Page 35 of The Major’s Mistake (Intrepid Heroines #7)

Sixteen

T he door opened.

“Bloody well time you got your arse back here,” muttered Julian. A bit of verbal sparring usually served to punch away his flat spirits. When there was not the usual sharp retort, he slowly opened his eyes.

“Miranda!”

She swallowed hard in evident embarrassment. “Mr. Sykes told me … that is, he would have had me believe your condition was in danger of becoming very grave, else I should never have thought to … intrude on your privacy.”

Behind her, the valet gave a strangled cough.

“You certainly do not seem in danger of sticking your spoon into the wall just yet, but from what Mr. Sykes tells me, it appears that Dr. Reynolds has a number of foolish notions, which of course is not surprising, given how set in their ways the medical profession is,” she continued in a rush.

“They are never able to admit they may be wrong, while in my experience there are any number of local remedies that have proven to be effective in treating injuries such as yours.”

She knew she was gabbling on like a Bedlamite, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

Just as she couldn’t seem to force her eyes away from a spot below his neck where the unbuttoned top of his nightshirt was exposing a hint of the dark ringlets on his broad chest. To her dismay, she felt her face begin to flame.

“Now, since Mr. Sykes seems to believe that certain of my salves are of some help, and since he seems to have little faith in the physician either, I?—”

“I’m glad you came,” said Julian.

There was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice, or the warmth of the smile that had spread over his face. She stopped in some confusion, still unable to meet his eyes.

Sykes made another sound in his throat. “I had best go check on how Cook is coming with the, er, gruel for your supper, guv.”

Miranda spun around. “But Mr. Sykes?—”

He was already gone.

The smile was still on Julian’s lips when she turned back. “Well, now that I am here, sir, I had best have a look at how your leg is healing.”

Julian’s mouth crooked at the corners. “Sir?” he repeated softly. “Is it back to ‘sir’ and ‘Your Lordship’? The last time we spoke, you called me Julian.”

Her color deepened. “I … wasn’t thinking properly.”

“Then I should wish your thoughts to remain in a whirl.”

There was no fear on that score, she admitted to herself. Had the man any idea how devastatingly handsome he looked when he smiled like that?

Good Lord, she knew it had been a mistake to come.

“And how is Justin?” he added after a moment.

Grateful for the change of subject, she answered quickly. “He is quite fine, and wishes me to tell you that … he misses you.”

“I miss him as well.” Julian unaccountably turned to look out the window again. “Tell me, he has no lingering effects from his experience? No nightmares or such? It must have been a very frightening thing for a child to see his mother taken.”

Her lips quirked. “On the contrary. He was not afraid at all. He told Aunt Sophia that since you had promised him that you would see me safe, there was no reason to worry.”

Julian found himself blushing like a schoolroom miss just paid her first flowery compliment, and felt nearly as giddy. “Did he?”

Miranda withdrew a square of paper from her pocket, smoothed out its folds and placed it on his lap.

“That is you,” she said, pointing at the lop-sided stick figure drawn in colored chalk perched atop an odd tan blob.

“And that is Zeus, in case you have trouble recognizing your gallant steed, galloping to the rescue.”

The marquess’s jaw worked as he stared at the exuberant scrawls. For a moment, he wondered whether he was going to disgrace himself with a rather unmanly show of emotion.

Miranda moved a chair closer to the side of the massive carved bed. “Now, about that leg.” She turned down the covers, exposing a good deal of his long, muscled limbs, and hesitantly turned the nightshirt up above his knees.

He sucked in his breath at her gossamer touch. Now he feared the danger might be that he would disgrace himself with a show of emotion that was decidedly not unmanly.

With great care, she gently undid the bandages and began to inspect the wound.

Her fingers probed along the line of sutures, then ran over the small area of swelling.

“Well,” she said after a bit. “Mr. Sykes was right to notice the slight inflammation, but it’s nothing to be overly concerned about.

The salve I have brought should remedy the matter.

” Her hand remained on his thigh, while she took hold of his knee and bent it slightly. “How does this feel?”

“Hardly a twinge. In fact, I daresay I’m ready to be on my feet again.”

“I should not like you to rush things, but I suppose you may be permitted to try a few steps in another day or two.”

She made to move away but his hand covered hers.

“I haven’t had a chance to thank you. Sykes told me what you did that night. I would have lost my leg, if not my life, were it not for your skill,” he said softly.

“Neither your leg nor your life would not have been in danger had you not come after me. It is I who owe the thanks. You needn’t have taken such a risk. I … I never expected it.”

An inscrutable expression flitted across his lean features. “No,” he said in a low whisper. “I’ve given you no reason to think I’d do aught but turn my back on you in a time of need.”

The very nearness of him—the heat emanating through the fine cotton fabric, the faint scent of bay rum, the strong touch of his lithe fingers—along with his strange words had thrown her into a state of even greater confusion. She managed to slip her hand out from under his and stood up abruptly.

“That leg must be rebandaged, milord. Has Mr. Sykes left any linen about?”

Julian’s brows came together slightly at her choice of address. “On the dressing table, I believe.”

She went to fetch the roll of soft material, only to stop short at the sight of the neat arrangement of the Marquess’s things on the burled walnut top.

There were the same two silver backed brushes she had seen every morning of her marriage.

Such a trivial little thing, but it was that which was her undoing.

All at once her shoulders began to shake.

“Miranda?”

She refused to turn around.

“Miranda! Please, tell me what’s the matter!”

She fought down a rising wave of hysteria. How could she possibly explain?

Her hand brushed angrily at the trickle of tears. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

There was a thud as his feet hit the floor. He lurched forward, steadying himself on the back of the chair to keep from ending up in a heap at her feet.

“Julian! You mustn’t?—”

Then she was in his arms, her wet cheek pressed against his shoulder.

“There, you see, I won’t fall now,” he murmured in he ear. “I have you to support me.” He held her even tighter. “Won’t you tell me why you are crying?”

“It’s so ridiculous.” And in truth, she felt like an utter fool for having turned into the worst sort of watering pot over something so absurd. She tried to raise her head, but his hand prevented her from pulling away.

“Please. Tell me,” he urged.

“The brushes,” she said haltingly, her body going stiff with embarrassment. “It’s such a silly thing, I know. But?—”

Julian’s eyes filled with understanding. “We bought them on Bond Street. You had chosen a silver comb and cachepot for your earrings,” he whispered. “To tease you, I chose the most extravagant set of brushes I could find. The design is still as hideous as ever, is it not?”

Miranda wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying.

He lifted her chin and his lips came down upon hers.

The kiss fairly seared her senses. It was hard, possessive, full of need, and this time her response was more than fleeting. She opened her mouth to his demand and their tongues entwined.

A groan rumbled in his throat as he thrust in deeper, drinking in the taste of her. Their bodies arched closer together. Miranda could feel every taut muscle and plane of his body through the thin fabric of his nightshirt.

She gave a low cry as he released her mouth to trail a string of kisses along the line of her jaw. Her hands came up to tangle in his long raven locks as she sought out his lips once more.

“I thought the two of you might like some tea.” Sykes stepped through the half opened door with a silver tray in his hands.

“Shall I—” The words died in his throat, a look of sheer mortification spreading across his leathery face.

“Good Lord, I didn’t realize I was … interrupting … ” He started to edge backwards.

Miranda gave a horrified gasp and tried to push away from Julian’s chest. “No! You are not interrupting—that is, it is not exactly what you might think,” she stammered. “His Lordship was attempting to walk and ...”

“And making great strides, it appears,” quipped Sykes, unable to repress a grin.

Miranda went scarlet and her head dropped in embarrassment.

The valet looked stricken on realizing what he had unwittingly done. “Please, milady, I shan’t forgive myself if I’ve gone and upset you.”

“The fault is not yours, it’s mine,” she said in a small voice.

Sykes shook his head. “As far as I can see, ma’am, there’s no fault at all. I daresay nothing in the least wrong has occurred. When two people?—”

“ Everything wrong has occurred,” she interrupted, her voice made shrill by overwrought emotions. “It’s wrong that I came to the Marquess’s residence. It’s wrong that I should be in his bedchamber, in his arms. And it’s most certainly wrong that I return his embraces?—”

Julian gently drew her back into his arms. “No, my love, it’s entirely right. A man may kiss his wife?—”

“But I am not your wife anymore.”

“Perhaps it’s time to remedy that,” he replied quietly.

Her mouth went very dry.