The Rake Revealed (2 page)

A man was in the process of shedding his jacket. He was half turned away from her, a tall figure silhouetted against the candle flame behind him, and Camille’s hand went to her mouth in shock. This certainly wasn’t Hibbert, her poor excuse for a gardener. Not unless the man had grown about a foot and had developed a pair of very impressive shoulders.

Ah
? She took a step forward, stopping again abruptly as the candlelight illuminated his face, her eyes widening as her heart skipped an unexpected beat or two. He was handsome personified; dark hair, well shaped mouth, square chin. She could not tell what shade his eyes were in the light, but it hardly mattered. Camille had rarely seen a better-looking man. If it wasn’t for the fact that the white shirt beneath the half-shed jacket was stained in what looked to be a great deal of blood, she might have remained staring stupidly at him, but the sight was enough to distract her.

‘
Mon dieu!
You are hurt!’

The exclamation and her accent made him raise an eyebrow, but he shook his head and gave her a smile. A very nice smile, so charming, he might have been in her salon socially. ‘It’s nothing. Really.’ He tilted his head, studying her. ‘Are you, by chance, an angel?’

Camille was taken aback. ‘You believe yourself to be that close to death?’

He chuckled. ‘It is more that I believe that my eyes are showing me a vision. A very lovely vision, if the truth be told.’

‘Possibly because you seem to be losing a lot of blood,’ she replied wryly, coming forward. ‘You are hallucinating. If you please, finish taking off your jacket.’

The eyebrow went up again. ‘An enchanting offer. Possibly the nicest I’ve had for some time, but I have no need of your help. Are you
sure
you’re not an angel? I really cannot remember encountering anybody like you here in the past.’

‘I have only just arrived and, whether you want my help or not, I have no desire to have you bleed on my rug,’ she returned, reaching out to help him ease the second arm out of its sleeve. He moved carefully, but didn’t make a sound. Camille stared at crimson stain that was spreading across the shirt. She had seen such wounds before and knew what needed to be done. And it needed to be done soon. ‘Sit. I will get water and something to stop the bleeding.’

‘Most kind, but,’ reaching out, he snagged her wrist, his hold light but firm, ‘what if you elect not to return? I do most humbly apologize for breaking in on you like this, but I would hate for anybody else to discover my presence.’

Camille paused, collecting her thoughts. She was shocked to discover that the touch of his hand on her skin sent a sudden, unexpected wash of heat through her. It was like… Well, she couldn’t think what it was like, but it was completely unexpected. She met his eyes – blue, she saw now, vivid and brilliant – and tried to remember how to breathe. ‘I… Stop behaving so foolishly and let me go. It is the middle of the night and we are at least half a mile from the nearest house. Where am I going to go?’

He did not move for a moment, continuing to hold her, staring down at her face. Then he seemed to relax, dropping her wrist with a slight nod. ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid my manners are appalling tonight.’ He swayed for a moment before righting himself, then waved one long, vague hand. ‘Just… a little under the weather.’

A little under the weather? Well, she had never heard it phrased quite like
that
before. Actions seemed more prudent than questions and she turned and hurried from the room, heading for the kitchen. Thankfully, Mrs. Hibbert had left the big range banked down and it took nothing to bringing it back to life again. Camille found a pot and poured water into it from a jug that had been sitting on the bench before setting it on the stove. From there, she went to the linen cupboard and found a sheet (one of the old ones that she had taken account of earlier). It took all of ten minutes to boil the water, find a basin, pour some water into it, and, with the sheet tucked beneath her arm, hurry back to the salon.

For some reason, Camille had half expected him to be gone by the time she had returned, but he was sitting in a chair, head back, eyes closed. He had managed to take his wounded shoulder out of the shirt and she could see the wound. Several inches in from the right shoulder, it was slowly seeping blood. She also saw an expanse of smooth skin on a broad, finely muscled chest. It was surprisingly distracting. If it had not been for the blood, she might have stopped to study him a little more closely.

Hearing her return, he opened his eyes and looked at her, smiling a little. ‘The ministering angel returns.’

‘Is it a bullet wound or a blade?’ She demanded, all business.

‘Not a question I ever thought to hear from a pair of lips as delicious as yours,’ he mused, ‘but it has been a surprising night. A bullet wound. One could say it was a lucky shot.’

‘Not for you.’

‘Touché.’ He watched as she set the things down on the table. She considered him for a moment, then went and fetched the brandy decanter from the table, along with a glass. ‘Oh my,’ he murmured, watching her pour a generous measure, ‘you really
are
an angel.’

She passed him the glass with a dry smile. ‘I think you may need it.’ And she proceeded to tear strips off the sheets. He watched her through half closed lids and sipped the spirit. Camille remained focused on what she was doing, refusing to meet those blue eyes again. It would be easy enough to let herself be sidetracked, he was quite possibly the most diverting man she had ever seen, but it wasn’t going to stop the flow of blood. She did not even begin to dwell on the impropriety of the situation. Under the circumstances, she was fairly sure her guest would not be mentioning his visit to anybody.

‘You are remarkably restrained for a lady,’ he murmured, after a time. ‘No questions? No demands to know why I am in your house? This is your house, I assume?’

Camille bent her head in acknowledgement while she knelt beside the chair. Dipping a wad of linen in the water, she squeezed it out and gently began to clean away the blood, feeling his involuntary flinch beneath her fingers as she dabbed around the wound. ‘I am Lady Durham.’

Beneath her hand, he went quite still and she looked up quickly, eyes enquiring.

‘I was sorry to hear about your husband. He was a good man.’

All trace of humor had disappeared from his voice and Camille nodded thoughtfully. This man had known her husband? She continued with her task, but her thoughts had become speculative. Who was this man who spoke like a gentleman yet behaved like a smuggler? For there was no other reason why he would be lurking around the house at this time of night. His business could be nothing but nefarious. ‘The ball is still lodged in your shoulder. I will send Hibbert for a doctor.’

‘No doctor,’ the man said gently. ‘I will manage without one.’

‘Not with a ball of lead in your shoulder, you won’t,’ she returned, leaning forward to examine the hole. It wasn’t that bad, which meant that he had probably been shot with a pistol. A musket would have caused more damage. She sat back on her heels and looked up at him. She had no idea who this man was, a gentleman free trader was her best guess, but she knew a thing or two about wounds. ‘That ball needs to come out.’

Blue eyes regarded her quizzically. ‘I have a very hardy constitution, Lady Durham.’

‘You will need more than a hardy constitution when infection sets in,’ she returned quietly. ‘It is not the ball of lead, you understand. It is the manner in which your body tries to be rid of it.’

He shook his head. ‘And yet I cannot allow a doctor to see me here.’

She frowned, considering this. Upstairs, among her scant number of possessions, was a small surgical kit, the only thing she had of her father. He had been a surgeon on the battlefield and he had taught his daughter more than any female was supposed to know in the art of anatomy and medicine. Camille took a clean piece of cloth and wadded it up. She pressed it onto his shoulder, then took his hand and placed it on top before rising to her feet. ‘Keep the pressure on. I shall be back in a moment.’

He looked up and her, a question in his eyes. ‘I am serious about the doctor, my lady. In fact, I am quite adamant on that point.’

‘Then this is your lucky day,’ she replied grimly, moving towards the door, ‘for I am not about to produce one. Just a poor facsimile. Believe me,
Monsieur
Smuggler, by the time we are done here, you will wish that you had let me send for help. I think I can promise you that!’ And she hurried from the room.

Later, Camille wondered what on earth had possessed her to do what she did. Perhaps it was because the entire scene had been so surreal. She had woken to find a stranger bleeding in her salon and she had simply accepted it. Most normal females, she was almost sure, would have behaved differently. At the very least, they would have gone and roused the housekeeper for help, but Camille had not felt at any time that she was in danger. He might have been a dreadful cutthroat, but his manner and address were impeccable, as if the circumstances he found himself in were perfectly normal.

As for seeking Mrs. Hibbert’s assistance, that hadn’t even occurred to Camille.

She found her father’s field surgery kit and returned downstairs. If her stranger was surprised when she covered a couch with a sheet and then asked that he lay on it, he did not say a word. Instead, he gave her a curious look and did as she asked.

He took the glass and took a swallow, but did not drain it, handing it back half full. Camille shrugged and set to work. First she poured brandy over the scalpel, holding it over the candle flame so it blazed briefly, then she lifted the pad on the shoulder and set to work. It didn’t take very long and fortunately, the ball of the pistol was not buried deep. Not only that, it seemed to have missed anything vital, which meant that her smuggler probably had a good chance of surviving. When the ball was out, she sterilized the hole as best she could. She glanced at the man who had continued to look at her throughout. He had proved to be remarkably brave, or he had an amazing resistance to pain, for he had remained resolutely silent throughout, merely sucking in a sharp breath when she had delicately cut the flesh.

‘I must sew the edges together. Not completely, but enough for it to knit properly. Would you like some more brandy?’

He shook his head and, if his smile was a little strained, it was there, just the same. ‘Please continue. You have a delightfully light touch.’

She very much doubted
that
. Camille shook her head and began suturing the wound. Fifteen minutes later, he was cleaned, bandaged, and as good as he was going to get under her poor care. She had sterilized the wound with brandy, hoping it would be enough to keep infection at bay.

‘The bandage will need to be changed tomorrow,’ she’d told him.

‘What time would suit you?’

Camille had paused, looking at him. ‘Not me,
Monsieur
Smuggler. If I were you, I would go to a physician and be attended properly. Surely in your profession you employ such men? I would have thought that would have been essential.’

He gaze up at her, long lidded eyes a little glassy, undoubtedly the joint result of being shot and imbibing several glasses of brandy. ‘Are you so sure I’m a smuggler?’

That brought her to a standstill. Camille had looked at him, eyebrow raised. ‘Are you saying you are not?’

‘I have toyed with the profession, but I prefer to think of myself more as a man who enjoys sampling a variety of experiences.’ The way he said it made sound as if he viewed smuggling in the same light as going to the opera or enjoying a grouse hunt.

‘And what particular experience did you sample tonight, if not smuggling? Somebody put a bullet in your shoulder. If it was not the excise men, then who was it?’

‘A jaded husband.’ His words were slurring slightly, which had hardly been surprising. Shock must take its toll. ‘Men can be so unreasonable about sharing the finer things in life.’

‘I am sure. You may stay here until you are well enough to travel. And then,
s’il vous plaît être allé.’

‘But of course,’ he murmured drowsily, ‘just as soon as I am able.’

She had wanted to ask him questions, of course. If his wound was truly the result of being found in the wrong bed and how he came to be in her house, but he was fading fast and she knew it would be pointless. Instead, she went and found several blankets to cover him, then cleaned up the mess she had made before climbing wearily back into bed.

There would be time enough for questions in the morning. All she wanted to do was sleep, but sleep did not come immediately. For some reason she could not rid herself of the mental image of the man downstairs, stripped to the waist. He really
had
been particularly fine, superbly sculpted, skin glowing golden in the candlelight. It had been a long time since she had seen a man in a state of undress. The last man had been Ned, of course, and sometimes she felt that even those images were beginning to fade.

It had been a long time since she and Ned had been together, but she had to admit, the man downstairs had a body that far surpassed that of her dearly-departed husband.

He was really quite… beautiful.

In the morning she would find out more about her nocturnal visitor, whether he really had been shot by a jealous husband (it seemed likely as she could imagine a great many women would find a man like that appealing) or whether he was a smuggler. Whatever the story, she was sure it would be entertaining. Considering the state of him, he had been surprisingly nonchalant.