Chapter 3
EVELYN BLACKWELL
I had no way to mark time other than how many logs I’d placed on the fire since Hollister had left.
I had added two so far, and would add many more before the sun started to rise.
The rain had slowed, but hadn’t stopped and it pounded a steady rhythm onto the slate roof.
I told my parents I would sleep, but my mind wouldn’t settle.
I’d never seen Papa in pain like that, and I knew Mama must be awake and worried about me.
The stone shepherd’s croft had no door or glass in its one window to block out the storm completely, but the exterior walls, roof and the chimney were intact.
I wasn’t the first to take shelter here, for wood was heaped near the fireplace and the chimney was operational, thank the heavens.
There may have been a wall or a curtain to divide the room when it had last been in use, but now it was just one large open room with the window and door allowing some of the storm to blow in and make what was left of the slate floor damp.
I didn’t mind the solitude or the dark. The sound of rain on the roof and the smell of moss on the stones were pleasing. If it weren’t for the fact that Papa was injured, I might have enjoyed the evening—one last moment of solitude before Blackwell Manor was overrun with guests.
The logs crumpled and I reached for another one just as the unmistakable sound of a horse whinny came through the window.
Someone was outside.
Could it be the carriage or Hollister on a lone horse for some reason? Had they removed the tree, righted the carriage and continued on in the rain? Impossible. Not with road conditions so impassable.
I reached for Papa’s pistol.
No one called out. If anyone in my party had arrived, they would have announced themselves immediately. I tightened my grip on the handle of my gun and kept my eyes trained on the open doorway. And like an image from a nightmare, a shape darker than the night sky behind slid into view.
I froze. I’d been looking into the fire and couldn’t make out any details of the man entering the croft. He would see me clearly, though, coming in from the dark and having the fire beside me.
A flash of lightning made me jump, and for the briefest of moments I caught sight of a man stumbling forward, wet hair plastered to his forehead, and arms stretched out and tugging off a sodden overcoat.
I leveled the pistol in his direction. He’d shown me no ill intent—hadn’t even acknowledged I was there.
I wouldn’t shoot him without cause, but I would fulfill my promise to my father if he tried to harm me.
“Who are you?” My voice was calmer than I’d expected.
I sounded like Papa. “State your purpose.”
He’d come close enough to the fire that I could make out some of his features.
His hair was dark and dripping into his eyes—eyes which still didn’t look up at me.
He was focused only on his coat, pulling and tugging as if it were full of brambles hooked into his clothing.
Eventually he got one arm out and then groaned and fell to both knees.
In the dim light I could see an unhealthy sallowness to his skin.
But that could be an act, couldn’t it? A ploy to get me to come closer.
I lowered the gun, but only because I had to in order to keep him covered. “Tell me your name, sir.”
His head lifted in my direction, exposing a strong, sharply cut jaw underneath a day's growth of beard. One hand moved a few inches in my direction and then dropped down. “Capt . . . ” he began, and then tumbled the rest of the way to the floor.
Every instinct told me to run to him. He could be injured, bleeding, or in need of some other kind of immediate assistance, but Papa had trained me better than that.
I kept the gun on him and crept nearer to him one careful step at a time. When I was about three feet away, I stopped. “I have a firearm, and it is trained on you.”
He didn’t move.
I took another step forward and prodded his leg with my foot.
Still nothing.
I pushed him harder, and he groaned.
Now that I was closer I could make out the form and cut of his coat.
There were no insignias, but the broad shoulders and brass buttons reminded me of many of Papa’s coats.
Was he a military man? Many men were returning home after Napoleon’s abdication, so it was very possible, but that didn’t mean I should trust him.
Papa would be the first to tell me that.
I raised my voice. “Are you injured?”
Silence. I stepped closer to his head. I was in range for him to grab my foot with his hand, so I held the pistol fast. I put my boot onto his shoulder and pushed him until he rolled over, facing up.
He didn’t make a sound and I’d been right about his pallor.
He was pale—deathly pale. My heart stuttered.
I swept the sides of my dressing gown behind me and knelt at his side.
I’d been careful enough.
I placed my free hand on his chest and held my breath. For one agonizing moment, I felt nothing, but then––a shudder and a breath. He was alive.
I pulled the glove off of my hand with my teeth and touched his cheek. Beneath the cold of his damp hair, his skin burned with fire. Whatever else this man was, he wasn’t pretending an illness. I hissed against the heat of him and pushed his hair off of his face.
My breath hitched at my first clear look at him. He was striking.
Beneath the shadow of his beard, sharp angles made up an unforgiving face—one of hard lines and hollows.
His lips still had color in them, making a harsh contrast to the whiteness of every other part of his face save his thick eyebrows, one of which was slashed through with a scar and lifted in a permanent arch.
His dark lashes, glistening with rain, were the only thing soft about him.
I seldom had the opportunity to examine a man’s features in such close proximity, and never in the dark and under such disastrous circumstances.
He’d stumbled in with the gait of a man of eighty, but he couldn’t be much over thirty if he had reached thirty at all.
This man still had many years of life left in him, assuming he didn’t die in front of me in this abandoned croft.
Of all the scenarios I’d worried about while walking here with Hollister, watching a man die had never crossed my mind.
I leaned away from him and clamped both hands into my skirt.
What was I doing just staring at him? He could be injured or dying and I was kneeling at his side studying him as if I was trying to decide how to paint the man.
He was a patient, not an artist’s model.
And even if he had the bone structure for it, I was hardly an artist.
I gave him a quick examination. There were no holes or tears in his clothing, and as he’d walked into the croft, nothing about his appearance pointed to a wound. His fever pointed to an illness, one most likely brought on by the storm.
Which meant I needed to get him as dry as possible, but how? He was a large man, nearly as tall as Papa, even if he was trimmer. I couldn’t drag him to the warmth of the fire.
I set Papa’s gun down near enough that I could grab it if necessary.
He’d managed to remove half of his overcoat, but his coat underneath was as wet as if he’d been riding in it alone.
I clenched my jaw and reached for his buttons.
With any luck his shirt and waistcoat would be dry, but in this kind of storm, I doubted it.
My hands shook as I carefully undid his top button.
I glanced back up at his face, making certain he was still unconscious.
His thick lashes stayed closed. I took a deep, steadying breath.
I’d grown up around men. Many of Papa’s friends visited him, staying at Blackwell for weeks on end in order to hunt. I was no shrinking violet.
Still, I’d never had cause to undress any of those men.
The second button released, and with it I let go of my scruples. The faster I accomplished this task, the better it would be, both for me and him. I made quick work of the other two buttons and yanked open his coat with perhaps less care than I should have, for he groaned with the movement.
His waistcoat and shirt underneath were just as wet as the rest of him. Blast.
I’d laid my wet clothes out to dry near the fire, but they were still almost as wet as when I’d arrived. The only dry clothing was the night rail and dressing gown I’d brought in the oilcloth, and those were currently on my person.
My face heated. Exactly how far was one supposed to go in order to save a person?
My dressing gown was a warm one made of thick green velvet, and my night rail beneath it was sturdy white muslin.
If I gave him the velvet, it would be a cold night, but if Papa had spent months in Walcheren fighting the damp conditions and Napoleon’s men, I could handle one night without my dressing gown.
I finished pulling off the man’s overcoat and then did the same with his coat and waistcoat.
I was surgical—a physician concentrating only on saving the life of a patient.
But heaven help me, his shirt was plastered to his skin and did nothing to hide his well-formed chest underneath.
I gritted my teeth. With another hard swallow and a reminder that his life was at stake, I undid the shirt buttons as well.
With his chest bare, I assessed the hard planes of it, checking for wounds.
Other than a few old scars, one of which matched the sharp line of the scar over his left eye, his skin was unblemished.
He was as well-formed as the Greek and Roman statues I’d strode past in the pleasure gardens of London.
His was a body that could not be unfamiliar with toil and strain, however.
The fabric of his coat and waistcoat was of a solid, middling quality, better than what a laborer would have.
I had touched his hands and fingers while pulling his arms out of his sleeves, and the only callouses there were the kinds one might receive from horseback riding.
But he must do an awful lot of it to be so fit and trim.
I shook my head. Focus. It didn’t matter what he did. He was a stranger in need of care and that was all that mattered.
I half closed my eyes while I finished pulling his arms out of his shirtsleeves. He still hadn’t woken, but his skin was dimpled all over with gooseflesh. His arms shook violently once and then with a quick burst of movement, he pulled his knees to his chest and curled into himself.
I fell away from him with a quiet gasp, resettled with a shaky breath, and then set to work removing his boots. They came off with a loud squelch.
His breeches were as sodden as the rest of him.
But I couldn’t—I simply couldn’t remove any more clothing from him.
I prayed I wouldn’t be cursed for my weakness and prayed even harder that wet legs wouldn’t be the death of him.
He looked healthy enough, but his shaking wouldn’t stop and it was growing more violent.
I removed my dressing gown and threw it over him.
He settled slightly and for the briefest moment, his eyes fluttered open.
“C-c-cold.” He shivered the word from chapped lips.
“I know,” I said harshly. “I’m doing my best. Perhaps you could be of assistance? The fire is only a few feet away.”
He reached for my hand. “So . . . cold . . . ”
I grabbed his hand and stood. The man had been walking only a moment ago.
Certainly he could stand and walk the few paces to the fireplace.
I tugged on his arm, but he forcefully pulled me down and I tumbled forward, my feet stumbling until I nearly fell on top of him.
Luckily I was able to catch myself on one knee.
“I’m trying to help you, you big oaf.” I shoved his shoulder. I gritted my teeth and made my voice match the tone Papa used when he was forcing Charlie and me to clean our pistols or row a boat faster on the pond. “Stand up and march.”
His eyes opened. They were dark in color but not solid—flecks and variations of browns and greens dappled his irises.
The sight of them softened all of his harsh lines into something more .
. . well, confound it, handsome. I blinked and swallowed once again.
Eye contact was not helping me ignore the indelicate nature of our situation.
He was not stunned by my eyes, however, for he looked down at the ground and heaved himself up, first to his knees and then to his feet.
My dressing gown dropped to the ground beneath him and I quickly grabbed it and threw it over his bare chest. It fell immediately back down.
I cursed and bent to retrieve it, this time taking the time to wrap it around his broad shoulders.
Without asking leave, he draped an arm over my shoulders and leaned heavily on me.
The heat from his fevered body permeated the muslin of my night dress the moment we touched.
With a clumsy step, we stumbled forward.
When we reached the fireplace, he tilted dangerously to one side. I wrapped one arm around his chest and helped him lower himself to the ground more gracefully than he’d done when he’d first arrived.
He laid down on the bare slate floor. My dressing gown had fallen open, the tie somewhere under his back, so I pulled each side over him and tucked one end under his shoulder. His skin still burned at any touch, but at least the heat of the flames had slowed his violent shivering.
I glared at him. “What kind of a fool rides horseback through a storm like this?” I had enough to worry about with Papa’s injury. This stranger was old enough to know better..
His lip twitched almost as if in a smile. Had he heard me?
His eyelids lifted and for the first time he seemed to focus on me. He lifted his head off the ground. “Th-thank—” He managed only the barest beginning of the sentiment with great effort.
“Shhh,” I hushed. His eyes lost their focus and his head dropped back down. Immediately, I regretted hushing him. If I was going to care for a man all night, shouldn’t I at least know something about him? I leaned over him. “Do you have a name?”
Those dark eyelashes fluttered again and he nodded, but he didn’t answer. Or rather, I suppose he did, but I simply hadn’t been specific enough in my inquiry. “What is it?”
He mumbled something, but I didn’t catch it.
“Where are you going? If you are still ill tomorrow, is there someone I should contact?”
He stiffened slightly at that and, as if it took all the energy he had left in him, he forced his eyes open and shook his head.
“My . . . I’m going to get . . . my . . .
” His eyes met mine and something sparked in them, a flame as bright as those from the fireplace.
“Wife,” he finally finished with a croak and then his head fell back to the floor and another fit of shaking overtook him.