Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(19)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

He raised his arms grudgingly, letting her pull his shirt over his head, and then he was nude to the waist. When he looked up, a ring of curious small children surrounded him. Even the urchin had emerged from her skirts.

The boy held the cat by its upper body, its lower limbs stretched and hanging. It looked dead, except for the fact that it was purring. “His name is Soot.”

“How fascinating,” Lazarus replied. He hated cats.

“Mary Whitsun,” said Makepeace, “kindly take the younger children into the dining room. You may hear them recite their Psalms.”

“Yes, sir,” the child said, and herded her brethren from the room.

Mrs. Dews cleared her throat. “Perhaps you should oversee them, Winter. I can manage here by myself.”

The man smiled far too benevolently. “Mary Whitsun will do well enough on her own, I believe, sister.”

Makepeace resumed his seat across the table from her, but as she turned her back to rummage in a cupboard, he shot a look at Lazarus—one that Lazarus had no difficulty in reading. Winter Makepeace might be ten years his junior and have the appearance of an aesthetic monk, but if Lazarus harmed his sister, Makepeace would do his damnedest to send him to hell.

TEMPERANCE TURNED BACK from the cupboard with the jar of salve in her hands. She tried not to wince at the sight of Lord Caire’s wound. Blood painted his shoulder and trailed in trickles down to his wrist, startlingly crimson against his white skin. Fresh blood dripped down his chest from where they’d reopened the wound when they removed his shirt. Her eyes followed the bloody trail helplessly, down over his surprisingly muscled chest, lightly sprinkled with black hair, over the shocking brown of his nude nipple, to a line of black hair that began at his navel and disappeared into the waistband of his breeches.

Good Lord.

Her eyes snapped up hastily and she turned her back, attempting to remember what she had been doing. There was a jar of healing salve in her hands. His wound. Right. She had to clean and dress it.

Temperance swallowed and bustled to the table with the jar of salve, and caught sight of Winter glaring at the aristocrat. She looked swiftly between the men, her eyes narrowed. Winter had resumed an aspect of patient innocence while Lord Caire returned her stare, his wide mouth quirked, a devilish gleam of amusement in his eyes. Had he seen her ogling his bare body?

Oh, bother. Now was not the time to be embarrassed by missish nerves.

Temperance drew a calming breath, carefully keeping her gaze focused away from Lord Caire’s mesmerizing chest. “Would you like some wine, my lord? This procedure may be painful.”

“Please. I wouldn’t want to grow faint.” His words were innocent, but the tone held irony.

She reproved him with a look even as Winter got up to fetch their only bottle of wine, hoarded and saved for a special occasion. Well, physicking a lord in their kitchen was certainly special.

Temperance found a clean rag in the rag bag and moistened it with the hot water. She turned determinedly to Lord Caire. Winter had returned and uncorked the wine. He poured a cup and handed it to Lord Caire. She dabbed at the blood around the wound as he took a mouthful of wine. Lord Caire’s skin was warm and smooth. He stiffened beneath her fingers and set the wineglass down abruptly. She darted a glance at his face. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes glazed.

“Am I hurting you?” she asked in concern. She hadn’t even touched the wound yet, but some people were more sensitive to pain than others. Perhaps he hadn’t been jesting about growing faint.

There was a pause, almost as if he hadn’t heard her, and then he blinked. “No. I’m not in pain.”

His voice was cold, all humor gone from his eyes. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t tell what.

Temperance turned her attention back to the wound. She had a strange feeling that he was keeping himself from shoving her away only by a great effort. She pressed the cloth over the wound itself, half expecting that he would react violently. Instead he seemed to unbend a little at the pain.

How odd.

She raised the cloth and examined the cleaned wound. It was only a few inches across, but it was obviously more deep than wide. Fresh blood seeped steadily and the edges gaped.

“I’ll need to sew this shut,” she said, looking up.

He was so close, his face only inches from hers. She could see a small muscle twitching next to his mouth, the involuntary movement in sharp contrast to the rest of his still countenance. Something lurked, deep at the back of his bright blue eyes. Something that looked like suffering.

Temperance drew in her breath with shock.

“I’ll get your kit,” Winter said from across the table.

Temperance jerked her head up. Her brother was already rising from the table, his expression serene. Had he not noticed the pain in Lord Caire’s eyes? Or the look they’d exchanged?

Evidently not.

She released her breath, rummaging in the rag bag to give her hands something to do. They were trembling. She’d sewed up innumerable small cuts, tended scrapes and bumps and fevers, but she’d never caused the kind of pain that marked Lord Caire’s eyes. She wasn’t even sure she could continue.

“Just do it,” Lord Caire murmured.

She looked at him, startled. Had he somehow read her thoughts?

He was watching her, his expression wary. “Just sew me up quickly and I’ll leave.”

She glanced across the room, but Winter was still searching a cupboard for her kit. She looked back at Lord Caire. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

His wide mouth twitched, but it was hard to tell if it was a wince or a smile. “I assure you, Mrs. Dews, that whatever you do, it cannot make my pain worse.”

She stared at him and knew that the pain he spoke of had nothing to do with the wound in his shoulder. What had…?

“Everything is in order, I believe,” Winter said, setting her kit on the table. “Temperance?”

“Yes?” She looked up, smiling blindly. “Yes, thank you, brother.”

He glanced suspiciously between her and Lord Caire, but took his seat again without comment.

Temperance breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing she needed was Winter questioning her now. She opened her kit, a small tin box where she kept large needles, catgut, a fine, pointed pair of tweezers, scissors, and other implements useful for repairing small children who fell down quite often. She was glad to see that her fingers no longer shook.

Threading a sturdy needle, she turned to Lord Caire’s shoulder and pinched the edges of the wound together. She placed the first stitch. Children often had to be held down when she did this. Some screamed or wept or grew hysterical, but Lord Caire was obviously made of sterner stuff. He drew a breath as she pierced his skin, but made no other indication that she was hurting him. In fact, he seemed more relaxed now than he had when she was wiping the wound clean.