“Where is she?”
“My lord,” Tristan began, trying to calm the man who had burst into the foyer shortly after the clock chimed midnight. One of Rafe’s men who was on watch outside had halted him until Tristan could be found. Fortunately he’d yet to retire, but instead had been enjoying whiskey in the library.
“Where is she?” Lord Winslow bellowed. “Mary!”
“Easy, my lord.”
Winslow glared at him. “Do you know what you’ve done to her? You and your damned brother? You’ve ruined her.”
“He had nothing to do with it,” a soft voice called down.
Tristan glanced up the stairs to see Mary standing on the landing. When he looked back at Winslow, the man’s face was so ruddy with anger that he feared he might have an apoplexy fit. “It’s not what you think, my lord.”
“She’s dressed like a servant . . . coming from the bedchambers,” he stammered.
She might be dressed like one, but she came down the stairs with such regal bearing that she’d never be confused for one. She’d pulled back her hair into a braid. It was a style familiar to him. She’d worn it often when she came to visit Pembrook but she certainly no longer looked like a child.
“You will come home with me this instant,” her father ground out.
“No. Sebastian is fighting a fever. Until it is gone, I will remain here.”
“You will defy me?”
“I have no choice.”
“They can hire a nursemaid.”
Slowly, regretfully, she shook her head. “No.”
“Fitzwilliam will not tolerate this blemish on your character or this—all night in a bachelor’s residence.”
“How did you know where I was?”
“I was at the club. Fitzwilliam was there. Said he sent regrets to the Morelands. He wasn’t of a mood to attend their affair with you at home nursing a headache. A headache. Of all things. You’ve never suffered so much as a sniffle. When I returned home and discovered you were not about, I confronted the carriage driver. He confessed to bringing you here. What sort of madness is this? Without your reputation, you have nothing.”
She stepped forward and touched his cheek. “I saved Sebastian once before. I can do it again.”
Winslow glared at Tristan. Tristan merely shrugged. “I tried to convince her to leave, my lord. She’s rather set on staying. One of the female servants is with her. I can send them all up if it’ll put your mind at ease. We owe her our lives. We would never take advantage of Mary.”
“It doesn’t matter if you do or not. The gossips will have a field day with this.”
“I’ll explain to Fitzwilliam,” Mary offered. “He’ll understand.”
“Don’t count on it, my girl. And then what? No other man will have you. Men do not fancy spoiled goods.”
“She’s not spoiled,” Tristan ground out.
“In the eyes of Society she will be.”
“Only if you say anything,” Mary said quietly. “If you back my story that I was abed with a migraine, no one need know differently.”
Tristan watched Lord Winslow struggle with his decision. He could only hope he never had any daughters. They appeared to be a great deal of bother.
Finally, Winslow nodded. “The matter of your presence here is to stay between us. I’ll have your word on that, Lord Tristan.”
“You have it.”
“All right then. When you can return home, Mary, you do so by cover of night.”
Instead of answering, she stepped forward, hugged her father, and whispered, “Thank you.”
Then she was scampering back up the stairs to care for her patient.
“She’s a brave girl, Winslow,” Tristan said somberly.
“That will be little consolation, my lord, if word of her presence here does get out.”
His arm was dead. Yet he would not move because to do so would be to awaken her.
She was in a precarious position much worse than a kiss in a garden. She was in his bed, her head nestled on his shoulder, and although he couldn’t quite feel it, he knew his arm held her near. It didn’t matter that she was fully clothed.
She was in his bed.
How long had she been here? How long had the fever raged? His side ached, was tender. He remembered fleeting images: the physician, Tristan. Rafe. Briefly. Once. Don’t you dare leave me again. Or was that a dream? Mary. Cool water trickling down his throat. Cool cloth on his brow. Gentle reassurances, soft voice. Mary’s voice. Always Mary. Tender touches. Mary. Encouragement. Mary. Awful-tasting broth. Mary. The fading scent of orchids. Mary.
Her hair had escaped the ribbon she’d been using to hold it back while she nursed him. So thick. So curly. However did she manage to pile it all on her head as she did? With the arm that still had feeling, he sifted his fingers through the strands that appeared to be coarse but felt like silk. Just like that night when he’d thrust his hand into her hair, thrust his tongue into her mouth. Barbarian. For a few moments, lost in her, he’d been able to leave behind the decisions that haunted him, the scars that marred—
With a jerk, he touched his face. Dammit! Where was the patch?
He twisted. On the far table. He couldn’t reach it, pinned beneath her weight as he was.
She moaned, sighed, and he realized that his movements had disturbed her. Thank God, she was nestled on his good side. He could save her the grotesqueness. Although it was a bit late to spare her completely.
She lifted her head, squinted. “Relax. That side is in shadow.”
Her voice was that of a woman roused from slumber, and something in his belly tightened as he imagined her rousing from slumber after a night of passionate lovemaking.
A night with Fitzwilliam.
If her reputation weren’t completely tarnished. Again, he had to wonder how long she’d been here.
She stretched, a slow, sinuous movement that thrust out her breasts and challenged the buttons of her bodice to remain secured. Unfortunately they met the challenge splendidly.
Where had that thought come from? This was Mary. Friend, advisor, nurse. Woman. It was the last that unsettled him. Every time he saw her, he was reminded that she’d grown up, but here in his bedchamber he was well aware that they’d both grown up. The games they could play now were not innocent, would not result in giggles and laughter. Rather they would include long moans and deep groans—
The blood rushing into his arm caused painful pinpricks that brought his thoughts round to where they should have remained. “Your hair is a mess.”
She laughed lightly, clearly not offended by his critical assessment. “I got caught in the rain coming here. I did little more than dry it which means it had its way. It takes much work to keep it tamed.”
“I like it wild.”
She stilled, her breathing shallow, her gaze on his as though he’d given her an uncommon compliment. She slid off the bed, and he could see her more clearly now. She wore a ghastly black dress that made her look like a crow.
“Anticipating going into mourning over my death?” he asked lightly.
She smiled again, although not as brightly. “I knew you wouldn’t die. I wouldn’t let you.”
Just as she’d refused to stand by while his uncle plotted his death.
“You’re feeling better. I was so relieved when your fever broke last night,” she said.
“How long?”
“Three nights.”
“You’ve been here the entire time?”
She nodded. “Father knows I’m here. He’s not happy about it.”
“I would think not.”
She gave him a scowl. “But he’ll do what he can to keep my whereabouts a secret. Tristan threatened the servants with dismissal if one of them spoke of anything that transpired within the residence. He can be quite intimidating.”
“He should have intimidated you into leaving.”
She grinned. “He tried.” Her smile diminished. “I couldn’t bear not being here while you suffered. I wish I’d been there for all your suffering.”
She blinked rapidly, and he knew she was on the verge of weeping, bravely fighting it off because she knew he abhorred tears. He wanted to tell her that he was glad she hadn’t been there. It would have only made things worse because he would have worried about her. Just as he worried now. Three nights. Her reputation would no doubt be in shreds.
“How will your father explain your absence?” What was wrong with his voice? Why did it sound accusing?
“Not to worry, Keswick. I’m not your responsibility. I shall send in your valet to tidy you up and have your cook send up a tray. Rest and regain your strength. I fear your uncle is not done with you yet.”
She turned to leave.
He pushed himself up, swung his legs off the bed, and realized he wasn’t dressed for company. He wasn’t dressed at all. He clutched a sheet to his waist. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
She looked back at him as though he’d said the silliest thing she’d ever heard. “Remain my friend.”
Did she think there was any way in hell that he wouldn’t? That he couldn’t? Besides his brothers, there was no one he cared for more. But even as he thought it, he realized that his feelings for her now were not what they’d once been. He wasn’t quite sure what they were. He’d gone swimming with her as a child and not given much thought to her undergarments clinging to her body. Now he would give it a great deal of thought. Would notice the shadows that tempted a man, that tempted him.
“Always,” he rasped so low that he wasn’t even certain if she heard him.
“I’ll see to your comforts. Then I must return home.”
Don’t go, hovered on the tip of his tongue but he bit it back. He would not show weakness, could not rely on anyone. That he already had far too much angered him. He needed to regain his strength and return to Pembrook.
In London he was doing little more than ruining Mary’s reputation. He needed to distance himself from her. Maybe then he would stop hurting her.