After losing the wager,
Alden travels to Juliet's village, prepared to risk everything, even his
life....
Juliet looked up at a small sound to
see him standing among her hollyhocks. Golden. Bright. Glimmering
in the sunshine. Vividly male.
A sudden panic clamored for her
attention. Mad imagesof fallen angels,
of the Heavenly Host singing of glory, of the golden band she had once worn on her
fingerjostled and demanded for a moment. Her
breath came fast, shivering up from her lungs in hot, angry gasps.
But he is so beautiful!
Damnation! Another man determined to disturb my peace!
Worse:
a man of fashioneyes exhilarated, intelligent, wary.
His hair was tied neatly at the back of
his neck, but it rippled at the temples where a more elaborate style had been brushed out. The blond waves framed skin with the fashionable
pallor of London, enhanced by a small patch high on one cheekbone. Arrogance was reflected in every line of his body,
enhanced, not hidden, by the full-skirted riding coat, the tall boots, the fall of white
linen at his throat.
A town gentleman, dressed for the
country.
His moment of surprised admiration had
been masked quickly enough, but it had been there. She
had suffered from it all her life. It was the
way men always looked at her, as if she were fruit, and ripe, and ready for plucking. Even after she suppressed her moment of panic, it
still filled her with fury.
In a movement of pure aristocratic
grace, he held out one hand, reddened in the palm, but his face had turned pale as death. His eyes dark with the bodys reflexive,
panicked shock, he slid to the path.
Juliet dropped the basket and ran up to
him.
A damp sheen glistened on his
cheekbones. He tipped his head back,
breathing hard, seemingly incapable of movement. She
knelt and took his hand. It was supple and
long-fingered, with square knuckles and beautiful nails.
A hand that further betrayed him: a
hand inherited from a long line of nobility who disdained honest labor and valued their
sensitive fingertips. Yet several rings had
been recently removed. Rings he had worn a
long time by the look of the indented traces.
A gentleman down on his luck?
An adventurer?
The stinger was steadily working itself
into his palm, automatically pumping poison. With
a quick scrape, she removed it, but his hand was swelling and the breath whistled in his
throat. Alarm reverberated. She had seen this before a few timespeople
for whom a bee sting could prove fatal.
Lie quite still where you
are, she said. Remain as quiet as
possible. I shall be back in a moment.
In her kitchen she grasped a kettle of
hot water. Hefting her load in both hands,
she hurried back down the path, carrying a cushion, a blanket, some white cloth and the
kettle. Fierce, exasperated anger flamed
beneath her fearthat a golden prince risked death in her garden after first looking
at her with that wicked flash of self-derision, of lust tinged with humor, that had made
her knees weaken for a moment.
Her fury was not because the admiration
of men did not affect her, but because it did. She
could not afford it. She had never understood
it. Now it was an intolerable burden, when
her only future lay in concealment and denial. Yet
sometimes loneliness caught her unawares, like a little beggar child suddenly grasping at
her skirt, demanding her attention with heartbreaking need.
She knew no defense against that, except anger.
The world believed her a widow. Why
couldnt men leave her alone?
He lay where shed left him, among
the lazy scents of summer.
The sunlight was broken, marking him
with dapples where it sifted through the trees, creating one moderately cool spot in her
hot garden.
He burned there like a fire.
As she approached he opened eyes
blackened into midnight pools and grinned at her. It
sent creases into his cheeks, disarming, making her anger seem absurd. The lines of his face were almost
severeclean, hard, shaped like a sculpture, easy to barricade againstbut the
smile made him human again, even frivolous.
Swallowing her uneasiness, Juliet
slipped the pillow under his neck. His hair
was the color of the cowslips she used to make wine.
Silky under her fingers.
Give me your hand. She poured hot water from the kettle onto her
cloth and wrapped the compress over the swelling. Now
lie still until you feel stronger. The pain
and the weakness will probably pass.
I can . . . stand them,
maam. His voice was almost
strangled by his erratic breathing. But
if they do not?
Then no doubt your heart will
stop beating, sir. With relief she
noticed there was no feminine tenderness at all in her voice. However, it would be a considerable
inconvenience to me if you were to die in my garden, so I pray you will concentrate on
maintaining life.
She reached for the folds of his cravat
and pulled out the knots. She did not want to
touch him, but his tight clothes were a danger to a man in shock.
Her fingers felt clumsy and heavy as
she unbuttoned the front of his waistcoat, then opened his shirt at the neck. The strong skin of his throat gleamed smooth and
white in the mottled light. She noticed the
perfect shape of his jaw at the strangely vulnerable junction where it curved up into his
ear and felt a small surge of discomfort, as if she were a young farm girl winked at by a
gentleman.
How humiliating to mark such things! So the man was handsome and golden in the
sunshine. He was also spoiled by discontent
and idleness. There was a petulant scorn to
the set of his lips and a permanent disdain bred into the shape of his nostrils. A man of leisure, no doubt, and very probably a
wastrel.
His clothes were simple, but
sumptuously made, the fabric of his coat rich and thick.
Without compunction, she wrenched it off, tugging at the arms. He was firm, superbly fit. So he fenced and rode. Of course. Most
gentlemen did, however much they disguised that strength with the gloss of fashion.
His shirtsleeve stretched over his
swollen wrist, so she slit the fabric to the elbow with the little knife from her
chatelaine. His forearm was strong, carved
with muscle beneath a masculine dusting of golden hairs.
Juliet tried to ignore the unwelcome intimacy, the unwelcome feelings, but
she held a mans naked arm in her bare hand.
The swelling blurred the fine shape,
the powerful mesh of wrist to arm.
He was ill.
Steadily, she applied more compresses. Even his shirt was finer than anything in her
wardrobe, soft and enticing to touch. So he
wasor had recently beena wealthy man. A
little tendril of curiosity unfurled. What
was he doing in Manston Mingate?
She bit her lip and suppressed the
question.
It made no difference. She would be forced into his company for only a
few hours of simple nursingand even that was a compromise.
Juliet wanted to be left alone, but she
did not want a corpse on her garden path.
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