Page 29 of A Lady's Dangerous Secret
James strode behind her. His arms finally started to feel tired, his body knowing they had reached their final destination. He took a deep breath and made his way up the stairs for onefinal push. Once he reached the unfamiliar landing, the maid paused and looked at him expectantly.
“To Lord Carrington’s chambers.”
The maid showed him to a nearby door, and then lit a candlestick near the bed once inside the room. A fire already burned, providing additional light. James could make out dark-green drapes and upholstery in the masculine space.
A voice from behind him echoed into the room, “I have the items you requested.” Dawson stepped around James and into view. The butler laid the supplies on a table between two upholstered chairs near the fireplace. There were already two glasses and a decanter of brandy set up. James asked Dawson to wait outside the door in case he needed anything else. He brought Charlotte to the massive four-poster bed and eased her on it. He said as softly as he could, “You’re safe, Lottie, I’m here to take care of you.” James would do everything in his power to protect her, even if she was promised to another.
Mine, flashed through his mind while he waited nervously for her to respond. He suppressed the unwelcome thought. She could never be his.
Charlotte lifted her head slowly and stared at him with owlish eyes and blinked, still in shock. At least she was alert and not injured too badly. James would take any small mercies.
He gingerly removed the strip of petticoat that was now stuck to her neck from the blood drying and removed her cloak to ensure he did not miss any other injuries. The cloak was streaked with dirt from her scuffle with the ruffian. James threw it to the ground in disgust. He scanned her body once again and found no additional wounds, then walked over to the fireplace and poured a glass of brandy before he headed back to the bed.
“Lottie, drink this. It’ll help you when I look at your neck more closely.” She stared at James blankly. It broke his heart to see his brazen beauty in such a state. She was usually so vibrant.
He lifted the glass to her lips and tilted it gingerly, hoping she would open her mouth. When the strong drink reached her lips, they parted ever so slightly, and he could ease the liquid into her mouth.
He thanked the God in which he did not believe. He had no idea what he was doing and was not skilled at comforting someone. Although his mother had shown him love, the cruelty of his uncle throughout his childhood overshadowed any maternal warmth, leaving James with a cold indifference. This lack of emotion helped him in war, but left him unprepared for helping a lady he did not deserve.
Charlotte drank a sufficient amount of brandy to hopefully numb the pain from the wound, so James retrieved the water, rags, and cheap alcohol. She was in a simple gray dress that was wrinkled from the night’s events. James inspected the strip of petticoat he had removed from her neck. The fabric was bloody but not drenched.
“Well now, let’s see what we have here.” Although Charlotte remained motionless, speaking to her helped calm the fear that crept into him. He had never needed any support when he tended to his wounded men, but this was different.
It was Charlotte, and he cared too much. But that had to stop.
He cleared his throat and grabbed the candlestick, examining the wound under better lighting than the alleyway.
He gave himself a stern warning. No terms of endearment, no tender gestures. She was destined to become the Duchess of Westcliffe. He was a mere commoner, unworthy of breathing the same air as she.
“Charlotte, I’m going to clean your skin.” He dipped a rag in the water and gently rubbed the damp fabric over her wound. She flinched, which was a good sign. She had an inch or so gash running horizontally along the bottom of her throat. It was not too deep and not too wide, so he thought stitches could beavoided. From being at sea during the war, he had sewn up many of his men when in a pinch, but Charlotte’s delicate neck did not deserve his clumsy attempt at stitching.
He finished cleaning the wound and her surrounding skin with water. She stared straight ahead with a lifeless look in her eyes. He called for Dawson outside the closed door. The butler approached the bed with a well-trained, emotionless demeanor.
“Lady Charlotte’s wound needs to be cleaned with alcohol, and she might jump off the bed.”
“Yes, Captain. Shall I call for the surgeon?”
James let out a scoff. “Certainly not. She doesn’t require stitches. I’ll clean the wound myself.”
“Of course, sir.”
James paused, sensing the butler hovering behind him.
“Is there something else, Dawson?”
“Captain, if I may be so…”
“Out with it. I don’t need the formalities. I’m not a bloody lord.”
“Yes, sir, I mean Captain,” Dawson stuttered, likely never having been so flustered in his life. He cleared his throat. “Lady Charlotte may need a change of clothes.”
James furrowed his brow as he assessed Charlotte’s appearance. He had noticed her dress briefly, but had been more focused on her wound. He neglected the bloody neckline of her wrinkled dress. “Can you procure a nightdress from the, erm, mistress of the house?”
“Yes, Captain.” Dawson turned and left the room.
James lifted her hand off the bed and was jolted by the iciness of her skin. This would not do…she had to be warmed. He did not want to dirty the sheets and tuck her into the bed in her current state, so James rubbed her hand and forearm and then switched to the other side. He felt brutish, because his large hands easily encircled her petite arm while he movedthem up and down her limb to generate warmth. The chill from her skin was profound and seeped through his calloused fingers and palms. He moved to Charlotte’s legs and eased up her skirt and petticoats in order to remove her half boots. In any other situation, he would have felt a rush of desire to view her exposed, delectable, stocking-clad ankles; however, all he felt was guilt that this traumatic event was his fault. Her feet were also cold, so he vigorously rubbed them.
A moan escaped from her, and his eyes flew to her face. Was she starting to recover?
