‘You will remain exactly where you are, Christian, and not undo all my good work of last night, unless you wish to feel the sharp lash of my tongue,’ an imperious voice informed him firmly as Lisette stepped into the bedchamber.
Her own appearance was as dishevelled, if not more so than François’s: her hair had escaped its pins and was falling down about her shoulders in untidy wisps; there were smears of blood on her cheek and throat, her black gown showing several darker stains which were almost certainly more blood. Her face was also deathly white, no doubt from spending a sleepless night attending to first Christian and then his groom, and her bottom lip was still slightly swollen from where Helene Rousseau had struck her.
And this was the young woman Christian intended to take back to England with him with the intention of handing her over to Aubrey Maystone.
Shame washed over Christian at the betrayal of such an act in the face of Lisette’s selflessness last night. Not only had she brought them all home by driving the carriage then tended to both men’s wounds all night, but by doing so she must also have known that she would be further incurring her mother’s wrath, not only for having done those things but also by remaining out all night.
‘Pierre?’ he questioned softly.
She nodded. ‘He has a slight fever, but I do not believe he will become any worse.’ She placed a bowl of water and fresh bandages down on the bedside table.
‘God be thanked,’ Christian muttered gratefully; he already had enough on his conscience without the death of this innocent French groom.
All of the household staff were aware of his true identity, of course, were all loyal to the French Crown and aware of the danger they placed themselves in by working with him. But that did not mean that Christian wished to be responsible for the death of one of them.
‘You, on the other hand, will remain in bed for the remainder of the day.’ Lisette spoke firmly again. ‘And tomorrow too, unless you wish for me to send for the doctor you refused to have attend you last night?’
Christian did not remember the last time a woman had spoken to him in so imperious a tone as this; his grandmère, before her death, and his sister Julianna tried to do the same, but Christian had grown adept at avoiding confrontation by meeting those dictates with a charming disregard for their content.
The determined expression on Lisette’s face told him that the events of the night had stripped away all social politeness, and that she had no intention of being ignored nor charmed.
Besides, how could he possibly argue with the woman who was probably responsible for not only saving his own life but also that of the young French groom?
The young and handsome French groom, Christian recalled with a displeased frown, with whom Lisette had sat up most of the night.
Which was utterly ridiculous of him in the circumstances.
His own clandestine presence in Paris was responsible for Pierre’s injuries as well as his own, and also for Lisette’s present exhaustion from doctoring them both. How could he possibly now feel jealous of the attention Lisette had necessarily shown the groom?
There was no logic or reason to it; it was just there, inside him. And, unlike the wound in his thigh, it felt as if it might be festering.
He smiled up at her. ‘I have no intention of “going against doctor’s orders” and getting out of bed, now that I can see for myself that you have come to no harm. I do, however, believe that you have done enough for both Pierre and myself for now and need to take your own rest.’
Lisette was well aware of how bedraggled she must look, after a night spent tending to Christian and his groom, and she certainly did not need him to remind her of it. ‘It is my intention to break my fast before then returning to the Fleur de Lis to collect my things.’
‘You are still intent on leaving there?’
‘I cannot stay.’ She shook her head. ‘But first I will check your wound.’ She indicated the bowl of water and fresh bandages.
‘Is that necessary?’
‘My— When I lived on the farm with the Duprées, we found that if a wound was kept clean, with fresh bandages applied often, there was less chance of it becoming inflamed.’
‘I am sure François will be only too happy to do that for me.’
‘It is a little late for modesty now, monsieur.’ Lisette eyed him impatiently as her attempts to pull back the bedclothes were met with resistance. ‘I assure you, François and I have already seen all,’ she now added drily.
In truth, she was no more comfortable with in
specting Christian’s wound than he was in allowing her to do it now that he was fully conscious and aware of the intimacy. But she really had no choice in the matter. The wound must be looked at, and re-dressed if necessary.
The Comte’s jaw tightened even as he slowly released the bedclothes. ‘I believe you are enjoying my discomfort far too much, Lisette!’
Was she? Perhaps. It had been a long and eventful twenty-four hours, and she really had no patience, or strength, left to fight such a silly battle as this one.
Of the two, she was perhaps the most embarrassed as she and François carefully removed the bandage she had applied last night, Lisette’s cheeks feeling hot with that embarrassment as she inadvertently touched the warmth of Christian’s other inner thigh.
‘I am sorry,’ she muttered awkwardly as her hand instinctively pulled away, taking the bandage with it, which unfortunately was stuck to the wound at the front of his thigh. She winced as she saw a well of fresh blood instantly appear at the wound’s surface.