Jade Lee - [Bridal Favors 03] (9 page)

Bloody hell, he’d been cut.

It all happened so fast, but even as it was going on, Irene’s mind grappled with each and every second, repeating it over and over in her head, and all with exclamation points.

Someone had growled!

That someone had a knife!

He was attacking!

Grant and the man were fighting!

Grant was
bleeding
!

She didn’t know what mobilized her into action. Heaven knew she stood there in shock for long enough. Perhaps it was the sight of blood that finally pushed her out of her frozen state. Or maybe enough time passed for her to gather her wits. Either way, she would not stand idly by as the two men fought.

The first thing she did was scream—loud and long. But they weren’t in her neighborhood yet. They’d been walking along a street of shops, all of which were closed for the evening.

Meanwhile, she tried to figure out what to do. The men were grappling, rolling on the ground as they fought one another. If they would only slow down a little, she could kick their attacker. Or grab him. Something!

But they didn’t stop, and so she just waded in. She couldn’t allow Grant to risk his life while she stood by and screamed. So she stepped closer, feeling the impact on her leg as they fell against her.

It was a heavy impact. Probably because Grant had been rolling so that he would end up on top. But she’d stopped that plan, so it was up to her to fix it. She leaned down, grabbing the attacker. She saw now that he was a smallish man, grizzled and wiry. Her fingers tore through his thin clothing as she took hold.

She hauled upward, trying to lift him off Grant, but his shirt gave way. He fell out of her hands, and she saw him swipe at her legs. Her skirt caught the weapon and his hand, but not for long. While she cried out in alarm, Grant was able to maneuver into a better position.

But it was too late. Their attacker rolled to his feet and ran before she could do more than reach out her hand to stop him. With a curse, Grant was on his feet and three steps down the street after the man. But then he stopped and spun back.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She was looking down at the long tear in her skirt. Her beautiful gown made from the material he’d given her. She hadn’t been touched. No blood. No pain. And yet, she couldn’t stop staring at the gaping hole.

A breath later, Grant was at her side. His hands were gentle as he stroked her arm and ran his hands down her shoulders before efficiently checking her legs. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice thick. “Is there any pain?”

“I’m fine,” she repeated, feeling his hands, large and reassuring, on her body. There was nothing sexual in his touch. Just a calm that helped bolster her scattered thoughts. Then she remembered the blood. His blood!

“But you’re hurt! I saw the blood!”

He frowned then looked down. There was a dark streak across his shirt—blood—and the patch was growing. He cursed, the word explosive as he held out his torn jacket. The blade had split it neatly from mid-torso out toward the buttons. “I just bought this!”

She might have laughed if her hands weren’t already touching the wet fabric of his equally torn shirt. He hissed in pain.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “We need to get you a doctor. My home is a few more blocks—”

He shook his head. “My rooms. An inn. Half a block that way.”

She nodded, coming to a swift decision. “Lead on,” she said as she tried to support him to stand. He couldn’t quite reach his full height, but stooped alarmingly due to his injured rib.

“But…” He winced as they started to walk. “Your reputation—”

“No one will know. I told Mama I might stay the night with Wendy. Your inn is closer, and we can send for the constable and doctor from there.” Besides, much as she loved her in-laws, Mama adored the drama of anything unusual. Irene didn’t feel strong enough to face the woman while still shaking from the encounter.

“I should see you home, but I’m afraid this burns dreadfully.” Then he shot her a rather piercing look. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. But…” Her gaze darted about the dark street as she pressed him to walk more quickly. “I want to be inside.”

He speeded up. “It’s safe,” he said, his tone bracing. “The man fled. I doubt he’ll be back.”

She guessed that he was reassuring himself as much as her. “No need to be gallant, my lord—”

“Grant,” he pushed out, his tone curt. “If you start ‘my lording’ me, I swear I shall collapse right here.”

She searched his face, momentarily alarmed. He looked at her, then flashed a rueful smile.

“A jest, Irene. I’m in no danger of losing consciousness, I swear. But when I shed blood in defense of a lady, I do like her to call me by my Christian name. Call it a foible.”

“I agree. I’m afraid I shall struggle to remember you as Lord Crowle in any case. You shall always be Mr. Grant in my mind.”

He seemed to think about that a moment, then shrugged. “A rose by any other name…” he drawled, clearly referring to the Shakespearian line.

“Well,” she teased, “I shall not say you have always smelled sweet, but yes.”

He chuckled, and then hissed in pain. “Don’t make me laugh,” he ground out, but without rancor.

“But you have never smelled bad either,” she continued. He had a spicy, masculine scent. Clean, but something uniquely his. Given that she spent much of her time around the docks and with laborers, his scent was beyond pleasant. She might even say, intriguing.

“Damned by faint praise,” he muttered.

“Vanity, Grant,” she admonished. “I have never enjoyed the scent of blood. I would be grateful if you would stop releasing all that stuff onto my hands.”

“Of course, Sweet Irene. Anything for you.”

She didn’t answer. Truthfully, she was alarmed by the stickiness of his clothes where she supported him. He was walking steadily, but every once in a while, he would flinch, she would grip him tighter, and wetness would alarm her all over again.

Fortunately, they made it to the inn after a dozen more steps. Within moments, Irene had roused the innkeeper who sent for the night watch and a surgeon. Irene would have sent for a doctor, but Grant would have none of that.

“A doctor is for old ladies with a cough. I require stitching, and that, my dear, needs a surgeon.”

She didn’t argue. With the innkeeper at her side, they quickly divested Grant of his jacket and blood-soaked shirt. She tried not to look at the honey blond hair on his chest or the chiseled cut to his torso. He was injured, and she was a degenerate looking at him so hungrily. But she had only seen her husband half naked like this on a bed. Nate had been a large man, broad like his father. His skin had been weathered by the sun, and the muscles had bulged like living rocks.

Grant was constructed in lanky angles. His muscles stretched across his body. They did not look like rocks so much as ropes of corded strength, tightening as needed. It was mesmerizing to watch as he disrobed. And when she began to wipe away the blood with a wet cloth, she watched him flex against the pain.

She was hurting him, and yet her mouth was dry at the sight of his body. She felt her nipples tighten and her belly grow liquid. She did not want to be aroused. He was lying there bleeding, for God’s sake! And yet, he was a beautiful man.

“It’s not that bad,” the innkeeper said. “The surgeon will stitch it up all right and tight.”

Grant opened his eyes and wiggled his eyebrows. “Then I’ll have a dashing scar. All the best gentlemen do, you know.”

“I think you have plenty of those already,” she said tartly. She hadn’t intended to sound stern, but she felt so breathless around him. Especially as her eyes traced the thin white scars mostly along his forearms. But there were others too, set randomly about his chest and belly. “Machinery?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Stupidity, mostly. I was an idiot before I became a manager.”

She might have said something. The pain that haunted his eyes at those words meant something. But there wasn’t time to ask as both surgeon and constable arrived.

The next hour wasn’t pleasant, but it had to be done. She explained the incident to the constable. Sadly, that went rather quick with the following summary from the man: “Sounds like a footpad. Glad nothing was stolen, though of course, the knife cut is upsetting.”

That was it, beyond more sadness regarding Grant’s wound. Then the man tipped his hat and left, while the surgeon got down to business. She tried to distract Grant, but there was little she could do. In the end, he just gripped her hand while she winced at every push and pull of the needle.

“You are being very brave, you know,” she said, her voice strained.

“It takes little courage to lie in a bed,” he quipped, though the words came out as breathless gasps.

“I assure you, I am impressed by your strength. Would you like a piece of leather to bite down on?”

“I’d rather you promise to kiss me when it’s all said and done. A reward for my bravery.”

“Done,” she said.

“You promise? A kiss?”

She smiled. Trust the man to be making jokes between hisses of pain. “Yes, Lord Crowle, I will kiss you.”

“Maybe more than one?”

“My, you are feeling strong, aren’t you?”

He nodded in absolutely seriousness. “Very.”

“Then I shall promise you two kisses.” When he opened his mouth to ask for something more, she pressed her finger to his lips. “Do not ask for more, or I shall change my mind about the first two.”

He obediently nodded and pressed his lips closed. But his eyes stayed open and steady, looking at her the whole time. Eventually, it was done. It probably hadn’t taken that long. When she finally dared look, there were only a few stitches, but she felt as if she had run a footrace that lasted weeks. Any marks on his beautiful skin were wrong.

She reached out, wishing she could smooth away the wound with a caress. She couldn’t. In fact, the idea was silly, and she only interfered with the surgeon as he bandaged the area with brusque motions.

“That will keep you, my lord,” the man said. “I shall leave you some laudanum—”

“No, thank you,” Grant said, his voice strong.

“But it may help you to sleep. The pain—”

“Is not so bad that I shall need that. Take the bottle away.”

The man nodded and returned the vial to his bag. Meanwhile, Grant grabbed his purse to pull out a few meager coins to press in the surgeon’s hand.

“My lord!” the man said stiffly, curling his lip at the few coins. “I’m afraid that the cost is somewhat higher—”

“On the contrary,” Grant drawled. “I know exactly how much getting a few stitches costs, my man. I refuse to pay triple just because you learned I’ve got a title.”

The surgeon started to protest, but even he could see it was useless. He grabbed the few coins with a sniff. “If it starts to go rancid—”

“I can drain it myself.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Irene cried. “I shall be sure to call the good surgeon back.”

Grant subsided with a shrug. “I’m afraid if it goes rancid, there is little either he or I can do. But let us pray that it doesn’t get to that.”

A glance at the surgeon saw that he agreed, though his expression sobered. “There are poultices and the like, my lady. Some things can be done. Call me if his condition worsens.”

Irene opened her mouth, about to protest that she wasn’t his wife, but a quick squeeze from Grant’s hand distracted her enough that the words never left her lips. And then the surgeon was bowing before he left, shutting the door quietly behind him, which left her and Grant alone.

“He thought I was your lady wife,” she said, embarrassment burning in her cheeks. Normally, she would simply laugh at the silliness, but a part of her took the idea a great deal more seriously. Enough that she couldn’t look at him as she said it. After all, she was a proper lady, but she was here unescorted in his bedroom. And he was half naked.

“I told him you were.”

She jolted in surprise. “But… why?”

He shrugged. “Because only a wife can stand by my bed and hold my hand. I’m sorry. That was selfish of me, but it’s the truth. I… I wanted you here, and that was the easiest way to do it.”

“You don’t care if you ruin me in the eyes of the London
ton
?” Her voice was calm, thank heaven, but inside she was twisting. She liked that he wanted her here. She’d wanted to remain by his side. But the lie wasn’t proper. Her being here wasn’t proper. And what Grant had just done was highly improper.

“He wasn’t of the
ton
. He was a surgeon, and…” He snapped his mouth shut.

No need to think twice about what he’d been about to say. “And no one believes we’re married anyway. They think…” She swallowed, the idea hitting her sideways. They already thought her his mistress.

“Absolutely not!” he said, starting to sit up. But a lance of pain contorted his face, and he dropped back with a grunt. “Irene, no one will think any the worse of you for tonight. I swear it!”

She flashed him a quiet smile. She was being ridiculous. The rules were different for her than when she’d been an unwed girl. She was a widow now. She could do as she pleased, and few people would question her. A surgeon, an innkeeper, and a constable knew she was here. They were nothing in her life. After tonight, she’d likely never see them again. In truth, she didn’t really have a reputation. The
ton
knew nothing of her. Her in-laws thought she was with Wendy. She could spend the night in Grant’s arms and return home tomorrow completely secure. Nothing in her life would change.

It was a heady, seductive thought. “I should depart immediately,” she said, though she didn’t move.

“You could, but I never thought you one to shirk your debt.”

“What debt?” she asked, though she knew very well what he meant.

“Two kisses. You promised.”

“That was before you ruined me. What if Mama finds out that we pretended to be husband and wife all alone in an inn?”

“Immaterial. A promise has been made. It must be kept.” Then when she arched a skeptical brow, he placed a hand on his chest and mock groaned. “I am a wounded man, you know. I could die on the morrow.”