Chapter 15

His mother would be furious if she knew he’d left a house full of people to see to the maintenance needs of one of his tenants. Whether she’d be more worried about him leaving his guests to amuse themselves or them discovering he was doing menial labor would be a tight race, but he needed the space, the air, and the physical activity to sort through the ramifications of what he was thinking, what he was feeling.

Was he really going to start over on his search for a wife? And if he was, did his mother really think the women who’d frolicked through his music room last night were the best options?

Miss Breckenridge came to mind, the way she’d stood beside him in the gallery, trying to take away his loneliness or at least give him hope that it could be better.

He pounded the thoughts away with his hammer, determined to think about it later. Right now all that mattered was the fact that Mrs. Ingham would have a tough time feeding her three boys next time it rained if there was a gaping hole in the roof of her kitchen. He stripped the thatch away from the edges of the hole that had formed around the chimney and set about laying in and nailing new ribs. It wasn’t the best work he’d ever done, since he wasn’t about to rip the whole roof off and re-rib it, but it would keep the kitchen dry, and that was all Mrs. Ingham and her boys needed.

The sun was high in the sky, beating down upon his neck and back, which were poorly protected from the heat by the white lawn shirt he wore. The steady crack of pounding nails kept him engaged in what he was doing, even as his mind wandered.

As he reached for the first bundle of thatching, he asked himself the question, if not Miss St. Claire, then who? Immediately images of Miss Breckenridge swam into his mind. Again. Her enthusiasm over the bark of a tree. Her homesickness. Her good humor about playing the pianoforte despite the fact that she was without question not the most accomplished player in the room.

He jabbed the second bundle of thatching into the hole and nearly lost his balance as the ladder under his left foot shifted. It had been foolish to climb atop a thatched roof without building a proper scaffold, but the leak was small. He only needed to thread three more bundles into place and the riskiest of the work would be done.

The last bundle was a tight fit, as it should be. He placed both hands on the thatching needle and shoved the bound end of the reeds into place.

And pushed his ladder out of place.

Falling straight onto the roof would have caused a disaster larger than the original leak, so he pushed off with the leg braced against the chimney and threw himself onto the unstable ladder, wrapping his arms tightly around the upper rungs. The disaster that could have caused didn’t occur to him until he’d already done it, and panic seized his muscles until the ladder rocked back against the overhang of the house, smashing his left arm into the thatching needle he still held in his right hand.

The hook that moments ago had efficiently stabbed the bundles of reeds into place now worked its way through his shirt and into his arm with fiery agony. Griffith instinctively pushed away from it, forgetting that he really had nowhere to go but down. And down he went, his ribs and shoulder banging into the rungs of the ladder and his thatching needle catching everything in its path until Griffith thought his entire arm had been slashed into ribbons.

Slamming into the ground was almost a relief.

Over his own groan of pain he heard a shout and the pounding of running feet. Air hissed through his teeth as he tried to comprehend what had just happened and assess the damage so he could decide what to do next.

The damage was that his arm hurt.

A lot.

“Your Grace! Your Grace!” The light feminine voice didn’t seem right. Mrs. Ingham’s voice had an odd catch to it. The result of years of hard work and cooking over an open fire.

After taking two more deep breaths, which only served to point out how many things other than his arm were currently sore, he managed to open one eye and decided he’d apparently hit his head along with everything else—because he thought he was looking straight into the face of Miss Isabella Breckenridge.

When Mrs. Ingham’s lined and craggy face pushed into his vision as well, he decided Miss Breckenridge was real, because Griffith didn’t want to think about how addlebrained he’d have to be to choose to imagine Mrs. Ingham.

Long-fingered hands encased in soft gloves slid against his temples and cupped his face. “Your Grace?”

“I believe”—Griffith paused to cough as his lungs reaccustomed themselves to having air in them—“under the circumstances you could call me Riverton.”

Crooked white teeth sank into her lower lip, making Griffith want to grin. It was nice to know everything about his angel wasn’t perfect. His angel? Despite the blistering pain, and really even because of it, he knew he wasn’t dead. Although when he did die, if the angels weren’t at least as beautiful as Miss Breckenridge, he was going to be disappointed.

And great blazes, his arm hurt.

Mrs. Ingham whipped off her apron and pressed it against his arm, making Griffith yell out in pain. The older woman ignored his yelp and wrapped her hands tightly around his arm. “Unless you want old Bessie using her tongue to clean you up, you’re going to have to help us here, Your Grace. We need to get you inside.”

Isabella wasn’t sure she took another breath until they’d managed to maneuver the duke into the small cottage, groaning and hissing the entire way. Already the bunched-up apron was showing red. If they didn’t stop the bleeding soon, the duke would be in trouble.

They took him to the large, rough wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. But instead of laying atop it, Riverton dropped onto the bench that ran beside the long end of the table. He propped his injured arm on the table and took three steadying breaths.

Isabella bit her lip as she leaned over and pressed the now-ruined apron to the wound. “You’re going to need stitches.”

Riverton nodded, his face looking dangerously white.

“We’ll need to clean it first.”

He nodded again, the tendons in his neck becoming more prevalent as his jaw tightened.

Mrs. Ingham, who’d introduced herself as they’d led Riverton into the house, brought out a nearly full bottle of whisky. “I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to, Your Grace, but the boys say it’s the best in the village.”

The frown that darkened the duke’s pale face told Isabella he wasn’t about to take a swig from that bottle. Did he think himself too good for his tenant’s whisky? Considering that mere moments ago he’d been crawling around on the same tenant’s roof, his reluctance didn’t make sense.

Isabella stepped forward. “I’ll take that, Mrs. Ingham. Do you have a needle and some thread? I believe we’re managing the bleeding right now, but it won’t work for long, and we certainly won’t be able to move him.”

She took the bottle as Mrs. Ingham scurried into the bedroom.

Riverton wrapped his hand around hers. “Miss Breckenridge, if you intend to stick a needle into my flesh, I prefer you do so in complete control of your faculties.”

The heat in his gaze and the burn of his hand on hers distracted her more than a finger of the whisky would have. Isabella swallowed hard and yanked her hand and the bottle from his grasp. “It’s to cleanse the wound. I’ve no intention of drinking it. Though you should rethink your decision not to take a swallow or two. This is going to hurt. A lot. I’ve heard the whisky helps.”

One dark blond eyebrow lifted, the arrogant expression at odds with the pain-induced pallor and tension in his face. “You’ve done this before, then?”

“Twice.”

He continued to stare at her in silence.

“And both of them survived.” Her father’s arm and her brother Thomas’s leg didn’t wear the prettiest-looking scars, but both had healed without problem or infection.

Mrs. Ingham entered with her sewing box and set it on the table before wringing her hands, anxiety obvious in every move she made. It couldn’t be easy having a peer of the realm bleed all over your kitchen.

One large hand reached toward the whisky bottle once more, but this time the fingers wrapped around the neck and brought the cork to his mouth. Strong, even teeth bit into the cork as he yanked the bottle with a twist to pull the cork from the top with a loud pop. He spat the cork onto the table before extending the bottle in her direction and placing it on the table. “Let us hope I do the same, then.”

Isabella swallowed hard as she lifted the red-stained cloth and took in the long, straight line of the cut. It wasn’t too deep, but the length was concerning, and the flesh was gaping. Flakes of leaves and bark stuck to the bloodied flesh. Even the torn shirt edges appeared embedded in the wound. “I should probably flush this with water first if we don’t want to use up all her whisky.”

The duke gritted his teeth. “Fine,” he growled. He nodded to a bucket on the hearth. “I hauled that up for her before I got on the roof.”

Mrs. Ingham looked relieved to have something to do as she scooped a bowl from the table and ran to the bucket. Water sloshed over the edges as she brought the bowl to Isabella.

Isabella took a deep breath, letting her gaze connect with the duke’s. He gave her a slight nod, and she tipped the bowl.

Griffith told himself not to watch the rush of clear water flood the wound, blending with the blood and dirt to soak his shirt sleeve and then run off, becoming a murky puddle seeping through the cracks in the old house’s floorboards, but he couldn’t look away, as if watching it happen would somehow give him a measure of control over the situation.

He had the vague thought that they should have done this outside, and then the shrieking pain stabbed him in the back of the neck. The shout ripped from his chest, and some corner of his brain was absolutely convinced that she had just ripped his arm from his body.

And that was just the water.

As his chest heaved, trying to breathe enough to work through the pain, he opened his eyes to stare at the whisky bottle. How much worse was that going to hurt? It would feel like she was cleansing the wound with a fiery knife.

“I’m so sorry, but you have to relax.”

Soft fingers smoothed along his shoulder, and the sweet words seemed to burrow their way through the blood rushing through his ears.

“When you get tense it makes you bleed more.”

The pain was draining down to a more tolerable level, but he knew it wouldn’t last. He wouldn’t last.

“Don’t let me do anything foolish,” he whispered before tilting the bottle of whisky to his lips and taking four long draws, trying to pour the liquid down his throat before he could taste it.

He slammed the bottle back on the table, the level of amber liquid sloshing around visibly lower, and both Miss Breckenridge and Mrs. Ingham rushed to catch the bottle before he slid it across the table.

Fire ate through his mouth, throat, and belly. What had he done? He’d let them convince him to poison himself. Even breathing seemed to hurt as the air hit the back of his tortured throat.

Miss Breckenridge gave a little cough to clear her throat. “Well, that should do the trick.”

“It will take a few moments to have an effect.” Mrs. Ingham wrung her hands some more.

Griffith hated what he was putting the poor woman through, and he hadn’t even managed to finish fixing her roof.

The burning was subsiding, leaving a pleasant warmth in its wake. If port created a similar sort of warmth, perhaps he should reconsider his stance on the common after-dinner drink. There was something agreeable about the glow in the pit of his stomach.

Unfortunately he didn’t think it was going to have any effect on the pain in his arm. He didn’t feel any different, other than knowing he’d ripped up his insides with the quick swallows of liquid fire.

And it smelled odd.

He stuck his hand in front of his face and gave a heavy openmouthed exhale. The pungent smell of alcohol made his nose wrinkle in disgust.

A light snicker drew his attention to the lovely Miss Breckenridge. Isabella, standing at his side, clutching the bottle of whisky and waiting to stitch him up and make him whole again.

Her eyes widened, and Griffith suddenly realized he’d made that observation out loud. What was he thinking? He shouldn’t be telling her she was lovely. Every other man in Britain was telling her how beautiful she was.

“I think the whisky’s having an effect.” Isabella’s smile was tight as her amusement seemed to war with her concern. She looked at the wound with a frown and then traded the bottle of whisky for a pair of wicked-looking scissors, which she used to attack his sleeve. Worry and concentration worked deep grooves into her forehead.

“You shouldn’t worry.” Griffith blinked. It had taken him longer than it should have to say shouldn’t. Shhhhouldn’t.

“Why not?” Isabella exchanged the scissors for the bottle and held it up to his wound. Taking a deep breath, she tipped it to send a river of amber liquid over the same path the water had taken moments ago.

Air hissed between Griffith’s teeth again as pain lanced through his chest once more, angling off to travel all the way to his toes, making his foot stomp on the floor in protest.

“That hurt!”

A small smile touched her lips as she poured some more of the drink over the needle and thread she’d selected from Mrs. Ingham’s sewing box. “Yes, but you didn’t tense up again, so I think that’s progress.”

“I didn’t?” Griffith frowned at his arm. She’d better not sew any of those hairs into the wound when she stitched him up. “Must be because you’re an angel.”

“An angel, am I?”

“Yes. An angel sent to test me. My very own thorny temptation.”

Isabella frowned as she lined the needle up with the wound. “I’m no danger to you, Your Grace.”

The tip of the needle sank into his skin and it hurt, but he didn’t care. Suddenly the only thing that mattered was that Isabella come to understand what she did to him and explain how he could make it stop. It was a foolish conversation that he would sorely regret in the morning, but even one more second of holding it in would cause him great agitation.

Which might cause problems with the helpful work Isabella was trying to do with precision.

“You threaten everything. I had a plan, and you keep getting in the way of it.”

She gave him a quick glance before devoting her attention back to his arm.

He stared at her face. It was much more interesting than watching his arm. Besides, he could feel every pierce of the needle and the slow pull of the thread. He didn’t need to watch it too.

“I was going to marry Frederica.”

She cleared her throat. “I don’t think she’s very interested in that.”

He shrugged, making her squeal before giving him a sharp reprimand to be still. She was charming when she was frustrated.

“I am not charming. I’m trying to save you from bleeding to death.”

Griffith frowned. He must have made his observation out loud. Again. Funny how he didn’t remember actually speaking the words. He brought his free hand up to his jaw to see if it was still moving without his consent. It wasn’t. He kept his hand close to make sure that his next sentence actually came out.

“I can’t. I didn’t know that before, but I can’t.”

She frowned, adding an adorable wrinkle between her eyebrows, just above the straight, narrow nose. “Can’t what?”

“Marry Frederica.”

“Yes, we’ve established that,” she mumbled.

Now it was Griffith’s turn to frown. Weren’t women supposed to be insanely curious about things of a personal nature? Not that he wanted her to gossip about his plans, but shouldn’t she want to know so that she could gossip about them? “Don’t you want to know why?”

“Other than the fact that Freddie doesn’t want to marry you, no, I don’t particularly care for your reasons to drop your suit.” She paused with the needle poised just above his arm. Her wide-eyed gaze jerked to meet his. “Only you shouldn’t drop your suit just yet.”

Griffith looked at the whisky bottle, the edges of which were the slightest bit blurry. Had she drunk some of the stuff too? Or was it simply his inebriated state making her difficult to understand? This was why he didn’t drink. Although he probably should consider doing it more often, because he hadn’t realized just how important Isabella’s opinion was before. How could he have missed that while sober? “It doesn’t matter if she changes her mind. I can’t marry her. Not anymore.”

“She doesn’t want to change her mind. But you can’t stop coming by the house yet.”

Griffith narrowed his eyes, trying to make the features of her lovely face become clear again. “Why not? Are you hoping my attentions will shift to you?”

Isabella nearly dropped the needle. For a moment, but only a moment, she allowed herself to entertain the idea that a man such as the duke would be truly interested in her. It wasn’t his title so much as what she’d seen him do with it. He was arrogant, yes, but not condescending. His status was very important to him, but mostly because of the power it gave him to change the world for the better or at least try to. He was a good, kind, honorable man who fixed roofs for widows.

Which was why he should never want to have anything to do with her.

She poked the needle into his arm again. “I assure you that I harbor no intentions of trying to secure your attentions.”

He snorted. “Intentions, attentions. They rhyme.”

Her answering grin was on her face before she’d even realized he’d inspired one. She quickly sucked in her cheeks to regain her composure.

“You already have, you know.”

She was only halfway done sealing the long gash in his arm, and if sewing a duke’s flesh wasn’t uncomfortable enough, the frank conversation they were having was positively excruciating. “Have what?”

“Gained my attention. I’m curious about you.” Riverton leaned over his braced, injured arm and peered closely at her face. “You don’t make sense. And I like things in my world to make sense.”

She cleared her throat. “I assure you, I’m nothing out of the ordinary.”

The bark of laughter sent him leaning back, nearly pulling the needle from her fingers. “If only every girl were as ordinary as you. Even your hair is extraordinary. Did you know it changes color? It does. It looks nearly blond in the candlelit ballrooms, but when we walk outside, the sun burns it away and it looks almost red. How do you do that? I’m sure many scientists would be fascinated to know.”

“I don’t . . . Well, that is I—”

“And your eyes. Have you seen your eyes? Of course you haven’t. Not in person. A looking glass couldn’t possibly do them justice. They pierce me. I want to drown in them. I have a lake near my home that exact shade of blue. I had a rowboat when I was a kid, and I would row across to pick strawberries. That’s you, you know. I wish to row across your eyes and pick strawberries from your hair.”

She tried not to laugh. Truly she did. But her shoulders were trembling so much with her contained mirth that she had to pause her ministrations. Only an inch or so left to go and she could see to getting the duke back to the house. A deep breath in helped to settle her composure. But then he started talking again.

“I love watching you dance. No one else moves the way you do. Is it because you grew up near Scotland? Do you know the Scottish dances? I’m amazed when I watch Scottish people dance. So much life and energy. I want to dance with you.”

Her needle froze for an entirely different reason, as she couldn’t help herself from connecting her gaze with his once more. He wanted to dance with her? “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am.” The duke tilted his head and looked at the half-full bottle of whisky. With a frown he lifted it to his lips and took another long pull before slamming the bottle back onto the table. “Gah! That is disgusting. Works, though. I couldn’t care less what you’re doing to my arm. Are you sewing it to my shirt?”

He turned his head to stare at his arm, and his intense glare pulled another chuckle from her lips as she set about knotting off her string.

“No, I haven’t sewn you to your shirt. We cut the sleeve away, remember?”

“Ah, yes. So we did.”

He became blessedly silent while she finished. Mrs. Ingham fluttered nervously nearby but never offered assistance. What must she think of the conversation they were having? Was she of a mind to tell everyone? If it got back to the house party, her uncle would have her sent back to Northumberland in utter ruin before the sun set.

“I believe that does it. You’ll have to be careful not to strain it, though. It’s quite a long gash. I doubt it would take much to make it bleed again.” Even now blood was welling against her stitches, forming a dark red crust against the neat little lines. “We should bandage it.”

“I have a clean sheet.” Mrs. Ingham scurried from the room once more and brought the sheet out, already tearing the rough muslin into strips.

“Thank you.” Isabella took a wide strip and began wrapping it around the duke’s arm. “I’m sure the duke will replace it.”

“’Course I will.” He swung his right arm in the direction of the whisky bottle, nearly sending it rolling across the table again. “This stuff too.” He frowned. “Didn’t I tell you to call me Riverton? Now that you’ve stitched me up you might as well call me Griffith. You’ve earned it.”

He waved an arm in Mrs. Ingham’s direction. “And your roof. I didn’t finish the roof.” He looked up at Isabella, snaring her in his green gaze. “Are we finished?”

She knotted the bandage and stepped back with arms spread wide. “Finished. Now the question is how to get you back to the house.”

“I ride, of course.” He pushed up from the table, took one step toward the door . . .

And fell.