He sprinkled basilicum powder liberally over her side and bandaged her tightly, layer after layer of the soft linen firm against around her waist and flank. He straightened and gazed down at her. “If I am to have the care of you, Miss Rolland,” he said to her, “it’s time you were out of your man’s clothes and into a man’s nightshirt.”
He fetched a long white linen nightshirt, exquisitely hemmed by his great-aunt Agnes, and with gentle efficiency stripped off her bloodied shirt. He tugged carefully at the laces on the chemise and snipped the straps with a pair of scissors. Once free of the tight garment, her breasts seemed to swell and round. He found himself wanting to smooth away the sharp lines that the tight laces had cut into her breasts. He frowned at himself. They were just breasts, just like the breasts he’d seen on so many other women in his life.
He pulled off her hessians, stockings, and finally her breeches. Wise of her not to wear tight-knitted pantaloons, he thought fleetingly holding the loose buckskins in his hands. Though her legs were long and slender and her hips rather boyish, anything but the loosest of breeches would surely have given her away. He found himself comparing her body to Melissande’s, realized what he was doing, and quickly slipped the nightshirt over her head. He smoothed it to her knees, then pulled the cover over her, bringing it just short of her chin.
After building up the fire, he pulled a large leather chair close to the bedside, sat himself down and prepared to wait. He looked up at the ormolu clock on the night table and saw with a start that it was but eleven o’clock in the morning. It was hard to believe that in just under four hours he had nearly lost his life, discovered that his opponent was a woman, and had decided to take sole charge of her care. He made a steeple with his fingers and tapped the tips thoughtfully together. What the devil was she going to do when she woke up and found the man she hated taking care of her? He couldn’t begin to imagine. However, she could have killed him, but she hadn’t. Why? It went over and over in his mind, he couldn’t seem to stop it. Well, he would know soon enough. When she awakened. If she awakened.
He wanted her awake. He wanted to look at her and know it was a woman he was looking at and not a young gentleman.
Chapter Twenty-six
Hetty lay some minutes in half consciousness before she opened her eyes. In those few precious moments before her mind told her that all wasn’t well with her body, she looked about her, her thoughts clear and alert. She saw herself, foil in hand, jumping suddenly forward, catching Lord Oberlon’s blade at its base. She felt the shattering impact as his foil whirled from his hand to the ground. She clearly saw herself standing in front of him, her arm extended its full length, the tip of her blade against his chest. She saw his face, the clear darkness of his eyes, she felt the fearlessness in him, the odd questioning, though he’d said nothing. He’d waited, not moving. Why? She gasped, remembering how she couldn’t bring herself to be his executioner.
“Hello,” came a deep familiar voice from just beside her. She turned her head ever so slightly. He was leaning over her, his dark eyes intent on her face. He was whole and she wasn’t. Surely there was no justice in that. But why was he here? What the devil was going on?
“You? Can it truly be you? I don’t understand.”
“How do you feel? Can you see me?”
“Dear God, I must be dead and in hell since you’re here. Why are you here? That makes no sense. I wanted to kill you.” Without warning, pain that she’d never imagined pierced through her side. She cried out against it, her arms hugging herself, but it didn’t help.
“I know your pain is great. I’ll try to help you.” She heard his words, yet her mind refused to let her understand them. Her eyes were clouding and in but an instant he blurred into the shadows.
“No, dammit, no. I don’t want to lose to you, no.” She tried desperately to keep control, but it was slipping from her and there was nothing she could do about it. She flung out her hand to ward off the pain that was deep inside her, to ward him away from her. She felt strong fingers close over her hand.
The pain intensified. Her back arched. She twisted sideways, anything to lessen the agony that was making her an animal, without thought, without intelligence, without control. He was lifting her, tilting her head back. His voice was quiet and soothing, the sounds just that, sounds, with no meaning to her. Her mouth was forced open, and she choked on bitter-tasting liquid. She struggled against him. She hated him touching her. Was he forcing poison down her throat? She tried to fight him but the pain was too great and she was too weak. He was holding her very firmly, and she hated it, but she could do nothing about it. She hit at him, but he didn’t move, didn’t release her or loosen his hold on her. On and on it went. She was crying, knowing that it was so because she tasted her tears in her mouth, salty and hot. The arms went suddenly about her shoulders, pressing her firmly onto her back and holding her there so that she couldn’t move against the pain. She tried to draw her knees up to somehow ease the ferocious burning that was ripping through her side. But there was a weight on her
