Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(31)

Relief began to creep through her. “Neddy was right,” she said. “You are a sprack ’un.” The men around them chuckled. Drawing closer, she asked, “Did the bull’s horns catch you?”

Mr. Ravenel shook his head. “A nail on the fence.”

Phoebe frowned in concern. “It must be cleaned right away. You’ll be fortunate if you don’t end up with lockjaw.”

“Nothing could lock that jaw,” Brick-end said slyly, and the group erupted with guffaws.

“Let me have a look,” Phoebe said, kneeling by Mr. Ravenel’s side.

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

He sent her a vaguely exasperated glance. “It’s . . . not in a proper location.”

“For heaven’s sake, I was a married woman.” Undeterred, Phoebe reached for the hem of the shirt.

“Wait.” Mr. Ravenel’s tanned complexion had turned the color of rosewood. He scowled at the workmen, who were observing the proceedings with great interest. “Can a man have a bit of privacy?”

Brick-end proceeded to shoo the small crowd away, saying brusquely, “Back to work, lads. Don’t stand there a-garpin’.”

Mumbling, the workmen retreated.

Phoebe pulled up Mr. Ravenel’s shirt. The top three buttons of his trousers had been unfastened, the waistband sagging to reveal a lean torso wrought with layers of muscle. One strong hand clamped a sooty, greasy-looking cloth a few inches above his left hip.

“Why are you holding a filthy rag against an open wound?” Phoebe demanded.

“It was the only thing we could find.”

Phoebe took three clean, crisp handkerchiefs from her pocket, and folded them to make a pad.

Mr. Ravenel’s brows lifted as he watched her. “Do you always carry so many handkerchiefs?”

She had to smile at that. “I have children.” Leaning over him, she carefully peeled away the dirty cloth. Blood welled from the three-inch wound on his side. It was a nasty scratch, undoubtedly deep enough to require stitches.

As Phoebe pressed the pad of handkerchiefs over the injury, Mr. Ravenel winced and leaned back against the post to avoid physical contact with her. “My lady . . . I can do that . . .” He paused to take an agitated breath, his hand fumbling to replace hers. His color was still high, the blue of his eyes like the flickering core of a heartwood fire.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But we have to apply pressure to slow the bleeding.”

“I don’t need your help,” he said testily. “Let me have it.”

Taken aback, Phoebe let go of the folded pad. Mr. Ravenel refused to meet her gaze, his thick dark brows knitting together as he held the cloth against the wound.

She couldn’t help stealing a covert glance at the exposed part of his torso, the flesh so firm and tanned it appeared to have been cast in bronze. Lower down near his hip, the satiny brown skin merged into a line of ivory. The sight was so intriguing—and intimate—that she felt her stomach tighten pleasurably. Leaning over him as she was, she couldn’t help breathing in the dusty, sweaty, sun-heated scent of him. A stunning urge seized her, to touch that brown-and-white borderline with her fingertip, trace a path across his body.

“I’ll have your men fetch a horse and cart to convey you back to the estate,” she managed to say.

“There’s no need for a cart. I can walk.”

“You’ll worsen the bleeding if you exert yourself.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“A deep one,” she persisted. “You may need stitches.”

“All I need is salve and a bandage.”

“We’ll let a doctor decide. In the meanwhile, you must ride in the cart.”

His voice was low and surly. “Are you planning to use bodily force? Because that’s the only way you’ll load me into the damn thing.”

He seemed every bit as riled and menacing as the bull had a few minutes ago. But Phoebe wasn’t about to let him make his injury worse out of pure male stubbornness.

“Forgive me if I’m being tyrannical,” she said in her most soothing tone. “I tend to do that when I’m concerned about someone. It’s your decision, naturally. But I wish you would indulge me in this, if only to spare me from worrying over you every step of the way home.”

The mulish set of his jaw eased. “I manage other people,” he informed her. “People don’t manage me.”

“I’m not managing you.”

“You’re trying,” he said darkly.

An irrepressible grin spread across her face. “Is it working?”

Slowly Mr. Ravenel’s head lifted. He didn’t reply, only gave her a strange, long look that spurred her heartbeat until she was lightheaded from the force of its pounding. No man had ever stared at her like this. Not even her husband, for whom she’d always been close and attainable, her presence woven securely into the fabric of his days. Since childhood, she’d always been Henry’s safe harbor.

But whatever it was this man wanted from her, it wasn’t safety.

“You should humor my daughter’s wishes, Ravenel,” Sebastian advised from behind her. “The last time I tried to refuse her something, she launched into a screaming fit that lasted at least an hour.”