Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(67)

Rand’s satisfaction, however, proved to be shortlived as he felt a quick, searing strip of pain along his right side. Somehow the man had managed to produce a short, gleaming blade in his left hand. As Rand was forced to avoid another quick jab of the knife, he found that the wall was against his back, preventing further retreat as the stranger dealt him a stunning blow to the jaw.

Several seconds afterward Rand shook his head and realized to his disgust that he was sitting on the floor, his back braced against the wall. The intruder was long gone, but Rosalie was still there, untouched. Wincing, Rand clasped a hand to his burning side and stood up, feeling the dampness of blood on his shirt. The connecting door to the next room opened just then. Mireille peeped around the corner with a lit candle in her hand, her rumpled clothes looking as though they had been hastily donned.

“Monsieur, did you call for . . . ?” she began, and her eyes widened as she took in the scene. Quickly she approached him, holding the candle up to view his condition. Rand smiled grimly as he saw her face blanch in the sputtering candlelight. Her huge brown eyes were so dark that they appeared to be black. “We received an unexpected caller,” he murmured.

Suddenly he swayed.

“Monsieur, please sit down,” Mireille muttered, rushing to the washstand and setting the candle down. “I will make a pad for the wound, and then the physician—”

“No physician,” Rand interrupted sharply, halfsprawling in a hoop-backed chair. Any report of this on top of all that had already happened would stir up a tidal wave of controversy and interest that would make the situation even more precarious. “It’s not deep, it’s just a scratch.”

“But you should—”

“Promise that you’ll keep your little mouth shut,” he said roughly, feeling fire seep from the wound to deep within his gut, “or I’ll find a way to—”

“Oui, monsieur,” Mireille cut in hurriedly, bringing a bowl of water and a small heap of linen to him. “Open your shirt, please.” As he regarded her dubiously and opened his mouth to question what effect it would have on her maidenly modesty, she threw him an uncharacteristically stern frown. “I will not faint, monsieur.” Rand’s lips quirked, and then he shrugged out of the rent, bloodstained garment with difficulty. His compact brown torso gleamed in the weak candlelight. “No, but you’ll blush to death, from the look of it,” he murmured, stifling a colorful oath as she firmly pressed a cool, soaking cloth to the well-separated flesh left in the wake of the knife. The cut ached like the devil. “Would you like a drink, monsieur? There is some whiskey in—”

“No.”

After a momentary pause Mireille could not resist asking another question.

“Someone came to rob you?”

As Rand nodded, thick brown hair ruffled over his forehead in a damp swath.

“Someone came to rob me of mademoiselle,” he clarified, his voice as dry as fire. Mireille’s eyebrows knit together in perplexion, but wisely she refrained from making any more inquiries and lifted the cloth to look at the wound. Her unaffected, businesslike manner interested Rand, for it occurred to him that she was not unused to the sight of blood . . . or a man’s bare chest. Several questions were on the tip of his tongue, but since she respected his privacy, he would respect hers. His eyes flickering with gratitude, he accepted a thick square of dry linen to hold against his side.

“Before we make a bandage, I will run for some salve,” Mireille said, and stood up to leave. “If you mention this to anyone downstairs,” Rand said slowly, meaningfully, “you will have cause to regret it.” His eyes were hypnotic, gleaming through the darkness like golden coins set in a face that was harshly lined with pain and exhaustion.

“I promise to keep silent,” Mireille replied gravely, and her small figure appeared almost ghostly as she glided quickly out of the room.

The wound was indeed only a superficial one, and it showed every sign of healing with miraculous speed. Rand barely gave it a second thought, becoming enmeshed in sober, weary vigilance as he watched over Rosalie. He became convinced during the next two days that every sin he had ever committed had been carefully tallied and that his penance was now being visited upon him. He did not know if Rosalie suffered in the confinement of her unconsciousness, but he did every time he looked at her, each time he noticed how dry and cracked her lips were or how prominent her finely structured bones were becoming. He could not bear to look at her and yet could not take his eyes away from the sight of her. He became aware of little else but the slight, motionless form on the bed, and it was only because of Mireille’s insistence that he ate anything at all. Sleep was elusive except for the short periods of time when exhaustion overwhelmed him. For the most part, he could only stare and wait.

Mireille approached him on the third day as sunset began, her dark, clear brown eyes gleaming with compassion as she regarded him with a little less nervousness than usual.

“Monsieur?” she inquired softly. “Would you like for me to order something for you?” He raised his head to look at her, his skin pale underneath the coppery tan, his eyes cold. “You will make yourself ill,” she continued, wringing her thin hands together. The subject of his wound was unmentioned but hung between them palpably. “Perhaps you should take a walk in the fresh air? . . . Or would you like me to order a bath?” “A bath,” Rand said, rubbing his eyes and smiling slightly, his expression lacking any sort of genuine humor. “Doubtless I need one. And coffee.” “Monsieur . . . you would not wish to worry mademoi selle with your appearance when she wakes, no? You must sleep, you must eat—”