Having removed his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, he was now unbuttoning his blood-drenched shirt, and she fought against envisioning him divested of it. This was not the appropriate time for her to want to trail fingers over flesh nor was he the appropriate man for whom she should feel even a hint of attraction. Opening a cupboard, she pulled forth a bottle of rum that she suspected her cook used more for personal consumption than for adding flavoring to the dishes she prepared. She poured some into a tumbler, set the glass on the table within his reach, and then proceeded to help him drag the soaked shirt over his head. Taking a bit of linen, she began dabbing at the river of blood. “It’s a nasty gash.” From his left shoulder, it ran six inches or so down, to the steel band of his chest. “He slashed rather than stabbed but still it must be attended to if you wish to avoid infection. I can stitch it up or send for the surgeon.”
With the fingers of his right hand, he took hold of several strands of her hair, rubbing them, stroking them as though mesmerized by them. “Is everything I know about you a lie?”
“My nameisEsme.” His gaze shifted to her. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to fall into those intense blue depths and never find her way out. “Do you want me to stitch you up?”
“You have the skills to see the job properly done?”
“I’ve found no fault with my handiwork when I’ve had a need to apply it to my own injuries.”
His eyes narrowed at her implication, that she’d stitched up herself. Which she had. He gave a brusque nod. “See to it then.”
The bleeding had slowed considerably. She nudged the glass toward him. “Drink the rum. It’ll help numb what’s to come. I’m going to gather up what I need.”
Mostly what she needed to gather was her indifference. She didn’t like the manner in which her stomach had clutched when she’d realized he’d been injured. Didn’t like the worry that had almost made her throw caution aside and bring him straight here. Didn’t much like the way she wanted to offer him her bosom as a cushion for his head so she could stroke his hair and whisper, “You’ll be all right.”
He loathed her, although the gentleness with which he’d touched her locks certainly had reflected no hatred. No doubt he was not himself following their narrow escape, his loss of blood, his discomfort. Once he was put back to rights, no tenderness would echo through his voice when he spoke to her.Is everything I know about you a lie?
She hated wondering if he might like the truth of her.
Grabbing her box of supplies from a hallway cupboard, she made her way back to the kitchen. The glass was empty. He was holding the waddedlinen against his shoulder, his tense face reflecting his pain. She set her box on the table, moved a chair nearer to him, and retrieved the rum. After pouring quite a bite into his glass, she splashed some over her hands, rubbed them together, and dried them. Before he could stop her, she lifted the bottle and spilled the rum over his wound.
He sucked in his breath through clenched teeth. “Jesus. I hadn’t considered the pleasure you’d take from torturing me.”
“Don’t be a babe.” She settled into her chair and opened her box, grateful the quivering in her stomach didn’t cause her fingers to tremble. After all the harsh words he’d thrown at her, she should find some satisfaction in making him suffer—only she took none at all. “Finish off the rum I poured for you.”
Glaring at her, he tossed it back. That glare did bring her pleasure. It didn’t seem as hostile. Perhaps when all was said and done, they could work together—her to fulfill her mission, him to restore his good name. But that was for later contemplation. After removing a wicked-looking needle and catgut from her box, she went to work.
He didn’t flinch but sat there as still as a stone statue while she dug into his flesh and began pulling it back together. He had such wide shoulders, and she imagined the pleasure to be found in skimming her hands over them when one wasn’t coated in blood. Or the comfort to be found in his arms, their strength revealed by the ropy muscles that had tensed and bunched with her first poke.He was a beautiful specimen of manhood, perfection for an artist’s brush. When she was younger, when she’d fancied herself talented with oils, she would have enjoyed putting him on canvas.
“In the library, you were taking photographs.”
Shaking off the memories of her youthful innocence, she concentrated on her efforts to ensure he healed properly. She could lie but saw little to be gained in doing so after everything else she’d revealed. “Yes.”
“I’ve never seen a camera so small.”
“I doubt anyone has. As you can well imagine, the Home Office has access to incredible inventors. The camera disguised as a pocket watch is a prototype.” They were always trying to make useful tools look as though they were something else.
“They are responsible for your umbrella, as well, I suppose. I thought you feared yourself as sweet as sugar and in danger of dissolving should you get rained upon.”
“It does have the practical application of keeping me dry.”
She could feel his gaze boring into her. She didn’t want him to like her, didn’t want to like him. It was safer that way. She couldn’t risk caring about anyone or anything because it might cause her to hesitate before running headfirst into danger or, worse, put in jeopardy someone for whom she had feelings. So she lived a solitary life, although she wasn’t lonely. Or at least had never before believed herself to be so. Brewster also worked for the Home Office, and they’dshare late-night chats. And then she had Laddie. Her duties kept her too busy for much else.
“Did my father know the truth of you?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think he suspected, even after he was arrested.”
“Were you responsible for that?”
Although the words were ground out, she assumed it had more to do with her continually puncturing his skin. Even in her needlework she preferred smaller stitches, had used the same method when tending to her own wounds, pleasantly surprised when the resulting scars were not as hideous as she’d anticipated. She was nearly halfway done with the task, their conversation distracting her as much as him. “No, I’d gained very little information from your father and wasn’t yet done with him. I knew a meeting was planned. Your father had let it slip when and where. He swayed between anticipating it and dreading it. I suspected he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the plot.”
“So you lied there as well. He did converse with you.”
He’d chosen his words carefully, not using vulgarity as he had in the past, and she wondered if it was because he recognized the large needle that she was using could hurt worse if jabbed directly and deeply into his wound. She hadn’t told him the truth of things before because she’d been angry with his insinuations, his lack of respect for her. She also hadn’t wanted him to suspect her of not being what he believed. Hadn’t trusted himwith the truth, hadn’t trustedhim. For all she’d known, he could have been replacing his father in the group of ne’er-do-wells.
However, it was a good deal more than that. Esme Lancaster was very good at keeping secrets. She knew the secrets of dukes and duchesses, lords and ladies. She knew the secrets of commoners, the legitimate and the not so legitimate. She knew the secrets of princes and princesses, kings and queens. She quite literally knew where the bodies were buried—she knew because very often she was the one who buried them.
And so habit had her holding the truth close, squeezing it until it was nearly painful, so minuscule as to almost not exist. But the ones surrounding his father she was weary of keeping because they made this devilishly handsome man think the worst of her, this man who in her opinion had been wronged, had been made to pay for the sins of his father. His name and honor shredded. There he was putting himself in danger, striving to discover exactly what she sought as well. In the alleyway, he’d told her to run while he intended to stay and face the ruffians. He’d stood at her side and battled with her.
