Thunder and Roses (34 page)

Once they were inside, she said, “Before you go to bed, I want to clean and treat those lacerations.” She gave him her no-nonsense schoolmistress look. “I know that you delight in being stoic, but there are limits.”

He gave her a self-mocking smile. “Agreed, and I’ve reached them. Where do you want to hold your surgery?”
                

“Your room, I suppose. I’ll change out of this gown and be along after Polly finds me some medical supplies.” She went to her own room, where Polly was napping. She woke quickly and helped Clare undress, then went for bandages and medications.

Perhaps as punishment for her worldliness, Clare’s blue silk gown had been ruined by Lord Michael’s blood and her contact with the ground. She donned her practical white flannel nightgown and covered it with a handsome red velvet robe that was part of her London wardrobe. After brushing out her hair and braiding it into a loose plait, she sat down to wait for Polly’s return.

The nervous energy that had carried her through the duel and ride home disappeared, leaving her suddenly exhausted. She leaned back in the wing chair, pressed her hands to her temples, and began to shake as the stresses of the night caught up to her. Every blow struck in that ghastly duel was permanently engraved in her memory. If Lord Michael had gotten his wish and they had fought with pistols or swords … She shuddered and tried to change the direction of her thoughts.

Though she had felt murderous when she saw Lord Michael attacking Nicholas, now that the duel was over her heart ached for the major. Though his wild accusations against Nicholas were the product of a disturbed mind, he obviously believed them, for his torment had been genuine. She sighed. He was not the first soldier to be destroyed by war, and sadly, he wouldn’t be the last. Perhaps in time his mind would heal; she hoped so.

But in the meantime, he was a very real danger. Though Nicholas didn’t think his old friend capable of cold-blooded murder, Clare was not so sure. Perhaps it was time to return to Wales. Michael had implied that he would not have gone in search of Nicholas; with luck, out of sight would prove out of mind.

When Polly returned with a tray containing bandages, medications, and a basin of warm water, Clare forced her weary body from the chair. After taking the tray, she sent the maid to bed and went down the hall to Nicholas’s bed chamber. The door was slightly ajar, so she pushed it open and went in.

Nicholas knelt on the hearth, adding coals

to the fire. Clare almost dropped the tray when she saw him, for her first impression was that he was naked. A second glance showed that he had a towel wrapped around his loins. It was the absolute minimum necessary to make him decent, and rather less than what she required for peace of mind.

It was unnerving to see at close hand the beautiful, muscular body that she had shamefacedly admired when he swam with the penguins. Still more unnerving was the sight of his injuries. Belatedly she realized that he had stripped off most of his clothing so she could treat his wounds. The thought steadied her; she was here as a nurse, not a mistress.

He finished fixing the fire and set the screen into place, then stood and lifted a goblet from the table. “Care for some brandy? Tonight might be a good time to temporarily suspend your objections to strong drink.”

After a brief mental debate, she said, “The Methodist rule is to make decisions according to what is in one’s heart, and my heart says that something calming would be welcome.”

He poured a small amount of brandy and handed the glass to her. “Drink carefully. It’s much fiercer than sherry.”

“Shouldn’t you be encouraging me to drink more? I’ve heard that getting a female tipsy is a standard seduction technique.”

“I’ve considered doing that, but it wouldn’t be sporting,” he said with dry humor. “I’ll seduce you fair and square.”

“No, you won’t, fairly, squarely, or otherwise,” she retorted. Though the first taste of brandy made her choke, she appreciated the soothing afterglow.

As she sipped, her gaze followed him as he prowled around the room, glass in hand. In his near-naked state, he was a most distracting sight. Trying to be objective, she noted that his arms and the upper part of his chest and back had sustained all of the damage. His beautiful muscular legs were unmarked. …

Clinical, Clare, remember to be clinical. Setting down her glass, she said briskly, “Time to get to work. Sit on that stool, please.”

Silently he obeyed. She began by gently washing the lacerations with warm water to remove grit and fragments of cloth that had been driven in by the lash. He stared across the room, occasionally sipping at his brandy. She tried not to be distracted by the ripple of taut muscles when he shifted position. All carnal thoughts vanished whenever the pain passed the limits of stoicism and he involuntarily winced.

As she sprinkled
basilicum
powder on the open wounds, she said, “The lacerations are messy and must feel beastly, but they’re fairly shallow, and none are still bleeding. I expected the damage to be worse.”

“Whips are more destructive when the victim can’t avoid the lash, as when a soldier is tied to a post and flogged,” he said absently. “A moving target doesn’t incur as much damage.”

She transferred her attention to his left forearm, which was cut and bruised in several places. His fingers tightened around his glass as she cleaned dried blood from a gash on his wrist. “Odd that all of the damage is to your upper body. Lord Michael has no imagination—he kept striking at the same area.”

Nicholas reached for the decanter and poured himself more brandy. “He was trying to break my neck. If he’d been able to wind the thong around my throat and jerk it, as I did with his ankle, he’d have had a good chance of success.”

She stopped, appalled. “You mean he was deliberately trying to do the one thing that might kill you?”

Nicholas raised his brows. “Of course. Michael said that he wanted me dead, and he’s always been a man of his word.”

Clare’s hands began shaking. After a quick look at her face, Nicholas stood and guided her into a nearby wing chair. She buried her face in her hands, unable to escape a horrific vision of what would have happened if the major had managed to wrap his whip around Nicholas’s neck.

“Sorry—I shouldn’t have told you,” Nicholas said as he returned to his stool. “There was no chance he would succeed. Once or twice I’ve seen similar brawls among the Gypsies, so I’m familiar with the basic tactics of whip fighting.”

After a brief, intense battle with incipient hysterics, she looked up. “He really is mad, as you said. Do you have any idea why he fixed his madness on you rather than someone else?”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to ask if
 
Michael was correct when he accused me of killing my wife and my grandfather?”

She made an impatient movement with her hand. “I think he was only trying to shock, and their sudden deaths made convenient ammunition. Besides, I doubt that he cared about my reaction. He was more interested in antagonizing you, and in trying to drive a wedge between you and your other friends.”

Nicholas rose and began pacing again. “So coolheaded. But surely the thought has crossed your mind that I might be a murderer.”

“Naturally I considered the possibility four years ago, when the deaths occurred.” She linked her fingers together in her lap, determined to be as cool as he thought she was. “However, though you have flashes of temper, I simply don’t think you have that kind of violence in you.”

He toyed with the
bellpull
, twining it around the post of the bed. “Are there different kinds of violence?”

“Of course,” she replied. “It’s easy to believe that Lord Michael is capable of murder. I think Lucien would be also, under extreme circumstances—certainly he can be as ruthless as necessary. But though you can be dangerous, as you proved tonight, you would rather laugh or walk away from a difficult situation. I can’t imagine you killing except in self-defense, and even then only if you couldn’t avoid it.”

His mouth twisted. “I damn near killed Michael tonight.”

“That was an accident,” she said sharply. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice how you held back? He’s skilled with a whip, but you’re better. You could have sliced him to pieces if you chose. Instead, you allowed yourself to be hurt much worse than necessary while you waited for a chance to disable him.”

“You notice a great deal.” He drifted to the walnut dresser and began stacking coins by size. “Too much, perhaps.”

I notice everything about you, Nicholas. Her fingers locked more tightly. “My father’s work brought many kinds of people to our home. I couldn’t help but learn something of human nature.”

“You’ve deftly analyzed Michael, Lucien, and me in terms of our capacity for violence,” he remarked, all his attention on the coins. “What about Rafe?”

She pondered. “I scarcely know him. My guess is that he is like you—the kind of man who won’t look for a fight, but who will acquit himself well when trouble can’t be avoided.”

“You’re even more dangerous than I thought,” he said with a hint of amusement. “You’re quite right about me walking away—I think it’s bred into all Gypsies. We’ve always been persecuted— to survive as a race, we had to learn to fold our tents and steal away rather than wait to be slaughtered.”

“He who fights, then runs away, will live to run another day,” she misquoted.

“Exactly.” Losing interest in the coins, he began fiddling with his silver card case. “You asked why Michael chose me as his target. My best guess is that his anger is because of the old earl. Though he was estranged from his own father, the Duke of Ashburton, for some reason Michael and my grandfather got on well. The old earl said in as many words that he wished Michael was his heir instead of me.”

Nicholas took the engraved cards from the case and spread them into a fan between his thumb and forefinger. “My grandfather was a healthy, vigorous man right up until the night he died. Perhaps Michael really does believe I killed the old boy with some subtle Gypsy poison or black magic spell.”

Thinking that he was unnaturally dispassionate about what must have been deeply hurtful, she asked, “Did you envy Michael for the way he got on with your grandfather?”

He snapped the cards together and returned them to the case. “I might have minded when I was younger, but by the time Michael moved to Penreith, I no longer cared. If it made the two of them happy for Michael to play surrogate grandson, they were welcome to it. I spent most of my time elsewhere.”

Clare wondered if the old earl had deliberately set the two young men against each other as a way of hurting his grandson. Could the earl have been that devious, and that cruel? If so, he had much to answer for. And, like Emily, Clare hoped he was answering for it in a very hot location.

Deciding she should finish her work so she could go to her room and collapse, she took a pot of herb salve, cornered Nicholas by the dresser, and began spreading the salve on minor wounds, where the skin was raw but not bleeding.

He sucked his breath in when she touched a tender spot on his back, but didn’t move. “What about your capacity for violence, Clare? You’ll never convince me that you’re a milk-and-water miss who would never say boo to a penguin.”

“I believe that peace is better than war, and that turning cheeks is better than breaking heads.” She spread salve on a scrape that ran from his collarbone to his ribs. “But though I’m not particularly proud to admit it, I suspect I could be violent on behalf of those I care about. If some villain came to the school and threatened my children, for example.” Or if someone threatened Nicholas.

She went back to the tray for a bandage. “I’m going to cover the worst of the lacerations with this.” She wrapped his wrist, then began winding the muslin strip around his chest.

Casually he asked, “How does Lucien kiss?”

“What?” She was so startled she almost dropped the bandage. “Oh, that’s right, he kissed me when Napoleon’s abdication was announced. It was quite a nice kiss, I suppose—I didn’t really notice.” She looped the end of the bandage under his arm and tied a neat knot on top of his shoulder. The muslin looked very white against his dark skin. “He wasn’t you.”