Not Quite A Gentleman

relief. “I’m going to apply pressure to it to stop the bleeding. Stay still and relax.”

She remained still, although how she was supposed to relax remained a mystery, and watched him fold over a section of his shirt, which he gently but firmly pressed to the skin beneath her jaw. Holding the material in place with one hand, he turned his attention to the rest of her, examining the scrapes on her palms, then lifting her skirt to gently probe her sore knees. He then ran his hand over her, pressing here and there, asking if this or that hurt. This was an aspect of him she’d never seen-his professional side. His touch was that of a doctor seeing to a patient-tender, skillful and impersonal.

“Nothing serious,” he reported, giving her a reassuring smile. “You’ll be sore for a day or two, but I have some salve that will help.” His gaze shifted to her neck. “Now, let’s take another look at that cut.”

After slowly releasing the pressure, he removed the makeshift bandage. “The bleeding has nearly stopped.” He refolded his shirt then settled the material back against her neck. Taking her hand, he set it on the bandage. “Do you feel strong enough to apply pressure to that?”

“Of course. I’m not the hothouse flower you think I am.” She’d meant to sound firm, but to her mortification her bottom lip quivered and hot moisture pushed behind her eyes, both made worse by the tender smile he gave her.

“My darling Victoria, you are the bravest girl I’ve ever met.”

“I tried to be-”

“You were magnificent.”

A fat tear hovered on her lashes, blurring her vision then dribbling down her cheek. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m not at all a weepy sort of female.” Another tear overflowed and she sniffled. “Really, I’m not.”

He brushed away the moisture with gentle fingers. “I know, sweetheart. You’re a warrior. But even warriors get the sniffles after a tough battle.”

“They do?”

“Absolutely.” And with that, he scooped her up into his arms.

“Wh-What are you doing?”

“Bringing you back to the house.” He started briskly down the path. “Hold on.”

Victoria wrapped her free arm around his neck, her hand settling on his warm, bare skin. “I can walk,” she felt compelled to protest.

“I know. But it makes me feel better to hold you, so humor me. Please.”

“Well, as long as you said ‘please.’” She sighed and snuggled closer to him, resting her cheek against his strong, warm shoulder. Her eyelids drooped, and suddenly she felt as if all her strength evaporated, leaving her exhausted. But not so exhausted that she couldn’t ask, “That man knew you. Did you know him?”

“No.”

“How do you suppose he found out about the letter?”

“I don’t know. And quite frankly, right now I’m more concerned with getting you properly seen to than I am about wondering about the bloody bastard who injured you. We can discuss this after I’ve treated you and you’re safely ensconced by a warm fire. For now, just concentrate on keeping pressure on that cut.”

She vaguely noted his ungentlemanly use of an obscenity, but since she felt so drained, she decided not to take issue with him.

When they arrived at the house, they were greeted by a stunned Langston. After assuring the wide-eyed butler that she wasn’t seriously injured, Nathan said tersely, “I need hot water, clean linen strips, and brandy delivered to my bedchamber immediately.” He then headed up the stairs.

“Your bedchamber?” Victoria said in a scandalized whisper. “You cannot bring me to your bedchamber.”

“The hell I can’t. It’s where my medical supplies are, and I’m not leaving you to fetch them.”

“I would be perfectly fine alone for a few moments.”

“No doubt. But I wouldn’t be. And there’s no point in arguing since we’ve already arrived.”

Nathan dipped his knees to open the door, which he purposely left ajar for propriety’s sake. Not that he cared a jot about propriety, but he didn’t want to cause Victoria any undue stress. Swiftly crossing the blue and maroon Axminster rug, he strode directly to his bed, where he gently lowered her to the counterpane.

“Keep the pressure on just a bit longer,” he said, keeping his features perfectly composed as he touched his fingers to her hand, which held his folded shirt to her neck. His shirt that bore crimson streaks of her blood. “I’m just going to get my medical bag and wash my hands.”

He walked to the ceramic pitcher and basin set in the corner next to the massive cherrywood wardrobe where he’d stored his medical bag. Although he hated to take his eyes off her for even a second, he kept his back to her while he poured water into the basin and scrubbed his hands with soap. God knows he needed a moment to compose himself.

Bloody hell, if he lived to be one hundred he would never forget the sickening sight of her with that knife held to her neck. The only time he’d ever come close to feeling such naked fear was when he found Gordon and Colin shot. And even that didn’t seem to compare with the stark terror he’d experienced watching that madman materialize seemingly from nowhere, detaching himself from the shadows behind her, that flash of lethal steel as he grabbed her. Her blood trailing down her neck to stain her gown.

His fault, damn it, his fault. He’d been too far away to protect her. Why had he let her out of his sight for even an instant? He’d thought she was right behind him. When he turned and discovered she wasn’t, he should have gone back. But he’d seen her in the next instant, walking toward him, and he stood and watched her approach, loving the way she moved. The look of her. And then the shock of that moving shadow-

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to banish the nauseating image. Later. He could dwell on it later, along with the retribution he would hand that bastard when he found him. And he had every intention of finding him. Right now she needed a doctor.

A knock sounded and he turned to see Langston enter carrying a huge tray bearing a basin of steaming water, linen, and brandy. “On the bedside table, Dr. Nathan?”

“Yes.” Drying his hands, Nathan asked, “Where is Lady Delia?”

“In the drawing room with your father.”

“Good. I’ve no wish to alarm them, especially given the nonthreatening nature of Lady Victoria’s injuries. Give me a quarter hour to clean and dress her cuts, then I’ll come down and tell them myself.”

“Yes, Dr. Nathan.” Langston cleared his throat. “You might wish to don a shirt before you do so.”

Nathan looked down at his bare chest, nonplussed. “Good idea. Thank you.”

With a nod, the butler quit the room, leaving the door ajar. Nathan opened the wardrobe, grabbed his medical bag in one hand and a folded, clean shirt with the other, then crossed to the bed. He looked down at Victoria’s pale face, and his chest constricted at the sight. Summoning his professional mien, he set his medical bag on the floor next to the bed and offered her his best doctorly smile.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, shrugging into his shirt.

“A bit sore,” she admitted with a wan smile. “Thirsty.”

After hastily tucking in his shirttails, he poured her a generous finger of brandy. Hoisting a hip onto the edge of the bed, he held the glass to her lips. “Sip this.”

She obediently sipped, then wrinkled her nose. “Blech. That is absolutely wretched.”

“Actually, given my father’s taste in brandy and the fact that I, um, found numerous cases of Napoleon’s finest, I suspect it’s really excellent brandy.”

She raised a brow. “Found? Where does one find cases of French brandy?”

He shrugged and adopted his most innocent expression. “Oh, here and there,”

“Hmmm. Well, if this is the finest Napoleon could do, no wonder he was exiled.”

A laugh rumbled in Nathan’s throat, a welcome relief from the tension gripping him. “It may not be to your taste, but it will help relieve your aches and pains, so sip.”

She shot him a potent glare, but obeyed. When the glass was empty, she said, “That vile stuff will burn a hole in my stomach.”

“How lucky that I’m a doctor and can cure you.”

“You‘re the one who caused the problem by making me drink it.”