Chapter 6
Desmond escorted her to her bedchamber, then waited outside as she dressed in a plain gown of drab green twill with a fichu tucked into the bodice.
She looked down at herself in disgust—none of her dresses were at all appealing, and she’d given everything that had been pretty to the housemaids when she’d given them their letters of character.
But naturally it made sense that she would dress serviceably when doctoring. Though she’d done a respectable job in sewing up Hugh’s injury so that it stopped bleeding, there was always the risk that the stitches would open, or that the wound might suppurate, which could cause something of a mess.
Besides, she didn’t need to look attractive to Desmond, or to any of the thieves forcibly occupying her house.
Stepping outside her bedchamber, she found Desmond waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He glanced at her as she emerged from her room and smiled as he pushed away from the wall.
“Here I thought you only wore nightgowns,” he murmured.
“I trust having me dressed isn’t too much of a disappointment,” she said drily.
His gaze traveled the length of her, from the top of her head, where she’d pinned up her hair, to the toes of her serviceable ankle boots. A flush rose in her skin wherever his gaze touched.
His smile widened. “There’s no such thing as disappointment where you’re concerned.”
“Wait until you see my needlework. I’ve no talent in that department.”
“Yet you stitched Hugh up as neat as a blanket.”
“A square of muslin in an embroidery hoop isn’t the same as human flesh.”
“And thank God for that. I’d hate to walk around with a daisy sewn into my cheek.”
“A spray of wild bluebells would suit you better,” she replied. “They’d match your eyes.”
He grinned. “Spending much time thinking of my eyes, Mrs. Ballantine?”
Instead of answering, she started down the hallway. “I need to go to my library and check a reference book to help tend Hugh’s injury.” When Desmond began to follow her, she stopped. “I assure you, I haven’t need of your assistance to find my own library.”
“I don’t like leaving you on your own,” he said with a frown.
“I need a moment to myself, if only to walk the one-minute journey from here to where I keep my books.”
His frown deepened, but he said, “If anyone harasses you—”
“I will yell loud enough to bring the walls tumbling down.”
He gave a clipped nod. “Be quick.”
She gave him an ironic salute before hurrying downstairs. While she did need a minute or two on her own, she also didn’t delight in the idea of running into Cyrus. The heavens only knew what sort of humor the gang leader would be in, but it likely wouldn’t be pleasant and amenable.
The library was on the ground floor, and she walked to it quickly.
She stopped short in the doorway when she discovered someone was already inside.
A stab of alarm shot through her, but there was no need to fear.
Her most private books were all stored securely in the walls of the house, where no one could find them.
Even Olive had no notion that her mistress possessed a secret stash of books intended for Clara’s eyes only.
Well, once, she’d tried to share those books with Arthur. And paid a heavy price for what had been intended to be a means of connection between her and her husband.
“Apologies.” Gideon rose from one of the wingback chairs.
He’d shed his coat and was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, with the cuffs of his shirt turned back to reveal his forearms. A book was in his hands, and he closed it, but not before sticking his finger between the pages to mark his place.
In the morning light, he was even more striking, his jaw square, his onyx eyes possessing extraordinary depth.
His was an elegant beauty, with a deep brow, a beautifully formed nose, and a sensuous mouth.
He wasn’t exceptionally tall, and he inhabited his rangy body with confidence.
“I seem to keep finding myself here,” he continued.
“That’s…quite alright.” Her voice sounded slightly strained, and she cleared her throat. “A library is best when shared. Everyone should have access to books.”
“My sentiments precisely.” He smiled at her.
“What do you read, sir?” She took a tentative step toward him.
“Gideon, please.”
“Gideon.” She liked the feel of his name in her mouth, with its strong consonants and flowing conclusion.
His own step closer was equally tentative. “You might find it silly.”
“This is my library. I acquired every book on the shelves, and I assure you, there isn’t a work here that I find silly.”
He held up the book. “A medieval romance.”
“Ah! Longsword!”
“Of course, you’ve read it.” He shook his head at himself.
“Five times, at least, and it was published only last year.” She stepped nearer, reaching out to touch her fingers to the book’s cover. “When Jacqueline is rescued—” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I don’t want to ruin the story for you.”
“I’ve already reached that point in the tale. But I’m eager to find out what happens to the dastardly Raymond. It’s always satisfying when the villain is justly dealt with.”
“Quite gratifying.” She couldn’t stop herself from smiling at him. “Romantic novels are amongst my very favorites.”
“Mine, as well. But,” he added, in a low, confiding tone, “don’t tell the other lads. They’ll tease me something merciless if they know I love it when the maiden and her champion find their happily ever after.”
“I will take your secret to the cold solitude of the grave.”
“Let’s not hurry ourselves on to that inevitable conclusion. Especially when there are so many more books to read before that time.”
“There will always be too many books,” she said, smiling. “But that’s what helps me rise in the morning, knowing that there’s so much to read.”
“A shared sentiment.”
His smile grew. Then he looked down, and she realized that she’d moved her hand from the book to his forearm. His skin was warm and satiny beneath her fingers.
Their gazes met. Held. His eyes were deepest velvet.
Her breath caught in her throat. He, too, went motionless. The air between them was alive with potential. He truly was exceptionally handsome, lean as a dancer, with the heart of a romantic.
“Is everything—ah.” Desmond stood in the doorway, and at the sound of his voice, both Clara and Gideon stepped apart, her hand dropping away.
She walked briskly to a bookshelf and pulled down a book, which she held up. “Finally found what I was looking for. An herbalist’s treatise on simples.”
When she turned back, Desmond wore a smirk as he glanced back and forth between her and Gideon, who wore a carefully neutral expression. “All kinds of fascinating things to be found in a library.”
“Enjoy the book, sir—Gideon.” She started for the library door, then stopped and faced him. “I dub thee Sir Gideon.”
Still holding the book, he gave a courtly bow. “My lady.”
She continued on, brushing past a still smirking Desmond, and moved into the hallway.
“Gideon does love his books,” Desmond drawled as they climbed the stairs. “He reads to us, sometimes. I think he likes the ones with ladies and heroes best, but I’ll never tell him I know.”
She maintained her silence, but couldn’t stop herself from smiling a little.
They reached the Blue Bedchamber, and were met by the hulking form of Liam. He looked every inch a former boxer, body thickly muscled, nose bearing the telltale signs of healed breaks.
“I’m going to see to the horses,” he said in a rasping voice, before heading out and downstairs.
Clara entered the room, with Desmond behind her. Desmond leaned against the wall, adopting the same pose he’d had when waiting for her outside her bedroom. After setting her book down, she approached the bed.
“How did you sleep?” Clara asked Hugh, who lay pale and strained beneath the coverlet.
“Well enough.” He gave her a labored smile. “Haven’t had such a fine bed beneath me since I was born. Nay, even then I was birthed into a heap of straw, not unlike Christ himself. I cannot compete with his chastity, however.”
“When have you been chaste, Hugh?” Desmond grinned.
“I was but a wee laddie the last time I knew chastity.” Hugh chuckled, but the laugh turned into a hiss of pain as Clara examined his wound. “Have a care, lass. I’m fond of that leg, and I’d be fair gloomy to lose it.”
“You won’t lose it,” Clara answered with assurance. “But there’s a hint of infection, and it will require a little more care.”
“I trust you.” Hugh took her hand in his, his thick fingers enfolding hers. Despite his discomfort, he gave her a warm smile.
With gray light coming in through the window, she could see him much clearer.
Hugh wasn’t precisely handsome, but he possessed weathered, craggy features that were ruggedly appealing.
Thick eyebrows arched over moss-green eyes.
Even with him lying down she noted his broad, muscular body, and the open neckline of his shirt revealed a goodly amount of black and silver hair covering his pectorals.
“You’ll be on your feet soon again,” she said.
“Aye, I’ve been running since I was a wee bairn.”
“An active boy, were you?”
His smile dimmed. “Had to stay nimble to avoid my older brother’s swinging fists. He raised me, after my ma died and my dad ran off. But Ian didn’t much care for being a parent, not when he’d rather be chasing lassies at the pub, so I became a fine sprinter when he’d come home drunk and angry.”
“I’m…I’m sorry.” She squeezed his hand.
“I got so good at running, I ran all the way to England. It’s safer as a highwayman than as Ian MacLeod’s younger brother.” He mustered a smile. “I canna find fault with my fate. It brought me here. To you.”
“You needn’t administer your flirtation with so generous a hand,” she chided gently. “I’ll tend to you, whether you charm me or not.”