Cold-Hearted Rake

“Tell me how Lord Trenear is,” she demanded.

“As soon as I can.” Weeks climbed into the carriage.

Kathleen clenched every muscle in the effort to be patient. She bit her lower lip until it throbbed.

A half minute later, the doctor’s voice emerged with a new note of urgency. “We will remove Mr. Winterborne first. I need a strong fellow to help, immediately.”

“Peter,” Sims directed, and the footman hastened to comply.

What about Devon? Kathleen was maddened with worry. She tried to look into the carriage, but she couldn’t see anything with the doctor and footman blocking the way. “Dr. Weeks —”

“In a moment, my lady.”

“Yes, but —” She fell back a step as a large, dark, shape clambered from the carriage.

It was Devon, ragged and nearly unrecognizable. He had heard her voice.

“Lord Trenear,” came the doctor’s terse command, “do not exert yourself. I will see to you as soon as I assist your friend.”

Devon ignored him, staggering as his feet reached the ground. He clutched the edge of the door opening to keep from falling. He was filthy and battered from head to toe, his shirt wet and bloodstained. But as Kathleen looked over him frantically, she saw with relief there were no missing limbs, no gaping wounds. He was in one piece.

His disoriented gaze found hers in a blaze of unholy blue, and his lips shaped her name.

Kathleen reached him in two strides, and he seized her roughly. One hand clutched the mass of coiled braids at the back of her head in a grip that hurt. A quiet groan vibrated in his throat, and he ground his mouth over hers in a punishing kiss, heedless of anyone who saw them. His body shuddered, his balance ramshackle, and she stiffened her legs to support him.

“You shouldn’t be standing,” she said unsteadily. “Let me help you – we’ll sit on the ground – Devon, please —”

But he wasn’t listening at all. With a primitive, impassioned grunt, he turned and pushed her against the side of the carriage and kissed her again. Even hurt and exhausted, he was unbelievably strong. His mouth took hers with bruising force, stopping only when he had to gasp for air. Over his shoulder, Kathleen saw Mrs. Church and a pair of footmen coming to them with a stretcher.

“Devon,” she begged, “you must lie down – there’s a stretcher right here. They have to bring you into the house. I’ll stay with you, I promise.”

He was motionless except for the violent shivers that ran through his frame.

“Darling,” Kathleen whispered near his ear with anguished worry, “please let go of me.”

He responded with an indecipherable sound, his arms cinching harder around her… and he began to fall as he lost consciousness.

Thankfully, the footmen were right there to grab Devon before he crushed Kathleen under his solid weight. As they pulled him away from her and lowered him to the stretcher, her dazed brain comprehended the word he’d said.

Never.

Chapter 18

During the process of settling Devon onto the stretcher, the hem of his wet shirt rode up. Kathleen and Mrs. Church gasped simultaneously as they saw a hideous purple-black bruise the size of a dinner plate, spreading across the left side of his rib cage and chest.

Kathleen blanched as she thought of the blunt force it had taken to cause such an injury. Surely he must have broken ribs. Desperately she wondered if one of his lungs might have collapsed. Carefully she bent to arrange one of his sprawled arms against his side. How shocking it was to see a man of his vitality lying there so limp and still.

Mrs. Church settled a blanket over him and told the footmen, “Take him up to the master bedroom. Softly… no jostling. Treat him as if he were a newborn babe.”

After counting in unison, the footmen lifted the stretcher. “A babe that weighs fourteen stone,” one of them grunted.

Mrs. Church tried to look stern, but the corners of her eyes crinkled briefly. “Mind your tongue, David.”

Kathleen followed behind the footmen, swiping impatiently at the film of tears over her eyes.

Walking beside her, the housekeeper murmured consolingly, “There, there. Don’t distress yourself, my lady. We’ll soon have him patched up and as good as new.”

Although Kathleen longed to believe her, she whispered tightly, “He’s so bruised and feeble – he might have internal injuries.”

“He didn’t seem so feeble as all that, a moment ago,” the housekeeper observed dryly.

Kathleen turned scarlet. “He was overwrought. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

“If you say so, my lady.” Mrs. Church’s slight smile faded as she continued. “I think we should save our worry for Mr. Winterborne. Just before Mr. Ravenel was carried inside, he said that Mr. Winterborne’s leg is broken and he’s also been blinded.”

“Oh, no. We must find out if he wants us to send for someone.”

“I would be surprised if he did,” the housekeeper said pragmatically as they entered the house.

“Why do you say that?” Kathleen asked.

“If he had anyone, he wouldn’t have come here alone for Christmas in the first place.”

While Dr. Weeks attended to Devon’s injuries, Kathleen went to visit West.

Even before she reached the open door of his room, she heard noise and laughter drifting into the hallway. She stood at the threshold, watching with a touch of fond resignation as she saw West sitting up in bed, regaling a group that included a half-dozen servants, Pandora, Cassandra, both dogs, and Hamlet. Helen stood beside a lamp, reading the temperature of a glass thermometer.