Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(69)

“Better?” she asked.

“Ydw,” Rhys replied in Welsh without thinking. Yes. It seemed impossible, but the room had stopped turning over. Even though shocks of pain still ran up his leg as if bullets were being fired through it at intervals, he could tolerate anything as long as the nausea was gone.

She began to ease him from her lap, but he laid a solid arm across her. He needed everything to stay exactly as it was, at least for a few minutes. To his satisfaction, she settled back beneath him.

“What did you give me?” he asked.

“A tea I made with orchids.”

“Orchids,” he repeated, puzzled.

He’d never heard of any use for the odd flowers, other than as exotic ornaments.

“Two varieties of Dendrobium, and a Spiranthes. Many orchids have medicinal properties. My mother collected them, and filled a score of notebooks with information she’d gathered.”

Oh, he liked her voice, a low and lulling melody. He felt her move again – another attempt to set him aside – and he slumped more heavily into her lap, his head pinning her arm in a determined effort to make her stay.

“Mr. Winterborne, I should leave you to rest now —”

“Talk to me.”

She hesitated. “If you wish. What shall we talk about?”

He wanted to ask her if he’d been permanently blinded. If anyone had said anything to him about it, he’d been too drugged to remember. But he couldn’t bring himself to give voice to the question. He was too afraid of the answer. And there was no way to stop thinking about it while he was alone in this quiet room. He needed distraction and comfort.

He needed her.

“Shall I tell you about orchids?” she asked in the silence. She continued without waiting for an answer, adjusting her position more comfortably. “The word comes from Greek mythology. Orchis was the son of a satyr and a nymph. During a feast to celebrate Bacchus, Orchis drank too much wine and tried to force his attentions on a priestess. Bacchus was very displeased, and reacted by having Orchis torn to pieces. The pieces were scattered far and wide, and wherever one landed, an orchid grew.” Pausing, she leaned away for a few seconds, reaching for something. Something soft and delicate touched his cracked lips… She was applying salve with a fingertip. “Most people don’t know that vanilla is the fruit of an orchid vine. We keep one in a glasshouse on the estate – it’s so long that it grows sideways on the wall. When one of the flowers is full grown, it opens in the morning, and if it isn’t pollinated, it closes in the evening, never to open again. The white blossoms, and the vanilla pods within them, have the sweetest scent in the world…”

As her gentle voice continued, Rhys had the sensation of floating, the red tide of fever easing. How strange and lovely it was to lie here half dozing in her arms, possibly even better than f*cking… but that thought led to the indecent question of what it might be like with her… how she might lie quietly beneath him while he devoured all that petal softness and vanilla sweetness… and slowly he fell asleep in Lady Helen’s arms.

Chapter 22

Late in the afternoon, Devon left his bed with the intention of joining the rest of the family in the dining room for Christmas Eve tea. He managed to dress with the help of his valet, but it took far longer than he’d anticipated. The process first entailed binding his midsection firmly enough to support the cracked ribs and restrict sudden movements. Even with Sutton’s assistance, it was excruciating to slide his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. The slightest twist of his torso sent agony zinging through him. Before Devon was able to don his coat, he was obliged to take a half dose of laudanum to dull the pain.

Eventually Sutton tied his neck cloth in a precise knot and stood back to view him. “How do you feel, my lord?”

“Well enough to go downstairs for a while,” Devon said. “But I’m not what anyone would call spry. And if I sneeze, I’m fairly certain I’ll start bawling like an infant.”

The valet smiled slightly. “You’ll have no shortage of people eager to help you. The footmen literally drew straws to decide who would have the privilege of accompanying you downstairs.”

“I don’t need anyone to accompany me,” Devon said, disliking the idea of being treated like some gouty old codger. “I’ll hold the railing to keep myself steady.”

“I’m afraid Sims is adamant. He lectured the entire staff about the necessity of protecting you from additional injury. Furthermore, you can’t disappoint the servants by refusing their help. You’ve become quite a hero to them after saving those people.”

“I’m not a hero,” Devon scoffed. “Anyone would have done it.”

“I don’t think you understand, my lord. According to the account in the papers, the woman you rescued is a miller’s wife – she had gone to London to fetch her little nephew, after his mother had just died. And the boy and his sisters are the children of factory workers. They were sent to live in the country with their grandparents.” Sutton paused before saying with extra emphasis, “Second-class passengers, all of them.”

Devon gave him a look askance.

“For you to risk your life for anyone was heroic,” the valet said. “But the fact that a man of your rank would be willing to sacrifice everything for those of such humble means… Well, as far as everyone at Eversby Priory is concerned, it’s the same as if you had done it for any one of them.” Sutton began to smile as he saw Devon’s discomfited expression. “Which is why you will be plagued with your servants’ homage and adoration for decades to come.”