Page 51 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“Why would he shoot at you?”
“We don’t even know that he was shooting at me. I just happened to be what he hit.”
“No one heard anything because of the fireworks, and if they did, they would have just thought it was noise accompanying the show,” she speculated. The perfect cover. But still it made no sense that anyone would want to kill him. She walked forward and took the cloth from the servant. “We should send for a physician.”
“It’s nothing more than a flesh wound.” Westcliffe took the cloth from her and pressed it against the wound.
She snatched the cloth away. “I should see to it. I’m your wife.”
“You’ll get blood on that dress—”
“I already have blood on me.”
He looked at her then, truly looked at her. The concern that flashed briefly in his eyes was deeper than any she’d ever seen. She’d known he was a man of strong emotions—she’d experienced his anger and his passion when fueled by anger or drink—but this was something else, and she realized he possessed a wider range of feelings than she’d ever given him credit for.
Taking the cloth from her, he slowly came to his feet and began wiping the blood that had splattered on her chest. Each stroke was so gentle, but his hand was larger than the cloth, and the edge of it grazed her skin. She thought she must be some sort of weak, wanton woman to be so distracted by his touch at a moment like this, when his arm was bleeding—or had been bleeding. It appeared that the wound had stopped seeping. Still, it needed to be bandaged. She’d get to it in a moment, when he ceased his ministrations.
She’d caught glimpses of his chest before, but only in the shadows, or at a distance, or only through the narrow V of a shirt. In the light, with no shirt, he was really quite lovely. Firm and muscular. She wondered what sorts of activities he engaged in to keep himself so. He had a fine sprinkling of hair that narrowed down and disappeared beneath the waist of his trousers. Trousers that presently sported a large bulge—and she realized that he was as affected by touching her as she was by being touched.
Swallowing hard, she lifted her gaze to his face, struck by the intensity with which he concentrated, as though he would allow no speck of blood to remain on her flesh. His touch was so unexpected, so delicious.
Gathering her courage, she pressed her hand to the center of his chest, surprised how the springy hairs curled around her fingers as though intent on holding them there forever.
To her chagrin, he stilled his ministrations. “We’re developing a rather nasty habit here of having me clean you up. I must confess to preferring the whiskey.”
“How can you be so calm?” she asked.
“What is to be gained by being otherwise?”
“It would at least make me feel better to know you were angry or incensed.”
“I was before you walked in and distracted me.” He stepped back.
“Let me wrap your wound,” she urged.
“My manservant can see to it.”
“He seems to have disappeared.” The servants were well trained in that regard. She didn’t wait for Westcliffe to argue further. She simply picked up the cloth that the servant had set aside and began to wrap it around his arm, securing the wound. She could smell the sweet scent of sweat. Perhaps he was human after all, to have sweated some, not to have been completely calm.
“Why the worry, Countess?”
She jerked her gaze up to his. What was he asking?
He cradled her face with his large hand. “If I were dead, so many of your problems would be resolved. No divorce, no scandal.”
“You idiot. Do you really think I would prefer you dead?”
Before he could respond, certain that anything he might have said would have been more ridiculous than anything he’d already said, she rose on her toes and covered his mouth with hers. She didn’t know where she’d gathered the courage and she’d fully expected him to set her back on her heels.
Instead, his arm came around her, lifting her slightly higher, as his mouth began hungrily to devour hers. She ran her hands up into his hair, pressing herself closer until her breasts were flattened against the wide expanse of his chest.
Oh, God, she wanted to feel every inch of him, wanted the freedom to run her hands over all his flesh, all of it. To think that tonight someone could have so easily taken from her what she had yet to know, to experience. In less than a second, within a heartbeat, all could have been lost.
Because she’d been too afraid to give what they might have had together a chance. Because she’d looked at Stephen and seen the familiar, and not been brave enough to reach for the unknown.
She wasn’t certain when she’d begun to care for this man. Perhaps when she’d first recognized the torment that her selfish actions had brought him. Perhaps when she’d watched his lonely figure walking over the moors with only a dog as his companion. Perhaps when he’d welcomed her sister into his home. Perhaps when she’d caught glimpses of a tenderness hidden behind a scowl or an expressionless façade. She couldn’t identify a single moment, but, somehow, moments woven together had given her a glimpse of what her life could be. Tonight, it had almost been snatched from her.
His low growl reverberated through his chest, vibrated through hers. Her hair tumbled down. She’d not even been aware of his removing the pins, so lost was she in the sensations running through her. His kiss was as powerful as he was—it demanded, insisted, required that pleasure rise and be celebrated.
