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“Where does it hurt?”
“What?” She opened her eyes. They were in a beautiful bedchamber with dark wainscoting and heavy, lavish, hunter-green bed curtains and drapes, and the room was lit only by an oil lamp beside the bed and another on the far wall on the fireplace mantel.
“There’s blood,” he said gently.
She looked down to see that her beautiful white gown was streaked with crimson. For a moment she felt a sense of panic, fearing she was more injured than she had realized, but then she remembered scraping her hands and trying to cover herself. She turned her hands palms up to show him the abrasions, only now feeling the pain of the deep scrapes. “From when I fell,” she whispered, feeling as if she were in a dreamlike state.
None of this seemed to be possible. Not Angel and Henry in the window committing that indecent act…not Charles trying to rape her, and her jumping from the carriage. Not Blake being there at just the right moment. Not being here with him alone now like this….
She could feel her pulse flutter, her heart beating in her chest.
“Ah, it’s not so bad,” he told her, taking her hands gently in his and uncurling her fingers to have a better look. “Where else?” he asked after a moment.
“My right ankle,” she whispered. “And…my knees.”
He slid down toward the end of the large four-poster bed and removed her right shoe, then her left, taking more care with the right.
Sapphire winced as he twisted the second slipper off and slid his hand gingerly over her stocking-covered ankle.
“Swollen a little, but not so bad,” he said. He glanced up at her. “Probably sprained, but not broken.”
He pushed the hem of her gown up farther and she stiffened at once, reaching out to try to push him away.
“I just want to see your knees,” he chastised as if she were a child. “Come now, Sapphire, you were nearly raped. That street was filthy; horse manure, offal and Lord knows what else. You could be seriously injured. This is no time for modesty.”
Tears stung the back of her eyelids as she lay back on the pillows again. She felt the silk fabric of her gown slide up her leg, felt the heat of his hand as he drew it over her shin, and then he pushed down one stocking that had come loose from its garter. She winced.
“Pretty scraped up,” he said as he brushed his fingertips over her knee. “Nothing too serious.” He looked up at her. “Anything else hurt? Your neck? Your arms?”
She shook her head.
“Good.” He rose and walked to the far side of the room where a washbowl rested on a washstand. He removed his frock coat, rolled up the sleeves of his fine white shirt, removed his cravat and poured water from an earthenware pitcher. He carefully lathered his hands with a bayberry scented soap, rinsed them, dumped the soiled water into the pottery receptacle on the floor beneath the stand, an
d refilled the rose-patterned washbowl. Grabbing a clean, folded linen towel from the stand, he carried the bowl and towel to her bedside.
It wasn’t until he dipped the towel into the bowl, wrung it out and leaned over her that she realized he meant to clean her wounds.
“No,” she whispered, lifting one hand as if she could fend him off in her state. “I can do that, really…there’s no need for you to—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He brought the cloth to her cheek. “There’s some dirt, here,” he muttered.
She closed her eyes as he drew the soothing, cool cloth over her face, wiping away the grime and her tears. He had such a gentle touch.
“There,” he said after he had wrung out the cloth and wiped her face again. “Doesn’t that feel better?”
She nodded.
“Good.”
He took one of her hands and opened it in his. The first touch of the wet cloth made the wounds smart, bringing tears to her eyes again, but after a moment, her hand actually felt better. He took his time cleaning one and then the other, and slowly the stinging pain gave way to a strange warmth that seemed to spread from his hands to hers and then through her entire body.
“I don’t think these need to be bandaged, but we’ll see in the morning.” He dropped the cloth into the porcelain washbowl with a splash.
She felt him rise off the bed and opened her eyes to watch him cross the bedchamber, which she now realized was a room in an inn or a hotel. From a small table beside the fireplace he picked up a crystal decanter and poured a dark liquid into a glass. He brought it to her. “Brandy,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her. “It’s all I have. Drink it.”
She lifted her lashes to look at him and said stubbornly, “I don’t want to.”
He pushed the glass into her hands sternly. “Do it anyway. You’ve had a shock. Such things can be worse than physical injuries.”
