The Duke's Bridle Path by Burrowes, Grace, Romain, Theresa (18)

She raised herself up onto her elbows, watching as he turned the key in the lock. “I am so sorry you were hurt in helping me. I should never have involved you.”

“Probably not.” His footsteps crossed the carpeted floor to the window, where he tugged open the draperies. In the faint light of the moon, he became a broad, strong shape silhouetted against the window.

“There is a lamp on the writing desk,” Isabel said. “And though I meant what I said, now I am even sorrier that you agree with me.”

“I’m being honest.” He laid hands on the tinderbox, struck a spark, then lit the lamp on her desk. It flung warm light on his features, showing their wry expression. “I wasn’t telling you how I feel about the matter. I’m glad you involved me.”

He carried the lamp to the table at her bedside, then set it down. There he hesitated.

She shook the decanter at him. “Sit with me. Have a drink.”

Gingerly, he sank onto the bed. His feet remained on the floor as he tested the ropes of the mattress, bouncing his weight. “Good bed,” he commented. “But how are you? Besides your ankle, did you come through all right?” He hiked up one knee onto the mattress, twisting to study her. “Are you afraid? Shaken?”

She tugged out the crystal stopper, then handed it to him to set on the table. “Why are you asking about me?”

“I want to know everything. Hazard of the profession.” His mouth crimped. That trying-not-to-smile look.

She tipped the decanter to her lips, imbibing courage as well as sticky-sweet port—then traced a fingertip over the line of his lips. “I want to know everything too, and I’m no Officer of the Police.”

His eyes lowered, lashes shadowing his cheekbones. “Ah, you got the name right this time. And tonight, you were as much one as I was.”

“Which is to say, not at all?” She took another sip. The decanter was heavy in her hand, expensive lead crystal. “Don’t use your profession as an excuse, you wily man. You’d have been just as blunt and prying if you were a grocer.”

“You make me sound like a crowbar.” He tugged at his boot, wincing.

“Look at—at your leg! Oh, I’m so sorry.” She sat up, all but flinging the decanter at him. “Let me take that ridiculous shawl off of your wound.”

He set the decanter on the table beside the lamp. “It hurts like the devil, but I’ll be fine if I bind it. It’s not the first time I’ve been shot.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t tell me that. Now I’ll just worry about you more.”

“I’m honored.” His tone was so dry that he made it sound like a jest—but when she looked him in the eye, his gaze was serious and stark.

Unknotting the shawl from about his calf, she quickly made a cushion of it to cradle the injured leg and protect the coverlet. “It’s ruined your boot,” she chided. “That’s just annoying.”

Callum frowned at the hole in the thick leather. “Shame the duke’s servant wasn’t an even worse shot. But I’ve faith that Brinley will still adore my footwear.”

“You and that dog.” Isabel shook her head. “He did take to you uncommonly quickly. Will it hurt you if I pull off the boot?”

“Maybe. But I can’t live forever with it on.”

That was fair enough. She seized the heel and tugged hard. When the boot hit the carpeted floor of the bedchamber with a thump, she ventured a glance at Callum. He wore a tight expression, but said nothing; he only took the roll of bandage they’d brought upstairs. Tugging off his ruined stocking, he wrapped a band of gauze around the raw scoop the bullet had taken from his calf. Once around, and the bandage turned red; around again, and it stayed white. A third time around, then he tore it and tied it off. The shawl that had served as a bandage, he shoved to the floor.

“All better.” He dropped the remaining bandage onto the table beside the lamp.

“I wish you were.” Isabel swallowed. “I would have been so scared without you. I was scared all the same, but without you…”

“It wouldn’t have been wise to go alone,” he said gravely. “Investigators often have partners. Or informants, or consultants. It’s more than twice as easy to work with the help of another.”

“Is it? Well, I’m trying to thank you. So, thank you.” She rubbed her lips together. “The port isn’t strong enough to dull pain, but it’s quite good. You ought to have some too.”

“I will, then. We ought to celebrate our success.” He took up the decanter, waving it before his nose. His brows lifted. “Why, Lady Isabel, you lay in a fine port.”

As he tipped it back, sipping, she hissed, “It’s not a celebration! We can’t celebrate your bullet wound!”

“It’s only a scratch.” He darted a sideways glance at her. “I mean—you are right. It is very severe. I am in incredible pain. You should minister to me with your kindest attentions.”

She snatched the port from him, suppressing a smile, then sipped from where his lips had touched. The port was sweet on her tongue, warm in her throat and belly. Yes, her ankle still ached, but she didn’t care as much as she had. Callum Jenks was ample distraction.

“You”—she reached over him to return the heavy crystal to the table—“are a rogue. But I won’t protest at all. Any sort of bullet wound is worthy of kindest attentions.”

He arched a brow. “And how do you define those?”

“Much the same way you would, I imagine.” When she again traced the line of his lips, he nipped at her finger. Startled, she laughed—and then leaned forward, brushing a kiss against his jaw. The muscle jumped beneath her caress, so she had to kiss it again, then back around to his lips to sip the sweet, heady taste of port, the headier heat of his mouth on hers. Tenderly, he brushed the tip of her tongue with his—then he pulled back.

“You are intoxicating,” he said. “But you’re also injured. You need kind attentions too.” Without waiting for agreement or protest, he nudged her back so she lay flat on the bed. For a moment, he merely looked upon her. She would have given a great deal of money to know what he was thinking.

Then he turned away to remove his other boot and stocking, letting them fall to the floor beside their mates. He slid to the foot of the bed then, crossing his legs atop the coverlet with a hiss of discomfort. She raised herself up on her elbows. “Callum, please don’t hurt—”

“Please don’t hurt my feelings,” he said dryly. “I’ve never taken the boots off a lady with a sprained ankle, and I don’t want to muck it up.”

At that, she had to smile. She sank back again and let him minister to her. What would his kind attentions be?

At first, they didn’t feel particularly kind, though they were necessary: as she’d done for him, he removed her boots. The left one was not a problem but the injured right ankle protested his slow, tender movements. She moaned as the tight kid slid free from her swollen ankle. A pulse beat in her ankle. How was that possible?

“May I go on?”

“I’m still waiting for the kindness,” she grumbled. “But yes, whatever you think best.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, prepared for another pain, as he slid his hands within her trouser-cuffs to find the tops of her stockings. They were tied just below the knees. Gently, he untied them. The left one first, he rolled down and off, leaving her foot bare. Then the right, slowly and carefully.

She exhaled, wondering. His fingertips on her skin were a tiny pleasure; even over her ankle, he did not hurt her. With the stocking off, her foot up on a pillow, he pressed at the sides of the joint, then up, down, around again.

“It is not broken,” he said. “But you will not dance a cotillion for some weeks.”

“It was not in my plans.”

He asked for the bandage; when she handed it to him, he wrapped the remainder of the roll about her ankle. Around the arch of her foot. Back, looping, again, then tucked the end under. “I confess,” he said as he worked, “I am eager to know your plans.”

“At the moment,” she said, “they involve you.”