Page 5 of The Accidental Wedding
Now for the breeches and boots.
The boots were the biggest problem. If his leg or ankle was broken, tugging the boot off could worsen the injury immeasurably.
They’d cut Papa’s boots off with a razor. She hadn’t thought twice about it then. These days she was much more sharply aware of the cost of things, and these boots were very beautiful and very expensive.
“But it has to be done,” she told him firmly as she fetched Papa’s razor. She was glad she’d brought it with them. It was sharper than any knife.
Frowning in concentration, she cut the boot from him, eased it carefully off, and peeled away his woolen stocking. The ankle was swollen and already coloring up. She couldn’t tell if it was broken or not. With that head wound, she’d have to fetch the doctor to him anyway. She hoped to God he had money to pay, for she certainly didn’t.
“Now for those breeches,” she told him. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t choose this moment to wake up.” She glanced at his still face. Not so much of a flicker?
She tried to be brisk and matter-of-fact as she undid the buttons that closed the fall of his breeches. She’d scrubbed the boys in the bath, so a full-grown naked male would not be very much different, surely.
Besides, though she wouldn’t admit it to a living soul, she was curious to see what a man, a young man in his prime, really looked like.
That was the French side of her, she knew; the side of her that always got her into trouble. Papa and his side of the family were so much more modest and reserved than Mama and Grand-mère had ever been. Almost puritanical.
No matter how sick Papa got, he’d insisted his valet, Bates, performed the more intimate tasks. Poor Bates. He’d loathed the task, but Papa was not one to be gainsaid. No matter how feeble his body grew, his will remained strong.
The buckskin was cold and clammy and clung tightly to the stranger’s body as she pulled the breeches down over his flat belly, taking with them the cotton drawers he wore underneath, following the line of dark hair that arrowed to his groin.
It was a struggle, but once past his hips, she was able to drag them all the way down. She dropped them on the floor, picked up the towel, and . . . stared.
She swallowed. He was a stranger. She ought to look away, to respect the poor man’s privacy while he was insensible and helpless.
She couldn’t. Her first truly naked man.
What a curious thing his manhood was, lying there in its nest of dark curls, a dark pinkish color, and looking quite soft. Not at all living up to the descriptions she’d heard. Smaller than she expected, too. Men always exaggerated.
She glanced at his face and with a shock realized that his eyes were open and he was watching her. Watching her watching hi—
“You’re awake!” she exclaimed, hastily tossing the towel over him. “How do you feel?” Her cheeks warmed, but she wasn’t going to apologize. She’d had to strip his wet clothes off for his own good.
For a moment, he didn’t respond. His eyes didn’t waver. They were very blue. She didn’t think she’d ever seen such blue eyes.
“You had a fall and hurt your head. Can you speak?”
He tried to say something, tried to sit up, but before she could reach to help him, he fell back with a moan against the makeshift pillow and his eyes closed again.
“Don’t fall asleep. Who are you?” She shook him by the arm. He didn’t respond.
He was alive, at least, and able to move. That was something.
She swiftly dried the rest of his body, trying not to think of how he’d caught her staring at his privates. She was embarrassed, yes, but not ashamed, she told herself. He was injured, she was supposed to look.
Yes, to make sure he hadn’t broken his thing, a little voice inside her commented. She ignored it. She finished drying him, and not knowing what else to do about his ankle, straightened it and bound it lightly with strips of clean cloth. Then she carefully rolled him over onto the clean, dry half of the bed and tucked the bedclothes around him.
Using tongs, she pulled the hot bricks from the fire, wrapped them well, and placed them close against his body. It was important to keep his internal organs warm, and the bricks would stop him rolling out of bed.
She checked the apron still tied around his head wound. There was no sign of fresh blood.
Despite her proximity to the fire, she was shivering. She should change before tending to his head wound, otherwise she’d end up with a chill.
She glanced at her unconscious guest. There was no place to be private here. She should take her clothes upstairs and change, but it was freezing up there. The children dressed and undressed in front of the fire all the time and only went up to bed when she’d warmed their beds well with hot bricks.
She hesitated. His breathing was steady, his eyes didn’t so much as flicker. She’d risk it.
Keeping her back to him as a token of modesty, she stripped her wet clothes off, toweled her chilly flesh dry, and dressed quickly in fresh, clean clothes.
