Chapter Seven #2
He knew the minute she recognized him. She jolted but then covered by setting aside her ledger.
Would she accuse him right away? Or continue with her ruse?
Clearly, she was a woman who enjoyed deception because she kept at her role of dowdy matron.
She ducked her head to become more stooped than before, then squinted at him.
“What is it?” she rasped. “You look healthy enough.”
She was brazening out her disguise in the hopes that he was as blind as she pretended to be. He could call her on the ruse, but why? He wanted to see just how far she would go until she cried uncle.
He used his regular voice, speaking slowly as he shrugged out of his coat. “I got kicked by a horse,” he lied. “Two days ago. Knocked me clear across the stall.”
She turned away from him to pick up one of the newly fashionable fountain pens. “Did you hear or feel anything break?”
“No mum.”
“Can you take a deep breath without pain?”
“No mum.” That was the truth. Though the injury was healing, he felt it every time he did anything, including sleep. The damned bruise was annoying as hell. Just not nearly as painful as he pretended.
“Let me see.”
He pulled off his shirt, moving gingerly because of his injury, but also because he wanted to watch her while his chest was revealed.
He knew he was a well-built man. Many women had praised his body, if not necessarily his face.
He watched her eyes widen as the breadth of his body was revealed, but then they abruptly narrowed.
“This was not from a horse,” she said, her voice tart. Then she folded her arms. “The truth now, Mr… Um, what is your name?”
“Gabriel Smith.”
Her gaze flickered to his eyes at his lie but then snapped back to his torso. “Very well, Mr. Smith, tell me the truth of this injury or leave now.”
“How do you know it wasn’t done by a horse?”
“Because of the shape of it.” She set her hand, palm flat, on the livid bruise.
“It is not especially hot,” she said, then she stroked the length of it.
“That’s a good sign, but the welt is pronounced.
And the colors.” She poked her fingers at the worst parts of the injury.
“You have quite a painting here along your ribs.”
Her tone was detached and professional, as if she truly were a doctor.
Her hands, however, put the lie to her words.
Her fingertips stroked across the length of his bruise, lingering on his abdomen before testing the swollen rise.
Her eyes never left his body, and he felt the intense scrutiny of her gaze.
She pursed her lips as she drew a line across his ribs. “A block of wood, I think, but narrower.” She snapped her fingers. “A poker, wasn’t it? Swung lengthwise.”
“Exactly right,” he said, startled by the thickness of his own voice.
What the hell? He was no green boy that sprung to attention at the mere touch of a woman.
And yet he felt the familiar rush to his cock at her obvious joy.
There was happiness in her voice at a puzzle solved.
He, on the other hand, felt heat burn in his cheeks in embarrassment.
“I had my hands full, and this was the thanks I got.” He used his intonation carefully to suggest something lascivious.
How a woman flirted back always told him something.
Except Miss Caddick didn’t flirt back. Instead, she twisted her head as she looked closer at his bruise. “And why were you attacked by a poker?”
“Not by a poker. By the granny wielding it.”
She twisted, her fingers flowing over his ribs with careful study. “Attacked by a grandmother. Did you deserve it?”
“Gad no. I stepped into her swing. Little thing, not tall enough to meet my shoulder, but she had strength in her arms.”
She nodded. “Lie down on the table.”
“What?”
She waved impatiently at the wooden table. “Lie down. You came here for medicine, didn’t you? Unless you have another reason for coming to my door.” She knew he was here to investigate her, but he wasn’t ready to admit that yet.
“Will it fester?” he asked as he stretched out on the wood table.
“Did the skin break? Did you bleed?”
“No.”
“Then you are likely fine. When did it happen?” She dipped her fountain pen in the ink, then brought it over to his side.
“Three nights ago. What are you doing?”
She didn’t answer at first. Her attention was back on his body as she set her pen to his torso. With steady strokes, she outlined the edges of his bruise. She had one hand flat on his side while the other flowed in a smooth line across and around the discoloration.
“It’s easiest,” she said, “to remember an injury if I draw around it.” Her tongue slipped out between her teeth as she worked. It was a tiny bit of red, pushed between her pink lips, but it hit his blood like a fire that burned all the way to his cock.
She stepped back to look at the outline she had drawn on his skin. It was such a simple thing, but damn it, he was sweating from the contact. “I thought you were going to give me medicine,” he grumbled as he started to sit up.
“I am,” she said as she pushed him back down. He could have bested her, but he liked the feel of her small hand on his chest too much to push her away. “Stay down. I’m not done yet.”
Her fingertips were light as her fingers trembled across his bruise. She found the raised outlines of the welt and began to draw around that.
“Why was she attacking you?”
“What?” Good God, he had to focus on something other than her hands on her his body.
“The granny with the poker.”
Oh. “She wanted to stop her son-in-law from taking his boy.”
She twisted to dip her pen into the ink. “Well, that’s hardly fair. If it’s his son.”
He shrugged.
“Don’t move!”
He froze. He even kept his breath shallow. “He was out of his mind drunk. We were all trying to stop him.” He winced as she pressed into a sensitive spot. “I had him, if the granny had just given me a moment.”
“Grannies don’t tend to be restrained when a child is threatened.”
That was certainly true.
“So you were in the middle of a family fight as a drunk tried to take his child to…where?”
“I have no idea. I doubt he did, either.”
“Why were you there?”
Because Rogers was one of his former company. He’d heard from someone else that the man was home and none too happy about it, so he’d gone to check. Some men didn’t adjust to home life after the army, and Rogers was one of them. Gabe had gone to help and found a disaster instead.
“What did you do?” she asked. Her voice had lost its rough tone.
“Got him away. Sobered him up.”
“Then what?”
“I’m trying to find him a job. He’s a good man, but he’s lost without a commander.”
She set aside her pen and grabbed a jar off the shelf. “Sounds like this granny would make a good one.”
Maybe. But Rodgers was not a man to listen to any woman. “What’s that?” he asked as she scooped up something that looked like pig fat mixed with leaves.
“It’s the medicine,” she said as she began to work it into his body.
Her fingers were strong as they kneaded it into his side.
It was painful, of course, but there was something about her rough treatment that felt good.
There was a brusqueness to her task, as if she knew it hurt but it had to be done.
She worked efficiently and for some perverse reason, he enjoyed the ache even as he winced.
Whatever the ointment was, it heated under her fingers. His breath shortened as he alternately held or released it in a quick pant. It lasted more than a minute, or so it seemed. Her hands slowed and her fingers softened. Then she ran her thumb across an old scar along his side.
“What happened there?”
“Knife fight.”
“Oh!” It wasn’t a coo of admiration. More an embarrassed jolt that momentarily lifted her hand off his body. “Was it a terrible battle?”
“It was an amazing battle,” he said, letting nostalgia color his voice. “I was six, he was eight. We were playing medieval knights. I thought a cleaver was the better weapon, being heavier. He picked a long cooking knife. We each held a pot as a shield.”
“Good heavens. Who left you alone with knives?”
He was often unsupervised as a child, especially in the lean years. “Joey’s mother found us, I believe, but not before I’d learned a valuable lesson.”
“To not play with knives?”
“That longer reach is valuable in a knife fight. Joey was both taller and had the longer weapon. I never had a chance.” He grinned. “Though I did whack him in the face with the pot. That’s what brought his mother. He howled like I’d broken his jaw.”
“Did you?”
“No. But thinking back, I could have easily done so.”
She snorted, then rolled him forward so that he lay half on his side, and she could inspect his back. She even moved a lamp so she could see better as she stroked across his flesh. Her fingers heated his skin more than her ointment, and he closed his eyes to feel her touch better.
“What made these scars?” she asked. “This one looks terrible.”
“Shrapnel,” he said, remembering the pain as it had ripped through him.
“What’s that?”
He smiled, though the expression was grim. “It’s a who. Lieutenant Henry Shrapnel invented a hollow cannonball filled with shot. It explodes mid-air. I got hit by a piece of it.”
She shuddered. He felt it all the way through her fingertips. “That sounds awful.”
“Not if the cannonball goes where it’s supposed to.
” He and his men had been squeezing the enemy’s flank on the right side.
If the cannonball had exploded over the French as intended, he wouldn’t have a scar.
Unfortunately, cannonballs don’t always land where they’re aimed.
And if they explode mid-air, their radius of damage is a great deal larger than with normal balls.
“I expect it’s awful, no matter whose side you’re on.” Her finger followed the jagged ridge again. “I’m sorry.”
“I lived. As did many of my men.” Unfortunately, surviving a battle wasn’t enough anymore, as he was learning from Rogers. Bodies often healed faster than minds did, and no one came back from war a whole man. He flashed her a grin. “We won the battle.”
She didn’t return his smile. “As long as you’re pleased with the result.” The words were spoken with a dry disgust. As if the struggle of empires was folly to her.
“Would you rather Bonaparte won?”
She winced. “Of course not, but…” She cut off her words, and her expression closed down as she took a step back.
“But you think a monster can be fought without casualties. You want us to prattle and threaten but never carry through.”
Her brows narrowed. “I never said anything like that.”
She didn’t need to. He heard the women in the street, wailing when the lists of dead came. He knew the politicians who wanted to hide on England’s soil and never venture beyond. To hell with the continent, they said, as if Napoleon would stop before he conquered everywhere.
Gabriel understood the cost of war more than most, but he also knew the enemy they fought. “Napoleon had to be stopped, Miss Caddick. I am proud to have done my part.”
She was silent a long moment as she stared at him, and then she gave a slow nod. “And so you should be, Major.” She straightened up to her full height. “I apologize. I never meant to suggest otherwise.”
He felt his expression settle into a satisfied smirk. She had revealed herself to him. She admitted that she knew his true name. He pushed upright, swinging his feet around such that he faced her bare-chested.
“So you admit your ruse.”
Her brows shot up. “Hard to deny it when you call me by name.”
“I—” He frowned. He hadn’t done that, had he? And yet when he thought back over his words, he realized he was the one who had slipped first. He’d used her true name. Damn it! How had he gotten so sloppy?
“Why are you here, Major Vance? Ugly as that bruise is, I doubt you really needed my salve.”
“Why are you playing at being a doctor, Miss Caddick? What is all this?” He gestured at her potions and unguents. He frowned at the ledger. “Just how long have you been doing this?”
Her brows shot up as she abruptly slammed her ledger closed. “Playacting? Good God, do you not see your own hypocrisy? I cannot so much as think about the cost of your war, and yet you dare question mine?”
He snorted. “Are you at war, Miss Caddick?”
“I am,” she said stiffly. “Against disease and death. And it is a much nobler endeavor than finding new ways to kill a man. I would that Lieutenant Shrapnel had found a different use for his talents.”
“And your fiancé wants you to find a new use for yours.”
That was a bold statement. In truth, he often had no idea what Lord Benedict was thinking from one minute to the next.
But on this, he had to be correct. What man wanted his wife to be fingering half naked men and playing at potions and possets?
Certainly not an aristocrat. And definitely not a political one.
“Lord Benedict’s fiancée must be the height of propriety. And this…” he said as he swept his sneering gaze about the room. “This is ridiculous.”
“Get out,” she said, her voice quivering with fury.
“Gladly,” he said as he hopped off the table and pulled on his shirt. But lest she think she’d won this battle, he had one last thing to say. He waited until his shirt was back in place and his coat on. And then he picked up his hat and gave her his most elegant—and mocking—bow.
“I shall see you in an hour, Miss Caddick. I believe we are to go to the theater.”
“If you think I will—”
“You will because Lord Benedict has ordered it.”
She sputtered, but he didn’t give her time to finish.
“And your father and aunt have been pleased to accept my escort.” He chuckled. “I vow I cannot wait to see how you explain your kitchen activities to them. I doubt they will find it any more acceptable than I do.”