He unceremoniously kicked open the door to the huge master bedchamber at the end of the corridor. He was so intent upon his burden that he nearly tripped over a lion-claw leg of a large gold brocade sofa, a remnant of his father’s delight in the Egyptian influence that had swept the country some five years earlier.
He cursed fluently, more from habit than from his bruised shin, but didn’t break his stride toward the four-postered, canopied bed.
He balanced her on the crook of one arm and swept back the heavy goosedown spread. Gently, he eased her down upon her back and lifted off the greatcoat. To his relief, the napkins weren’t soaked through with blood.
He’d just finished baring her side when Silken, accompanied by two stout footmen, entered the room carrying a bucket of hot water and rolls of white linen.
He moved quickly to shield her from the footmen’s curious eyes.
“Thank you. That will be all.” He waved them all away. If his servants thought it odd that he wouldn’t seek their help with the young gentleman, well, so be it. If they thought it even stranger that he wouldn’t send for the doctor, well, so be that, too. He was a marquess and they weren’t. Whatever he did must be right, must be intelligent. What did they know?
Jason Cavander was thankful that she was still unconscious, for it required more than gentle scrubbing to cleanse away the dried blood from about the wound. Carefully, he pressed his fingers against her side, probing the area. His hand shook. But one more inch inward and his blade would have hit a vital organ.
He threaded the needle with the stout black thread, stared down at her white flesh and drew a deep breath. It required only four stitches. His thrust had been neat and straight.
He sprinkled basilicum powder liberally over her side and bandaged her tightly, layer after layer of the soft linen firm against around her waist and flank. He straightened and gazed down at her. “If I am to have the care of you, Miss Rolland,” he said to her, “it’s time you were out of your man’s clothes and into a man’s nightshirt.”
He fetched a long white linen nightshirt, exquisitely hemmed by his great-aunt Agnes, and with gentle efficiency stripped off her bloodied shirt. He tugged carefully at the laces on the chemise and snipped the straps with a pair of scissors. Once free of the tight garment, her breasts seemed to swell and round. He found himself wanting to smooth away the sharp lines that the tight laces had cut into her breasts. He frowned at himself. They were just breasts, just like the breasts he’d seen on so many other women in his life.
He pulled off her hessians, stockings, and finally her breeches. Wise of her not to wear tight-knitted pantaloons, he thought fleetingly holding the loose buckskins in his hands. Though her legs were long and slender and her hips rather boyish, anything but the loosest of breeches would surely have given her away. He found himself comparing her body to Melissande’s, realized what he was doing, and quickly slipped the nightshirt over her head. He smoothed it to her knees, then pulled the cover over her, bringing it just short of her chin.
After building up the fire, he pulled a large leather chair close to the bedside, sat himself down and prepared to wait. He looked up at the ormolu clock on the night table and saw with a start that it was but eleven o’clock in the morning. It was hard to believe that in just under four hours he had nearly lost his life, discovered that his opponent was a woman, and had decided to take sole charge of her care. He made a steeple with his fingers and tapped the tips thoughtfully together. What the devil was she going to do when she woke up and found the man she hated taking care of her? He couldn’t begin to imagine. However, she could have killed him, but she hadn’t. Why? It went over and over in his mind, he couldn’t seem to stop it. Well, he would know soon enough. When she awakened. If she awakened.