Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(68)

“I’ll return within a half hour,” Helen said. “I promise.”

Winterborne didn’t relinquish his grip.

“I promise,” she repeated. With her free hand, she stroked his fingers lightly, coaxing them to loosen.

He tried to dampen his lips with his tongue before speaking. “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely.

“Lady Helen.”

“What time is it?”

Helen sent a questioning glance to Mrs. Church, who went to the mantel clock. “It’s four o’clock,” the housekeeper reported.

He was going to time her, Helen realized. And heaven help her if she was late.

“I’ll return by half past four,” she said. After a moment, she added softly, “Trust me.”

Gradually Winterborne’s hand opened, freeing her.

Chapter 21

The first thing Rhys had become aware of after the railway accident was someone – a doctor, perhaps – asking if there was someone he wanted to send for. He had shaken his head immediately. His father was dead, and his elderly mother, a flinty and humorless woman who lived in London, was the last person he wanted to see. Even if he’d asked her for comfort, she wouldn’t have known how to give it.

Rhys had never been seriously injured or ill in his life. Even as a boy he had been big-boned and physically fearless. His Welsh parents had thrashed him with a barrel stave for any misdeed or moment of laziness, and he had taken the worst punishments without flinching. His father had been a grocer, and they had lived on a street of shopkeepers where Rhys had not learned the skills of buying and selling so much as he had absorbed them, as naturally as he breathed air.

After he had built his own business, he never let any personal relationship detract from it. There were women, of course, but only the ones who were willing to have an affair on his terms: purely sexual and devoid of sentiment. Now, as he lay suffocating in an unfamiliar bedroom with pain rioting through him, it occurred to Rhys that perhaps he had been rather too independent. There should be someone he could send for, someone who would care for him in this inexplicable situation of being injured.

In spite of the cool breeze that came from the window, every inch of him felt scorched. The weight of the cast on his leg maddened him almost as much as the unrelenting hurt of the broken bone. The room seemed to revolve and swivel, making him violently nauseous. All he could do was wait, minute by helpless minute, for the woman to return.

Lady Helen… one of the rarefied creatures he had always regarded with private contempt. One of his betters.

After what seemed an eternity, he was aware of someone entering the room. He heard a quiet rattle, like glass or porcelain against metal. Brusquely he asked, “What time is it?”

“Four twenty-seven.” It was Lady Helen’s voice, luminous with a hint of amusement. “I have three minutes left.”

He listened intently to the rustle of skirts… the sound of something being poured and stirred… the crackle of water and ice. If she intended for him to drink something, she was mistaken: The idea of swallowing sent a shudder of revulsion through him.

She was close now; he sensed her leaning over him. A length of cool, damp flannel began to stroke over his forehead, cheeks and throat, and it felt so good that a wrenching sigh left him. When the cloth was removed momentarily, he reached for it, gasping, “Don’t stop.” He was inwardly furious that he’d been reduced to begging for small mercies.

“Shhh…” She had freshened the flannel, made it colder and wetter. As the unhurried stroking continued, his fingers encountered the folds of her skirts and closed on them so tightly that nothing could have pried the fabric free. Her gentle hand slid beneath his head and lifted it enough for the cloth to slide underneath to the back of his neck. The pleasure of it drew a mortifying groan of relief from him.

When he had relaxed and was breathing deeply, the cloth was set aside. He felt her maneuver around him, easing his head and shoulders upward, tucking pillows behind him. Perceiving that she intended to give him more water or perhaps some of the foul laudanum tonic from earlier, he protested through gritted teeth.

“No – damn you —”

“Just try.” She was gentle but merciless. Her slight weight depressed the side of the mattress, and a slender arm slid behind him. As he was caught in that half-cradling hold, he considered shoving her off the bed. But her hand touched his cheek with a tenderness that somehow undermined his will to hurt her.

A glass was brought to his mouth, and a sweet, very cold liquid touched his lips. As he took a cautious sip, the woolly surface of his tongue absorbed the faintly astringent drink instantly. It was delicious.

“Slower,” she cautioned.

He was so parched, as dry as a powder house, and he needed more. Reaching upward, he fumbled for her hand with the cup, gripped it steady, and took a greedy swallow before she could stop him.

“Wait.” The cup was pulled from his grasp. “Let’s see if you can keep it down.”

He was tempted to curse her for withholding the drink, although a distant part of his brain understood the sense of it.

Eventually the glass came to his lips again.

He forced himself to drain the contents slowly rather than gulp. After he had finished, Lady Helen waited patiently, still supporting him. The motion of her breathing was gentle and even, her breast a soft cushion beneath his head. She smelled like vanilla and some faint, flowery essence. He had never been at such a disadvantage in his adult life… He was always well dressed and in control, but all this woman saw was a helpless, grossly unkempt invalid. It was infuriating.