Scandalous (17 page)

She could feel the heat and moisture of his mouth clear through the layers of her dress and chemise. She could feel it burning through to her already aroused nipple, dampening it, setting it aflame. Heat shot through her. Her body quivered and quaked. Another of those humiliating little moans escaped her lips. Her back arched instinctively; her hand slid around to the back of his head, pressing his mouth closer to her breast.

Horror at her own response shocked Gabby back to her senses. Galvanized, knowing that she couldn't, wouldn't, could not possibly allow this to go any further, she began to struggle wildly, shoving at his shoulders in an attempt to free herself. When that didn't work she leaned forward, quick as a pit viper, and bit his shoulder, hard.

17

"Ow!" He yelped, rolling onto his back, his hand clapping over the injured spot. A dull thud and a muffled, feminine-sounding
oomph
brought his gaze swinging around. She had apparently slid off the side of the bed to land on all fours on the floor. His gaze narrowed on the very top of an untidy auburn head that popped like a cork in water into view. "You could have just said something like, let me up."

To his surprise, he sounded oddly hoarse.

"And you would have listened?" Gabriella appeared to find nothing amiss with his voice. Gray eyes glared at him over the edge of the mattress. Fine dark eyebrows twitched together over her nose.

Ridiculously, despite various aches and pains and the inexplicable weakness that made his head swim, he discovered that he was enjoying himself.

"Of course I would have listened. What do you take me for?"

Her expression was so speaking that she didn't have to say a word. Her whole face was in view now, and the answer to his question, in a nutshell, was clearly nothing very flattering.

"Miss Gabby?" The door to his room opened without warning. Glancing around, he discovered Jem entering without so much as a by-your-leave. He frowned. Thank God the man hadn't come in five minutes earlier. Gabriella would have been humiliated past redemption, and he found he didn't like the thought of that.

The servant closed the door and approached the bed, peering past him at Gabriella. She, meanwhile, scrambled to her feet, running a quick, self-conscious hand over her hair, which was tumbling free of its pins in a most fetching way.

"Are you all right?" Jem was frowning at her.

"I'm fine. I just— lost my balance."

She was leaning rather heavily against the bedpost at the foot of his bed, and sounded as if she were short of breath. Come to think of it, he was slightly short of breath himself, and as his gaze ran over her matters didn't improve. Discovering hidden treasure— and he considered the body hidden under that God-awful crow's dress hidden treasure— was more exciting than he could have dreamed.

"I don't recall hearing a knock, or bidding you to come in." There was a faint peremptory note to his voice as he addressed Jem. At the same moment, a quick downward glance assured him that, tangled in the bedclothes as he was, he was decent.

"Awake, are you?" Jem cast him a scathing look.

"He is indeed," Gabriella replied before he could answer for himself, her voice as collected as if she had spent the last five minutes embroidering before the fire, rather than tumbling around in his bed. Her gaze just brushed his before meeting the servant's. Her eyes were rainwater cool. What a pity, he thought dryly, that she couldn't as easily control the giveaway pinkening of her cheeks.

She was no longer looking at him, but the old man was. Lying flat on his back as the servant curled his lip at him didn't suit him; he dug his elbows into the mattress, meaning to heave himself back against the headboard and into a sitting position.

As he raised himself into a semi-sitting position, a gut-wrenching stab of pain skewered him like a white-hot poker. What the devil…? Clenching his teeth to hold back a groan, he stopped what he was doing on the instant, falling back against the mattress, gasping for breath. As the pain twisted knifelike through his body, he tensed against it, closing his eyes, feeling sweat break out across his forehead. When he relaxed enough to open them again, what seemed like many long moments later, it was to find both Gabriella and her henchman ranged together beside the bed looking down at him. Jem, arms crossed over his chest, frowned at him with open dislike; Gabriella regarded him warily.

"You shouldn't try to move. You could start the wound bleeding again." Her concern, if that was indeed what he detected in her voice, seemed reluctant.

"You shot me." Flat on his back again, afraid to move in case the pain should attack him once more, he stared up at her as memory came flooding back.

"You deserved it," she said. Jem nodded his head in vigorous agreement.

"God, I feel like I've been run over by a mail coach." It was a groan. In light of the unsympathetic nature of his audience, the complaint would have been better left unuttered, he realized as soon as he said it. But he hurt too much, and was too disoriented, to be as stoic as he normally was.

"You've been very ill."

The unmistakable chill in her voice earned her a frowning, sideways glance from Jem. Seeing it, and no doubt realizing that her attitude was giving rise to questions where none had existed, she managed, strictly for the servant's benefit he knew, to banish the frown from her face.

"For how long?"

Deep breaths helped, he discovered. The pain was receding.

"This is the third day."

No doubt about it. Her tone told the tale. Milady was feeling hostile, whether from the way her body had responded to his, or from his knowledge of the way her body had responded to his, he couldn't be sure. But if he had to bet, it would be on the latter.

"So you've been nursing me." A wealth of hidden meaning underlay the words, and he managed a suggestive smile although it was becoming something of an effort simply to maintain the conversation. His tongue felt thick and swollen, and the rustiness of his voice was beginning to worry him. So, too, was the dizziness that assailed him every time he lifted his head from the mattress. The pain in his side, while no longer the burning stab of agony that had made him fear he was going to pass out, was still very much present. The only other time he could remember feeling this out of curl was when his horse had been shot out from under him in the peninsula. It had landed on his leg, breaking it in three places, and made such a mess that the surgeon had in the end wanted to take the limb off. Only his own adamant refusal to permit such a thing, and Barnet's subsequent watchdoglike devotion when he'd gone unconscious, had prevented the surgeon from sawing off the leg and having done. Remembering, he looked at the pair standing over him rather suspiciously.

"What have you done with Barnet? He wouldn't leave me, I'll be bound."

Taking care not to move more of himself than was needful, he raised a hand to the wound. When he pressed, it hurt.

"I sent him to bed. He was worn out. And you should leave that alone." Gabriella was scowling at him: a reward, no doubt, for his earlier smile.

"So you persuaded him to trust you, did you? I compliment you. Under the circumstances, that's quite a feat."

Abandoning his tactile exploration of the bandage that wound round his midsection, he lay still for a moment, gathering his resolve for another try at sitting up. His gaze moved over her. There was the faintest damp spot over her breast, he discovered with interest, a tiny circle of darker black on black that would be practically invisible to anyone who didn't know what he was looking for. But he knew, and enjoyed watching her eyes widen and her arms fold quickly over her chest as she noted where his gaze lingered and realized, too, why.

"Needs must, as the saying goes." Her eyes narrowed, and her voice was wintry.

Jem nodded agreement. It was amusing to realize that of the two, the servant's was now the friendlier expression. Of course, that was like saying, of an asp and a cobra, that one was the friendlier deadly snake.

"We've been takin' care of you in shifts. Fair worn us ragged, you have, especially Miss Gabby here. For meself, I say you ain't worth it."

"Why you? Why not the servants?" Ignoring Jem, he directed his question to Gabriella.

"Because you were out of your head with fever, and chatty with it. Under the circumstances, I thought it best that the servants at least not be made privy to all your secrets."

It was her turn to smile at him. Very malicious that smile was, too. The obvious implication was that
she
now knew all his secrets.

He smiled back at her, and damn the effort involved.

"Very wise of you. If indeed they, or anyone," he gave her a meaningful look, "learned
all
my secrets, I'd probably have to kill them."

That wiped the smile from her face, just as he had intended. Both she and Jem regarded him with stony glares.

"Shame on you, you scoundrel, to go a-threatenin' of one who has saved your life. If Miss Gabby hadn't…"

"That's enough, Jem. One cannot expect someone of his stamp to be grateful for care rendered."

The disdainfulness of this reminded him of how haughty she could be. And remembering how haughty she could be made him remember other things about her, too— such as how very
un
haughty she'd been when he'd had his hand, and his mouth, on her breast.

If they'd been alone, that's just what he would have said.

His gaze met hers. Something in his expression must have given her some inkling of what he was thinking, because her cheeks deepened to the color of summer roses.

"Is there water?" he asked abruptly. Embarrassing her in front of her servant was not his intention, and she was too transparent to keep much hidden if he continued to tease her. Besides, he was truly thirsty. His tongue felt like a slab of leather, and his throat was as parched and scratchy as if he'd been swallowing sand.

"Yes, of course." Her annoyance at him was not proof against her nursing instincts, he was glad to discover. She moved toward the bedside table, glancing over her shoulder at her servant at the same time.

"Get a pillow under his head, please. 'Twill make drinking easier."

His eyes met Jem's, and for an instant he and the servant stared at each other measuringly. The old man would just as soon have left him lying as he was; that much was plain in his eyes. For his own part, he didn't much like accepting help at the best of times, and especially not from someone who looked at him as he might a pheasant whose neck he longed to wring. But being flat on his back made him feel vulnerable, and feeling vulnerable was not something he was used to, or enjoyed. And drinking when one was lying flat on one's back carried its own difficulties.

By way of compromise, when Jem, with an incomprehensible but obviously less than complimentary mutter, reached for a pillow, he lifted his head. When a second pillow was pressed into duty beneath the first and the servant straightened, the two of them regarded each other with dislike.

"You might throw some more coal on the fire. It's dying down." With this direction to Jem, Gabriella took the servant's place beside the bed. Sitting down on the edge of it, rather uncomfortably he thought, she took a spoon, dipped it into a glass she held, and carefully conveyed the brimming utensil toward his mouth.

"You're very good at this," he murmured provocatively, remembering how she had once fed him broth and quite unable to resist teasing her. Gabriella's lips compressed— as he had noted before, they were really quite luscious when she didn't have them folded into an angry line— but she continued with her self-appointed task.

His fingers closed around her wrist when he had had his fill of water, trapping her hand in midair as it still clutched the now empty spoon. Her skin was silky to the touch; her bones felt as delicate as if they were made of spun glass.

She stiffened. Her wrist was suddenly rigid beneath his hand. Her eyes were wary as they met his.

"Thank you for your care of me," he said quietly, so that the servant would not hear. The air between them was suddenly charged with electricity. There was confusion, and perhaps even a touch of panic, in her eyes as she registered it. Beneath his fingers, he could feel her pulse begin to race.

Completely of its own volition, his gaze fell to her lips. They were slightly parted as she breathed through them. He distinctly remembered what he had said to her once before: you have the most kissable mouth.

If it had been true then, it was doubly true now.

Even as he focused on her lips, they met in a snug line. Glancing up to meet her gaze, he realized that she was remembering, too. She stood up abruptly, pulling her wrist free of his hold.

"You're welcome," she said, her voice cool, and turned away from him without another word. Putting the glass and spoon down on the bedside table, she spoke to Jem.

"I am going to bed," she said. "Good night."

Then, without so much as another glance or word for him, she turned and disappeared through the door that joined their chambers. He watched with a darkening frown as she closed it carefully behind her.

A moment later, a decided click told him that she had locked it tight.

Left alone with Jem, he eyed the man with disfavor and said, "You may summon Barnet."

18

By that evening, Wickham was measurably better, reportedly sleeping a large part of the time but aware and talking when he was awake. Plainly a corner had been turned. This information, which everyone else seemed to feel was the best of good tidings, Gabby had from Barnet, as she absolutely refused to go next or nigh her pestilent "brother" ever again in her life. He was clearly a conscienceless libertine, and she was just as clearly far too susceptible to his wiles. The only thing to be done was to keep out of his way. Now that there was no longer any question of the patient's life being in danger, she excused herself from her nursing duties without compunction. With Wickham conscious, she judged it safe enough to detail a cadre of servants to assist in his care. His Lordship, according to Barnet, who persisted in giving her regular updates on his progress whether she wished to hear them or not, no longer talked out of turn, so there was little fear of any secrets being inadvertently revealed.