Suddenly a hard voice snapped something in Italian. Cassandra hesitated for a heartbeat, long enough for Simon to lunge in and grab her wrist.
“Cass, stop!” Simon barked in the tone that had halted battle-drunk soldiers. Her hand was shaking, the blade trembling. Its tip, red with blood, swam in front of Lucien’s eyes. His vision blurred in a combination of shock and pain as Simon pried Cassandra’s fingers off of the hilt and slipped the weapon from her hand.
The minute it was free she gave her head a shake, as if startled awake. Her eyes widened as she stared at the bloodstain spreading on Lucien’s torn shirt.
“The guard came off your sword,” Simon explained, curving one hand over Cass’s shoulder. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt him.”
Didn’t she? Lucien wished he were as sure as she dropped the sword and buried her face in her hands.
Chaos erupted, Lady Elliot fainting into her husband’s arms, the terrified Elliot boys clinging to Will. Simon, Penelope and Paola clustered around Cassandra while Arkwright and Grace rushed toward Lucien.
Grace, pale, yet calm, examined the wound.
“How bad is it?” Arkwright asked her. “Do we need to summon a surgeon?”
“It’s just a scratch,” Lucien growled, his cheeks starting to burn. “The sword point glanced off.”
“You’re dashed lucky it’s not worse!” Arkwright exclaimed.
But it was Grace who filled Lucien’s vision. Her cheeks flushed, gaze intense as she pressed her wadded up handkerchief upon the slice to slow the bleeding. It had violets embroidered on it or some such. Absurd to notice that now. She motioned to a maid whose cap had slipped askew. “Susan, run ahead to heat some water and have it taken to the morning room then fetch a fresh shirt. Will, take everyone to the tents and have Ives set out luncheon. I’ll take Lord Everdene to the house and get him cleaned up.”
Lucien frowned. Strange, that Grace should be the one escorting him to the house instead of presiding over the tea tables set beneath cloth canopies. Yet he was glad. Her grip on his arm was gentle, yet firm as she guided him toward the manor.
“You’ll get blood on your frock,” Lucien warned.
“It won’t be the first time. Or have you not met my brothers?” She kept her tone light, but he could see the worry creasing her brow as she looked at her stepmother who lay in a fluttering heap, being plied with smelling salts, demanding far more attention than the one who was actually bleeding. “What am Igoing to do with her?” she huffed in exasperation. “She faints at the sight of blood.”
“She’d best get used to it if she’s to play mother to those little hellions,” Lucien observed between gritted teeth.
“Blood and toads. What more could a stepmother ask for?” She smiled to herself. “Bennet is quite enamored with the little creatures. Lady Elliot not so much.”
Grace and Lucien had reached a set of doors in the terrace, and she led him inside. He had visited The Willows as a boy, but it was wholly different now. The tasteful mural he remembered had been obliterated by silk wallpaper boasting a flock of vulgar peacocks that glared out at those who entered. He blinked, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. He’d swear one or two of the birds wore a black moustache. A number of furnishings were obviously new and garish. There were scrape marks on the floor where the older furniture still stood, as if the heavy pieces had been dragged to and fro.
By the time Grace and Lucien reached a rather pleasant room at the far end of the hall, he was feeling queasy from a combination of the wound and the memory of his sister’s eyes. Hate-filled, yet also frightened. So vacant it chilled him. What had put that expression on her face?
Grace settled him on a wooden chair beside a table that the maid had prepared. Steam rose from a basin of water. Beside it, a stack of clean bandages sat next to the kit of medical supplies no mistress of a household could be without.
He thought of how long that battered, leather case had been in Grace’s charge. Had Grace become skilled in such wifely duties when she should have been reveling in all the pleasures the London season could offer a lovely young debutante? The thought troubled him.
“Let us get this shirt off of you so we can see just what we have here,” she said, quickly unknotting his cravat and moving to the placket of his shirt. He caught her hand.
“Perhaps a footman might aid me. You, a young, unmarried woman?—”
“Lord Everdene, I shed my innocence about medical matters five years ago. You needn’t fret about my sensibilities.”
He said no more because she was already making quick work of his buttons, the fabric falling open, her soft knuckles brushing against his chest. He shouldn’t have noticed when she grazed a flat nipple. He was bleeding, for Christ’s sake. But the intimacy was undeniable. “I can unbutton the rest,” he said to spare himself the sensations.
At last, he finished and tugged the shirt tails from the waistband of his breeches. He set aside the blood-soaked handkerchief that clung to his wound, then carefully pulled his arms from each sleeve.
Grace surveyed the wound with a discerning eye, dipped a cloth in the basin, and began to carefully clean the blood away. Glancing down, he saw the slash from the center of his breastbone, tapering off to just above his left pectoral. The edges of the wound were purpling.
“You were very lucky,” Grace said. “I won’t need to stitch it.”
She said it as if stitching a man’s chest was little different than the samplers women were forever embroidering.
“This will sting a bit,” she warned, applying some sort of salve from a tin. It did. But not in the way she meant. Those delicate, deft fingers moving upon his bare skin distracted him from the discomfort. His breath quickened, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
After setting the salve aside, she took up clean bandages and formed a pad the length of his wound.
