Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels 1)

“I should leave you to rest.”

His hand turned and curled around hers. “Not yet,” he muttered. “I don’t want to be alone.”

She nodded, remaining in the chair.

Letting go of her hand, West reached for his tea.

“Is it true?” Kathleen asked. “The story you were telling about Devon?”

After draining the tea in two gulps, West gave her a haunted glance. “All true. The son of a bitch almost succeeded in killing himself.”

Kathleen took the cup from his lax fingers.

“I don’t know how he did it,” West continued. “I was in the water for no more than two minutes, and my legs went numb to the bone. It was agony. By all accounts, Devon was in that river for at least twenty minutes, the reckless lackwit.”

“Saving children,” Kathleen said, feigning scorn. “How dare he?”

“Yes,” West said with no trace of humor. He stared at the leaping fire, brooding. “Now I understand what you once said to me about all the people who depend on him – and I’ve become one of them. Damn him to hell. My brother can’t take arse-headed chances with his life again, or I swear I’ll kill him.”

“I understand,” she said, aware of the fear lurking beneath his caustic words.

“No, you don’t. You weren’t there. My God, I almost didn’t reach him in time. Had I arrived just a few seconds later —” West took a shuddering breath and averted his face. “He wouldn’t have done this before, you know. He used to have more sense than to risk his neck for someone else. Especially strangers. The numbskull.”

Kathleen smiled. Swallowing back the tightness in her throat, she reached out and smoothed his hair back. “My dear friend,” she whispered, “I’m sorry to have to say this… but you would have done the same thing.”

Sometime after midnight, Kathleen slipped out of bed to check on the patients. She buttoned a robe over her nightgown, picked up a bedside candlestick, and set off down the hall.

First she ducked her head into Winterborne’s room. “May I come in?” she asked Dr. Weeks, who was sitting in a chair by the bed.

“Of course, my lady.”

“Do stay seated, please,” Kathleen said before he could rise to his feet. “I only wanted to ask after the patient.”

She knew it had been a difficult night’s work for the doctor, who had needed the assistance of the butler and two footmen to help realign Winterborne’s broken leg. As Sims had described it to Kathleen and Mrs. Church afterward, the large muscles of the injured leg had contracted, and it had required great effort to stretch them sufficiently to restore the bone to its original position. Once the leg had been stabilized, Sims had helped the doctor to wrap the limb with strips of damp linen soaked with gypsum plaster, which had hardened into a cast.

“Mr. Winterborne is doing as well as can be expected,” Dr. Weeks murmured. “He was fortunate in that the fibula break was clean. Furthermore, after his exposure to the extreme cold, his blood pressure was so low that it reduced blood loss. I expect, barring complications, that the leg will heal well.”

“What about his vision?” Kathleen went to Winterborne’s bedside, looking down at him in concern. He was in a sedated sleep, the upper half of his face obscured by the bandages around his eyes.

“He has corneal scratches,” the doctor replied, “from flying glass. I removed a few splinters and applied salve. None of the abrasions appear to be particularly deep, which gives me good reason to hope he will recover his sight. To give him the best chance of recovery, he must be kept still and sedated for the next few days.”

“Poor man,” Kathleen said quietly. “We’ll take good care of him.” Her gaze returned to the doctor. “Will Lord Trenear have to be sedated as well?”

“Only if he has difficulty sleeping at night. I believe his ribs are cracked but not broken. One can usually feel a broken rib move when palpated. Painful, to be certain, but in a few weeks he’ll be as good as new.”

The candle wavered a little in her hand, a drop of hot wax splashing onto her wrist. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that.”

“I think perhaps I do,” Dr. Weeks said dryly. “Your affection for Lord Trenear is impossible to miss.”

Kathleen’s smile faltered. “Oh, it’s not affection, it’s only… well, my concern for the family, and the estate, and… I couldn’t become… fond… of a man when I’m still in mourning. That would be very wrong indeed.”

“My lady…” Dr. Weeks contemplated her for a long moment, his eyes weary and kind. “I know many scientific facts about the human heart – not the least of which is that it’s far easier to make a heart stop beating entirely than to keep it from loving the wrong person.”

Kathleen went to Devon’s room afterward. When there was no response to her soft tap, she let herself in. He was sleeping on his side, his long form motionless beneath the covers. The sound of his breathing was reassuringly deep and steady.

Coming to stand beside the bed, she looked down at him with tender protectiveness. His mouth was relaxed into gentle lines amid the bristle of his jaw. His lashes were long and as black as ink. Two small white plasters had been affixed over cuts on his cheek and forehead. The cowlick on the right side of his forehead had sprung up in a way he would never have allowed during the day. She tried as hard as she could to keep from smoothing it. Losing the battle, she stroked the tempting lock gently.

Devon’s breathing altered. As he came to the surface, his eyes flickered open, drowsy with exhaustion and opiate tonic.

“Kathleen.” His voice was low and raw.

“I just wanted to check on you. Is there anything you need? A glass of water?”

“You.” He caught at her free hand and pulled it closer. She felt his lips press against her fingers. “Need to talk to you.”

Her breath stopped. A pulse began to throb in every vulnerable place of her body. “You… you’ve been dosed with enough laudanum to sedate an elephant,” she said, trying to sound light. “It would be wiser not to tell me anything at the moment. Go to sleep, and in the morning —”

“Lie with me.”

Her stomach tightened in yearning. “You know I can’t,” she whispered.