and hot as a stove plate. “Be at ease. Be still.”
Winterborne had begun to shove her away, but at the feel of her cool fingers, he made a low sound and went motionless. He seemed half delirious with fever. His lips were chapped and cracked at the corners. Bringing his head to her shoulder to steady it, Helen restored the bandage around his eyes, tucking in the loose ends. “Don’t pull at this,” she murmured. “Your eyes must stay covered while they heal.” He stayed against her, breathing in short, sharp bursts. “Will you try some water?” she asked.
“Can’t,” he managed wretchedly.
Helen turned her gaze to the housekeeper, who had remained at the threshold. “Mrs. Church, please open the window.”
“Dr. Weeks said to keep the room warm.”
“He’s feverish,” Helen persisted. “I think it would help to make him more comfortable.”
Mrs. Church went to the window. As she unlatched the casement and pushed it open, a rush of icy air entered the room, whisking away the sickroom odor.
Helen felt the movement of Winterborne’s chest as he drew in a deep breath. The heavy muscles of his back and arms twitched with relief, the ferocious tension draining. His head settled on her shoulder as if he were an exhausted child. Aware of his state of undress, Helen didn’t dare look down.
As she held him, she reached for the cup of water on the nightstand. “Try a few drops of water,” she coaxed. As he felt her press the cup to his lips, he made a faint protesting sound, but he allowed her to wet his lips.
Realizing it was the most he could do, Helen set the cup aside and whispered, “There, that’s better.” She continued to hold him while the housekeeper came forward without a word and began to straighten the bedclothes.
It was scandalous, Helen knew, for her to behave this way with any man, let alone a stranger. There was no question that Kathleen would have been appalled. But Helen had been secluded from society for her entire life, and although she was disposed to follow the rules whenever possible, she was also willing to discard them when necessary. Besides, even though Winterborne was a powerful and influential man in his everyday existence, right now he was suffering and very ill, and she could almost think of him as a child in need of help.
She tried to lower him to the pillows, but he resisted with a grunt. One of his hands clamped around her wrist. Although his grip wasn’t painful, she felt the strength of it. If he wished to, he could have easily snapped her bones. “I’ll go fetch something to make you feel better,” she said gently. “I’ll come back soon.”
Winterborne let her ease him down to the pillows, but he didn’t let go. Perturbed, Helen contemplated his large hand before her gaze traveled to his face. His eyes and forehead were obscured by bandages, but the bone structure beneath his bruised and scratched complexion was austerely angled, the cheekbones paring-knife sharp, the jaw sturdy and emphatic. There were no smile lines around the mouth, no touch of softness anywhere.
“I’ll return within a half hour,” Helen said. “I promise.”
Winterborne didn’t relinquish his grip.
“I promise,” she repeated. With her free hand, she stroked his fingers lightly, coaxing them to loosen.
He tried to dampen his lips with his tongue before speaking. “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely.
“Lady Helen.”
“What time is it?”
Helen sent a questioning glance to Mrs. Church, who went to the mantel clock. “It’s four o’clock,” the housekeeper reported.
He was going to time her, Helen realized. And heaven help her if she was late.
“I’ll return by half past four,” she said. After a moment, she added softly, “Trust me.”
Gradually Winterborne’s hand opened, freeing her.
Chapter 21
The first thing Rhys had become aware of after the railway accident was someone – a doctor, perhaps – asking if there was someone he wanted to send for. He had shaken his head immediately. His father was dead, and his elderly mother, a flinty and humorless woman who lived in London, was the last person he wanted to see. Even if he’d asked her for comfort, she wouldn’t have known how to give it.
Rhys had never been seriously injured or ill in his life. Even as a boy he had been big-boned and physically fearless. His Welsh parents had thrashed him with a barrel stave for any misdeed or moment of laziness, and he had taken the worst punishments without flinching. His father had been a grocer, and they had lived on a street of shopkeepers where Rhys had not learned the skills of buying and selling so much as he had absorbed them, as naturally as he breathed air.
After he had built his own business, he never let any personal relationship detract from it. There were women, of course, but only the ones who were willing to have an affair on his terms: purely sexual and devoid of sentiment. Now, as he lay suffocating in an unfamiliar bedroom with pain rioting through him, it occurred to Rhys that perhaps he had been rather too independent. There should be someone he could send for, someone who would care for him in this inexplicable situation of being injured.
The atmosphere was warm and stuffy, the air pungent with sweat, medicine, and plaster. Winterborne’s large, dark form writhed on the bed amid tangled sheets. Although he was dressed in a nightshirt, with one leg encased in a cast from the knee down, Helen had a glimpse of swarthy skin and hairy limbs. The locks on his head were obsidian black and slightly curly. His white teeth clenched with pained effort as he tried to pull the bandages from his eyes. Helen hesitated. Ill though he was, Winterborne seemed like a feral beast. But as she saw the way his hands fumbled and shook, she was filled with compassion.
“No, no…” she said, hurrying to him. She laid a gentle hand on his forehead, which was as dry and hot as a stove plate. “Be at ease. Be still.”
Winterborne had begun to shove her away, but at the feel of her cool fingers, he made a low sound and went motionless. He seemed half delirious with fever. His lips were chapped and cracked at the corners. Bringing his head to her shoulder to steady it, Helen restored the bandage around his eyes, tucking in the loose ends. “Don’t pull at this,” she murmured. “Your eyes must stay covered while they heal.” He stayed against her, breathing in short, sharp bursts. “Will you try some water?” she asked.
“Can’t,” he managed wretchedly.
Helen turned her gaze to the housekeeper, who had remained at the threshold. “Mrs. Church, please open the window.”
“Dr. Weeks said to keep the room warm.”
“He’s feverish,” Helen persisted. “I think it would help to make him more comfortable.”
Mrs. Church went to the window. As she unlatched the casement and pushed it open, a rush of icy air entered the room, whisking away the sickroom odor.
Helen felt the movement of Winterborne’s chest as he drew in a deep breath. The heavy muscles of his back and arms twitched with relief, the ferocious tension draining. His head settled on her shoulder as if he were an exhausted child. Aware of his state of undress, Helen didn’t dare look down.
As she held him, she reached for the cup of water on the nightstand. “Try a few drops of water,” she coaxed. As he felt her press the cup to his lips, he made a faint protesting sound, but he allowed her to wet his lips.
Realizing it was the most he could do, Helen set the cup aside and whispered, “There, that’s better.” She continued to hold him while the housekeeper came forward without a word and began to straighten the bedclothes.
It was scandalous, Helen knew, for her to behave this way with any man, let alone a stranger. There was no question that Kathleen would have been appalled. But Helen had been secluded from society for her entire life, and although she was disposed to follow the rules whenever possible, she was also willing to discard them when necessary. Besides, even though Winterborne was a powerful and influential man in his everyday existence, right now he was suffering and very ill, and she could almost think of him as a child in need of help.
She tried to lower him to the pillows, but he resisted with a grunt. One of his hands clamped around her wrist. Although his grip wasn’t painful, she felt the strength of it. If he wished to, he could have easily snapped her bones. “I’ll go fetch something to make you feel better,” she said gently. “I’ll come back soon.”
Winterborne let her ease him down to the pillows, but he didn’t let go. Perturbed, Helen contemplated his large hand before her gaze traveled to his face. His eyes and forehead were obscured by bandages, but the bone structure beneath his bruised and scratched complexion was austerely angled, the cheekbones paring-knife sharp, the jaw sturdy and emphatic. There were no smile lines around the mouth, no touch of softness anywhere.
“I’ll return within a half hour,” Helen said. “I promise.”
Winterborne didn’t relinquish his grip.
“I promise,” she repeated. With her free hand, she stroked his fingers lightly, coaxing them to loosen.
He tried to dampen his lips with his tongue before speaking. “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely.
“Lady Helen.”
“What time is it?”
Helen sent a questioning glance to Mrs. Church, who went to the mantel clock. “It’s four o’clock,” the housekeeper reported.
He was going to time her, Helen realized. And heaven help her if she was late.
“I’ll return by half past four,” she said. After a moment, she added softly, “Trust me.”
Gradually Winterborne’s hand opened, freeing her.
Chapter 21
The first thing Rhys had become aware of after the railway accident was someone – a doctor, perhaps – asking if there was someone he wanted to send for. He had shaken his head immediately. His father was dead, and his elderly mother, a flinty and humorless woman who lived in London, was the last person he wanted to see. Even if he’d asked her for comfort, she wouldn’t have known how to give it.
Rhys had never been seriously injured or ill in his life. Even as a boy he had been big-boned and physically fearless. His Welsh parents had thrashed him with a barrel stave for any misdeed or moment of laziness, and he had taken the worst punishments without flinching. His father had been a grocer, and they had lived on a street of shopkeepers where Rhys had not learned the skills of buying and selling so much as he had absorbed them, as naturally as he breathed air.
After he had built his own business, he never let any personal relationship detract from it. There were women, of course, but only the ones who were willing to have an affair on his terms: purely sexual and devoid of sentiment. Now, as he lay suffocating in an unfamiliar bedroom with pain rioting through him, it occurred to Rhys that perhaps he had been rather too independent. There should be someone he could send for, someone who would care for him in this inexplicable situation of being injured.
