Chapter 2
Secrets in the Attic
Izzy climbed the stairs to the attic for what felt like the tenth time that night.
Her nerves leapt at every sound, every creaking floorboard and tick of a clock, and she was certain her luck would not hold forever.
She had almost forgotten to retrieve his boots and her pistol from the pantry, and her heart clattered as she wondered how she would have explained them.
Outside, the night had grown quiet, no more shots or shouts piercing the stillness, and she prayed Captain Underwood had given up and gone home.
Somewhere an owl hooted. Izzy spared a thought for whatever small, scurrying creature was darting through the undergrowth, tiny heart pounding.
She’d had the merest taste of what that might feel like and wondered how Boreas could live this way.
Adventure was all well and good but living like prey seemed to hold little appeal.
Exhaustion tugged at the edges of her mind. Now the immediate danger had passed, she felt bone weary, yet it was possible the worst was yet to come. Stopping in her tracks, she gazed at the sight before her, unblinking, too startled to say a word.
Boreas had made good use of the old mattress and pillows she’d dragged up here years ago.
As a child she loved nothing more than her own private hideaway, a place where she could dream of all the wild and wonderful things she wished to do.
Sometimes Angel came with her, and they would plot their mad schemes together, at other times it was just herself, her imagination, and whatever book had captured it.
To see Boreas here, in her private space, a place reserved for her hopes and dreams, was disconcerting enough.
Discovering his large body sprawled over the mattress and bared from the waist up was enough to scatter her wits entirely.
He held the bottle of brandy to his lips, exposing the strong line of his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
Good inroads had been made in her absence, from the look of it, for the bottle had been full when she’d given it to him.
His fair hair was in disarray, his face and torso smeared with blood, and he held the shirt he’d worn bundled up against the wound with his free hand.
He looked exactly like what he was: a dangerous man.
Though he’d been hunted like prey, he appeared more like a wounded predator whose nearness was likely even more hazardous for being incapacitated.
She would be a fool to trust him an inch, and yet she did.
Setting the brandy bottle down, Boreas met her eyes, a knowing look there that made heat climb from Izzy’s toes all the way to her ears.
Everything seemed to burn as he looked at her, the acknowledgement that she had paused to admire his masculine beauty evident in his smug expression.
Shaking herself, Izzy tried to ignore the odd fluttering in her belly, instead concentrating on carrying the jug and bowl she carried, clean cloths slung over her arm.
She decided she might be best served to avoid eye contact if she wanted to get through this.
The very idea of putting her hands on him, even to clean his wound, was altogether too confusing, tying her stomach in knots of anxiety, fear, and other strange sensations she thought it best not to investigate too closely.
Not until she was certain he was safe and well, at any rate.
She had made an infusion from dried chamomile she had picked last summer to clean the wound.
Happily, the vicarage’s stores were well stocked for most emergencies, and Mrs Mabbs had an encyclopaedic knowledge of herbal remedies that Izzy had always found fascinating.
She had learned as much as she could. Stirring herbs and making unguents and healing tisanes always gave her a feeling of power, like she was a witch or a wise woman.
She had conjured many romantic stories whilst concocting some curious mixture or other, daydreaming about saving a romantic hero with her cunning skills.
Somehow it had never happened quite like this.
Though it gave her the sensation of approaching an injured tiger, Izzy moved closer, kneeling beside the mattress on his right side. He shot a suspicious glance towards the jug, sniffing the air.
“What’s that?”
“An infusion of chamomile. It will help clean the wound.” Izzy kept her tone brisk and businesslike, hoping that might diminish the peculiar tension she felt thrumming in the air.
“I’m soaking some dried yarrow too, and once the wound is clean, I’ll make a poultice for you.
It should help the wound heal quicker and lessen the risk of infection. ”
“Are you a healer, then?”
Izzy glanced at him, noting the curiosity in his gaze. Shaking her head, she reached for the porcelain jug, pouring a little of the liquid into the bowl and placing a clean cloth in it to soak.
“No. The children’s nanny, Mrs Mabbs, might be considered such, but I am learning all I can from her. I believe I know enough to treat you, but I pray there is not a bullet to remove.”
He shook his head before taking another swig from the brandy bottle. The many rings he wore on his long fingers glinted in the lamplight, catching her eye. “No. It sliced clean through. I’ll have another pretty scar, though.”
Despite her intention to avoid eye contact, she found her gaze drawn to his again. He grinned, an altogether wicked expression that made her heart jump behind her ribs. “The ladies love them,” he told her with a wink.
Izzy returned an indignant glare, irritated that she could feel her cheeks heat. He was teasing her on purpose, the rat. “Indeed. I’m sure evidence of your careless disregard for your own life is a most attractive trait when selecting a suitable mate.”
He laughed at her tart words, wincing as the movement pained him. He lay back against the pillows with a groan and Izzy tried not to notice how the muscles of his abdomen shifted beneath his skin.
“Go on, then, Miss Honey, do your worst. I’m entirely in your hands. Your captive, in fact.”
Izzy did not miss his low, insinuating tone, but decided ignoring it was safest. Though she had dreamed about this man, wildly romantic dreams that made heat rise beneath her skin even to remember them, the reality of him was something else entirely.
He was far larger and far more intimidating than she had imagined.
His pale blue gaze might appear cool, but beneath the calm surface she sensed a turbulent soul, one she did not know at all.
How foolish she had been, seeing him as her idealistic hero, when he was so much more in reality. The realisation was at once embarrassing and tantalising. She wanted to know who he really was, so she need not imagine any longer.
With her nerves leaping, Izzy reached for the bunched-up fabric of his shirt, the bundle heavy with his blood, and removed it to reveal a ragged wound.
It was not so deep as she had feared, the bullet having torn an open channel, but blood welled in a steady stream and the risk of infection was high.
She had seen a healthy man driven to his grave from a shallow cut left untreated and allowed to putrefy.
This was no shallow cut. But neither would she leave it to become infected, she told herself sternly.
Placing a wadded-up towel underneath him, she poured some of the liquid in the jug over the wound.
His muscles tensed but he made no sound as the towel soaked up the bloody water that sluiced from the injury.
Next, she picked up the soaking cloth and wrung it out.
Peering closely, she gently removed any debris, tiny pieces of fabric or foreign bodies that might stop him healing properly.
He twitched and drank deeply from the bottle, but still said nothing.
Izzy took her time, knowing just how important this was, not looking until she was certain she’d done her best. She let out a shaky breath as she straightened.
“Give me that.” Reaching out, she snatched the bottle from his hand and took a large swallow, sucking in a breath as the brandy hit her belly and sent warmth spiralling out in all directions. “Now, brace yourself.”
With that curt warning, she tipped a good quantity of the spirit over the wound, ensuring it was entirely washed through.
Boreas made a muffled sound, his hands clenched into fists, teeth gritted, every muscle taut with pain. His eyes seemed to blaze blue fire as he glared at her, but finally he subsided, letting out an uneven breath.
“That was a dirty trick.”
Izzy shrugged, gathering up the bloody cloths. She’d have to dry them somewhere out of sight and then burn them. “Better not to think about it and get it over with. I wouldn’t have warned you at all if I hadn’t feared you’d wake the entire town with your bellowing.”
“I do not bellow.”
She glanced at him, noting his indignant expression, and softened her voice, making it soothing and gentle, the way she might speak to little Caspar if he grazed his knee. “No. Indeed, you’ve been very brave.”
He looked even more disgusted by this observation. “I’m not five.”
Izzy bit back a grin, but he realised she was teasing him and snorted.
“I’m afraid you will need to be a brave little soldier for a bit longer. I need to sew the wound shut.”
Izzy’s stomach clenched at the words. She’d done it once before, when their gardener George had sliced his leg on a scythe and the doctor had been occupied attending a birthing. She’d hated every moment, and that had only needed a few stitches. This was far worse.
She swallowed down the uneasy feeling in her belly, looking up at him when he said nothing.
His gaze was penetrating, considering her in such a way that she felt he saw right through her.
It was disconcerting, and she did not like it above half, especially not when she had indulged in too many nighttime fantasies about him.