Chapter 7
My precious seconds were already ticking away, so I hurried to my trunk. The last thing I wanted was to hear Mr. Rawlings’s key in the lock while I was tangled in my stays.
Everything was a bit more difficult without Mariah, but I managed to remove my wet, mud-speckled dress and change into a clean chemise.
Obviously, I could not sleep in only that, so I also took my thick dressing gown and wrapped it around me, knotting it firmly at my waist and ensuring the edges crossed snugly under my chin.
Then I removed a mountain of pins to let down my coiffure and wrangled my hair into a passable braid. I did not bother with curling papers. I had only Mr. Rawlings to impress, after all, and I hardly wanted him thinking I’d made such an effort for him.
As prepared as I could be, I next faced the dilemma of where to be within the room when he returned.
Sitting by the fire? Standing at the window?
In bed under the covers? I rejected the last idea immediately.
If Mr. Rawlings could be nonchalant and cool as a winter’s breeze about our shared accommodations, then I certainly could as well.
I paced the small room until I again heard footsteps outside the door. A knock came, sharp and precise.
“Yes?” I called, my voice remarkably steady.
“It’s me,” came Mr. Rawlings’s dulcet Scottish brogue.
“Who?” I asked sweetly. I didn’t know what possessed me, only that I felt absolutely alarmed at sharing a room with him and was still rather annoyed at him for carrying me through the mud like a sack of flour. I was desperate to reclaim even a tiny bit of control.
There was a pause, then, “Are you toying with me?”
He did not sound either amused or annoyed but rather in disbelief.
“I can hardly say,” I said, “since I do not know who you are.”
“Open the door, Miss Lacey,” he ordered. “Or I shall.”
Smothering a grin, I went to the door and unlocked it, opening it just a crack as I peered out. “Oh, it is you, Mr. Rawlings. You might have said.”
He frowned and pushed past me into the room. I thought I heard the word impossible muttered under his breath. I liked that. Impossible, I could be.
Mr. Rawlings went to stand before the fire, pulling off his gloves.
He’d changed already, his clothing dry and clean, and had fixed his hair from the rain, as if unable to bear any sign of dishevelment.
“I walked around the inn,” he said, not looking at me.
“All was quiet outside, and the taproom is beginning to empty.”
“And you saw nothing to stoke your suspicions?” I asked.
“No.” He set his gloves and hat on the rickety table. “But that is hardly reason to drop our guard.”
He turned, opening his mouth to say something more, but then stopped. His eyes swept over the length of me—my unruly braid and my dressing gown and my stockinged feet. Then he cleared his throat and pointedly looked away. “Are you hungry?” he asked briskly. “I can have something sent up.”
“No, thank you,” I said. “I cannot say I have much of an appetite.”
He frowned again. Was his mouth permanently set in a downward slant? I thought he might argue with me, but he only grabbed the back of the wooden chair and turned it to face the fire. “I’ll keep watch,” he said. “You get what sleep you can.”
“You won’t be terribly comfortable in that chair,” I said.
“Are you offering me the bed?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “I was simply pointing it out so that you would be more fully aware of your discomfort.”
“Your kindness is too much, Miss Lacey,” he said dryly. “You mustn’t make such a fuss.”
I almost laughed. His staid humor was just so unexpected. But I refused to give him the satisfaction of making me laugh.
He sat facing away from me and leaned back in the chair, making the wood creak.
I retreated to the far side of the bed, putting as much distance between us as I could manage.
Feeling supremely awkward, even though he wasn’t watching, I pulled back the covers—rough-spun and certainly not clean—and forced myself to lie down.
The pillow was lumpy, the mattress smelled of damp straw, and the heat of the fire did little to help my chilly feet.
But I exhaled, shook my head once, and refused to fall prey to the negative. “Good night, Mr. Rawlings,” I offered, my gesture filling the quiet room.
He straightened but did not turn. “Good night,” he finally responded.
I closed my eyes, breathing through my mouth so as not to inhale the less-than-lovely scent of the blankets.
It was going to be a very long night.
The darkness was all-consuming.
I ran down the path, winding and endless, the trees towering above me, pressing in, smothering. I looked over my shoulder, saw the shadow pursuing me. I wanted to scream, but it was trapped in my throat. I was voiceless. Helpless.
Sudden lights ahead. Lanterns, bright against the night. I ran faster, desperate. I could make it. I could—
My foot caught on a root, and I went down. My legs failed; I couldn’t stand. I crawled, one inch at a time, tears streaming down my cheeks.
Then I heard his breathing. I spun to face him. He stepped from the shadows, knife dripping with blood.
“You’re mine,” he seethed.
He lunged.
I awoke with a jolt, scream stillborn in my mouth.
I lay there in my bed, panting, blinking, pulse a constant drum in my head.
Then I realized that was the thrum of rain against the roof and window.
It was pitch-black outside, the stars and moon engulfed by clouds as the storm lashed against the glass. The inn. I was at the inn.
My heart refused to slow, trying to warn me of danger I knew was only a dream. A nightmare.
Then I heard it. A muttered curse, barely audible above the sound of the storm. I pushed myself up onto one trembling elbow, my vision bleary as I squinted across the room. I did not know what I’d expected to see, but it was not this.
Mr. Rawlings still sat on his chair, but whereas a few hours ago he’d been fully clothed, he now wore only breeches and half a shirt. Half a shirt because his injured arm had been freed from both the sling and its sleeve, and he was attempting to wrap a fresh bandage around his arm.
I stared. I could not help it. The fire still flickered behind him, and the shadows lining Mr. Rawlings’s chest and shoulders did little to hide the lean muscles there, his skin painted in dancing golden light.
I nearly jumped when he released a muted groan. One of pain but perhaps also of frustration. He could not tie off the bandage by himself.
“I can help,” I said without thinking.
He turned on his chair, startled, and saw me watching. I could not guess what thoughts crossed his mind at that moment. I’d caught him in a rather vulnerable position. Clearly, he’d meant to take care of this while I slept, with me being none the wiser.
For a moment, it looked as if he might refuse me, in some sort of claim to masculine pride. But then he nodded—one short drop of his chin—and I realized he might be in more pain than I’d thought.
I slid to the edge of the bed, ensuring my dressing gown was still covering me as I stood. Then I tread softly to his side, my feet whispering against the floorboards. My body was still recovering from my dream, weak and weary, but I tried not to show it.
His eyes did not leave me as I approached, taking in my every movement with wariness. But why should he have any reason to be wary of me? He held out the fresh bandage to me, and I took it.
I focused on his injured arm and blinked in surprise. “You’re bleeding again.”
Indeed, his cut looked nearly as awful as the night the doctor had tended him. Though the sutures held, there was new blood among the dried around his wound.
“Why are you bleeding?” My brow furrowed. “You haven’t done anything to stress the wound, have you?”
“Besides carrying you through the mud?” He spoke gruffly, and I could not tell if he was angry.
My stomach dropped. “That was your choice, if you’ll recall.”
Mr. Rawlings let out a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t recall you giving me much of a choice at all.”
“Silly, prideful man,” I muttered under my breath. Still, guilt pricked inside me. Had it truly hurt him to carry me? I hadn’t meant for that to happen.
He regarded me with tense awareness as I moved closer, then held out his arm, pressing his lips together fiercely from the pain.
I would do this quickly, for his sake. That was my plan, at least, though it was more difficult to execute than I’d thought—mainly because of the absolute distraction that Mr. Rawlings was without a shirt.
His skin was fire-warmed beneath my fingertips as I wrapped the bandage around his arm.
The angles and shadows of his muscled chest made it nearly impossible to focus, and a prickling blush climbed my neck and cheeks, refusing to leave.
He sat stiffly, his body tense. Was it the pain, or did I cause his unease? Finally, after winding the bandage several times around his upper arm, I knotted the ends as firmly as I could.
My eyes—which I’d kept fixedly on the bandage—finally darted to Mr. Rawlings’s. He did not watch my ministrations, as inept as they were. He watched me, looking up at me with an intensity and focus that set my pulse tripping.
I tore my gaze away and moved to the washbasin in the corner.
Wetting a small cloth, I returned to his side and cleaned his arm around the bandage.
It was not strictly necessary—he could have done it—but that guilt would not leave me be.
After I finished, I washed my hands in the basin while he slipped his arm back into his sleeve and quickly buttoned up his collar.
Then I took the sling and did my best to copy what I’d seen the doctor do, wrapping it tightly under his elbow and forearm and knotting it behind his neck. My fingers brushed the skin there, and he froze, not moving or even breathing.
“There.” I stepped back, my own skin far too heated for how small the fire beside us was. “You’re like a new man.”