Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(18)

She looked away and he knew she meant to lie.

“Promise,” he said sternly.

Her gaze returned to his. “I promise.”

“Good.” And then he did the only thing that made sense.

He kissed her.

Iris gasped. Dyemore’s mouth burned. Almost his entire weight had sagged against her—and he wasn’t a small man—but it was the kiss that most startled her.

He …

She could taste him, the wine he must’ve drunk this morning, the scent of smoke in his hair, drifting about her face, the heat rolling off him in thick waves. He was so overwhelmingly large, so excruciatingly masculine.

She’d been married. She’d been kissed before—of course she had—but it hadn’t been like this.

Nothing like this.

It was as if everything that made her female was being awakened and called forth by everything male in him. Her heart beat faster, her nipples drew tight, her sex grew wet, and she felt … everywhere.

He staggered and she abruptly came to herself, tearing her lips away from his. Her mouth slid clumsily over the side of his face and across the smooth skin of his scar.

She jerked back, startled at the contact. It seemed far too intimate somehow.

“We …” Her voice broke and she had to clear her throat. “You should lie down.”

He grunted and she truly began to worry. Even at his worst yesterday he’d been articulate—more than coherent.

Now his head lolled against her shoulder, his face so hot on her neck she thought he might brand her skin. She half dragged, half walked him toward the bed. He stumbled, his arm wrapping around her shoulders, and she nearly went down with him. But she found the strength to lock her knees and remain standing. If they fell now, she’d never get him upright again. Where had Ubertino gone to? How dare he leave his master like this?

Iris gritted her teeth and hauled Dyemore the last few feet to the bed.

She pushed him at the bed, panting, and he fell against it. Fortunately, he had enough strength to crawl on top, but she could see his arms shaking.

Panic was beginning to fill her throat.

This couldn’t be happening. He’d survived the gunshot. He’d been arguing with her only moments before.

Dear God, he couldn’t die of infection now.

She yanked at the covers, pulling them out from under him, and then helped him climb underneath. He was shivering as if cold, but his touch was hot, and she could see sweat beading his forehead.

Perhaps … perhaps he’d merely overexerted himself by rising too soon.

But even as she was trying to convince herself, Iris was hurrying to the door. She flung it open and ran to the stairs, calling, “Ubertino! Nicoletta! Ivo!”

There was a clatter from below as she dashed down the steps. One of the manservants—she’d seen him last night but for the life of her she couldn’t remember if she’d been told his name—met her on the stairs. He lifted a hand as if to stay her, his thick black eyebrows drawn together.

“No!” She struck aside his hand and swept past him, ignoring his shout.

The sitting room where they’d wed in that farce of a ceremony was on this floor. She banged open doors until she found it and hurried inside. There! The decanter of wine sat on a side table. She snatched it up and turned to see Ubertino at the door, gaping at her in confusion.

“Your Grace?”

“The duke—he’s collapsed,” she said. “Come with me.”

Nicoletta was in the corridor, frowning suspiciously, along with Valente and Ivo.

Iris led them all upstairs.

She burst into the bedroom and a single glance at the bed told her that the duke was no better.

Nicoletta exclaimed something and brushed past her, hurrying to the sick man. The maidservant bent over him, touching his face.

The duke muttered in Corsican, but didn’t open his eyes.

Nicoletta’s mouth thinned. She straightened and barked orders to the men.

All three ran from the room.

Iris was already on the other side of the bed and, as if by common agreement, she and Nicoletta both began pulling back the coverlet. The duke’s black banyan was wet with sweat, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Between them they helped him sit up, and Iris tipped a little of the wine into his mouth. He drank and then turned aside his head, grimacing. His fingers were scrabbling at the buttons of his banyan.

Iris glanced up and met Nicoletta’s black eyes. Nicoletta looked worried.

And that, more than anything else, terrified Iris.

She gently pushed Dyemore’s hands aside and unbuttoned his banyan, then parted the fine silk, revealing his hot, sweating chest. She pulled his arm from his sleeve, gritting her teeth as he moaned at the movement.

The manservants returned. They carried jugs of water, cloths, and other items.

Nicoletta picked up a pair of scissors and cut away the bandage on the duke’s shoulder. The outer layers were dry, but as the maidservant cut through them, it was apparent that the inner layers were sodden with blood and other fluids.

Iris wrinkled her nose.

The wound stank.

The smell reminded her of the times she’d attended the wounded after skirmishes on the Continent. It had been much against James’s wishes, but there had been so many injured and so few to help that she’d felt it was her duty. As a lady she hadn’t been permitted to do much more than bathe the faces of dying boys and men, write letters home for those who were coherent, and generally tidy up, but the sights, the sounds, and especially the smells of that time had been very hard to forget.