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Chapter Eight
After dismissing hermaid, Attie finished brushing her hair and climbed into bed.
It had been a long day. After the surgeon arrived, he’d shooed the rest of the company out of the bedchamber, instructing Devon to take care of Delilah with the assistance of a bottle of whisky. Attie had smiled at the expression on her sister-in-law’s face as she tried to argue, but eventually, she relented, and Devon had shepherded her downstairs to soften her sharp tongue with liquor.
The surgeon had needed to reset Fraser’s bones, and he’d asked Attie to assist, having already heard of her medical abilities from Delilah. Unlike the surgeons of London who still frowned at the notion of a woman undertaking a doctor’s duties, he’d appreciated her help.
The door opened and closed, and the bed shifted as Devon climbed in beside her, and she caught the smoky aroma of whisky.
“How’s the patient?” he asked.
“He’ll be confined to a chair for at least a month,” she said.
“I thought as much. Delilah was beside herself with worry.”
“She hides it well,” Attie said. “So does Fraser—he must have been in a great deal of pain, but he hardly made a sound when we reset his leg.”
His arm slid around her waist, and she relaxed, molding herself against his body.
“Lilah’s asked us to stay until he’s recovered,” he said. “She had some foolish idea that I could run the estate—as ifI’dbe of use! But you needn’t worry, I made our excuses.”
Attie took his hand and caressed it. His voice, in the dark, laden with hopelessness, tore at her heart.
“There’s much you can do,” she said. “You’re brave and kind and not without sense. Delilah’s right. She’ll need a lot of help. And I can take care of Fraser—someone will have to tend to his leg. Can you imagine Delilah confined to a sickroom for a month when she’s got baby Maighread to look after as well? I love Delilah, but we both know domesticity doesn’t suit her.”
“You know my sister well.”
“I do,” she said, “and I knowyoueven better, my love. I can admit your capabilities, even if you cannot. And we both know you’re not one to let a plea for help go unanswered.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” He placed a kiss on her earlobe, and she shivered with anticipation as his warm breath caressed the skin of her neck.
Voices rumbled in the distance—a soft, female voice, followed by the unmistakable deep tones of a man. Dorothea and Griffin had been married just over a year and a half, but they behaved like newlyweds, that first flush of passion yet to abate. The voices rose in a crescendo until twin cries exploded through the air.
“Devon…”
She tipped her head back, and he peppered her skin with kisses. His hand slipped to her breast, igniting a fizz of passion as her nipple beaded against his palm.
She arched her back in offering, and he froze.
“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered. His hand withdrew, and he rolled away, and a shiver of cold ran across her skin.
He lay on his back, his profile silhouetted against the window, eyes glinting in the moonlight.
“Devon?”
She placed a hand on his skin and moved it across his chest until she felt his heartbeat against her palm.
“My love…”
She climbed on top of him and straddled his body. His breath caught, and he closed his eyes. Then she lowered her head and claimed his lips. Cradling his face in her hands, she caressed the edge of his scar with her fingertips, then peppered the scar with soft kisses.
“My beautiful husband…” she whispered.
He turned his face to one side.
“Devon?”
“I-I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t…I just can’t. Not tonight.”
