27. Lady Nurse

LADY NURSE

A melia stepped back at first, feeling a flash of rejection, even at his sudden retreat. But when she registered the fact that he was being ill…

With no regard for the sensibilities she ought to have, she rushed forward, and doing her best to avoid looking at the actual vomit, she held his head, rubbing his back until he seemed to be finished.

"Mr. Beckworth?" Her voice shook a little.

When he made a dismissive gesture with one hand, daring to imagine he could send her away, she caught sight of something alarming on the back of his head.

It was dark, but whereas his hair gleamed like silk, this patch was sticky and matted. She narrowed her eyes, studying him properly now, and felt a little panicked when she noticed a rectangular red mark swelling on the side of his face.

"You are injured," she said.

Accusingly.

"Damned runner." He spit, his head bent over the chamber pot.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He slanted her a sideways glance and then winced. He looked… defeated. "It didn't come up," he answered.

Was he swaying? He needed help. But when she looked around the room, she saw no signs of a valet.

Because, of course, Mr. Beckworth would never hire a person to tend to his personal needs.

Furthermore, all the servants had long since retired.

In the moment, all he had was her.

She could do this. She could help him. Recalling her own nurse tending to her when she was sick, Amelia went right to the washing bowl, poured some water on a cool rag, and then rushed back to swipe it at his mouth.

He allowed a few dabs before grabbing her hand weakly.

"You should go…"

"Absolutely not."

All he had was her.

Yes, he had his team , the men and women who'd come to work at Smuggler's Manor. But he had no real family. Had he ever known a mother's love? Most likely not.

"Can you walk?" Without waiting for him to answer, she all but dragged him across to the chair she'd just vacated. He was shivering now, and that renewed her resolve to make him comfortable.

After that, she'd find Bessie. Because he needed a physician.

Once he sat, she left him again to soak two more washrags, rushing to wring out the excess water before she returned right away.

"What happened?" she asked, dropping to her knees before him. All manner of horrors played out in her mind as she dabbed at his mouth. She used the second linen to cool his cheeks and forehead.

"Who did this to you?"

He was a smuggler.

Up until that moment, she hadn't really considered that his choice of vocation meant a lifetime of putting himself in danger. It took all her will to keep from breaking down—something she refused to do.

He didn't answer, but just stared at her from beneath hooded eyes, swaying in the chair when a violent shiver shook his entire body.

"Oh, Mr. Beckworth." He needed the wound on his head cleaned.

He needed to be in bed.

He needed out of his wet clothes.

Forcing herself to stay calm, Amelia fisted his shirt where he'd tucked it into his breeches and attempted to pull it up so she could get it off of him.

But, almost as stubborn as her old corset, it didn't come loose.

"I c'n doit…" He slurred his words, fumbling to undo enough of the fasteners so she could untuck the long tail of his shirt.

"Careful, now." She was talking to herself, really. The sound he made, a low, slow moan, shouldn't have vibrated her insides like it did. She swallowed hard and did her best to ignore it as she revealed more and more of his skin.

She had the vague thought that undressing a man in his bedchamber ought to send her reeling with guilt, but it didn't.

Not when Mr. Beckworth so obviously needed her help.

Once she'd lifted the wet linen over his head, however, all thoughts of herself, of her feelings, fled. She swallowed hard.

‘'What happened to you?" No wonder he could hardly walk. She'd uncovered so many bruises and cuts that she hardly knew where to begin.

"An oar got the better of me…" he mumbled. "And a few rocks…"

She was in over her head. "I should find Bessie. You need a physician."

"No bloody physician." He grasped her wrist and lifted his gaze. She could tell that even that simple gesture exhausted him. "They can't know." Midnight eyes implored her.

Who can't know?

But then she realized.

His team. Because he was the person they relied upon. It wasn't a matter of pride so much as confidence.

And not his confidence, but theirs.

As the daughter of a marquess, she understood the importance of appearances all too well.

But, if she couldn't seek help… "What should I do?"

"I keep liniment." His voice came out hoarse. "In the top drawer."

Refusing to panic, she forced a grim smile. "I take it this isn't the first time you've been injured?" She located a small tin and pried off the lid, thinking that if its pungency was anything to go by, it ought to be extraordinarily effective.

"Vinegar," he said, eyes closed. "In honey, and some medicinal herbs."

Amelia returned to where he sat and then took a calming breath. "I'm going to clean these scratches first." And then she added, "This might take a while."

He answered with a barely perceptible nod and, taking a moment to decide where to begin, Amelia went to work cleaning one of the smaller cuts on the back of his shoulder.

Every time he flinched, Amelia winced as though the pain was her own. But she couldn't lose herself to her sympathies. Eventually, it became easier to simply focus on the task at hand.

Debride, rinse, and then cover with the liniment. She couldn't allow herself to be distracted by the fact that she was touching him so intimately, which proved more difficult once she'd progressed from his back to his front. Because there, she was dealing with… very interesting details of his chiseled torso; muscles and contours and that trail of hairs that disappeared into his trousers. There was also the indent of his navel, not to mention the tight buds on his chest. Small and hard, she found them particularly intriguing…

All the while she felt his eyes watching her.

She felt his breath near her face.

She felt the beating of his heart under her hands.

It must be the pain, she told herself—from her fussing with his injuries.

"Does it hurt?" she asked while dabbing at a particular nasty-looking cut. Was that her voice? It sounded unusually breathy.

She lifted her gaze from her task for just a moment.

"The fact that you're here? Dressed like that, and I can hardly move?" His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth. "Yeah."

"No, no…" Amelia had to clear her throat. He was delirious. "The liniment—the vinegar…"

After a short pause, he answered, "At first. It goes numb… eventually." Then his mouth twitched. "Not to worry, My Lady Nurse, I'll live." Even in this state, he found enjoyment in teasing her.

"Enough of that Mr. Beckworth." But she didn't really mean it. Surely, the fact that he could tease her meant he was going to be all right?

By the time she'd circled around him, the stench of the vinegar had her eyes burning. She blinked back stinging tears as she covered up the last abrasion, and then she stepped back in order to get a proper look at him.

He looked absolutely exhausted, the poor man, and his eyes still had that dazed look about them. There wasn't much more that could be done for him without calling for a doctor, aside from a good night's sleep.

She ought to help him get into bed.

But then…

"You'll need to get rid of your… of those." His breeches .

But she wasn't wrong. They were damp and he needed to be warm and dry. "Let me see what I can find to cover your?—"

Before she could finish, he'd lifted himself out of the chair. He was clenching his jaw, and all the blood seemed to have drained from his face.

He was a portrait of contrasts, his dark eyes, hair and beard, stark against the canvas of almost ghostly white skin.

"All right then." She supposed that if he wasn't worried about his modesty, she wouldn't be either. He managed to unfasten the falls all the way, but they didn't budge. Already a form-fitting garment, the damp fabric clung firmly to his skin, and Mr. Beckworth was in no fit state to deal with them himself.

It was up to her to peel them off.

"Oh my," she breathed, dropping to her knees, bracing herself for… Should she turn her head? But if she wasn't looking, she might overlook another injury.

She couldn't get squeamish now.

Lifting one leg at a time, Amelia adjusted her gown so it wasn't pulling at her. Once she'd done that, she exhaled.

And then placed her hands on his hips. If she leaned forward six inches, she could…

"I imagine it's like taking off a pair of stockings…" Despite her best efforts, her voice caught again.

"Stockings?"

"I'll just roll the fabric." She folded the waistband down. Having uncovered two little dimples just below his hip, where that skin was smooth and tight, she cleared her throat. "Like I would a pair of my stockings."

"I'll do well to remember that," he said. Was his voice catching too?

With the first downward fold, she uncovered more of those short, curling hairs. Against the backs of her fingers, she noticed these weren't as soft as the ones on his chest. There were more of them. Another roll revealed the tops of his thighs.

Turn away, a small voice warned her. But every lesson she'd ever learned involving propriety evaporated into thin air.

There was a bulge… a rather large bulge. Unless it was her imagination, it was getting larger.

One more fold, and his member sprang free. And then it waved a little from side to side.

Torn, Amelia froze. The buttoned-up Amelia, the one she'd been last week, urged her to flee. The part of Amelia determined to nurse him back to health, however, was committed to seeing this through.

And there was a third part. One that had her licking her lips.

For reasons she didn't understand, she lifted her gaze and met his eyes.

"You can't do that," he said in a strangled voice.

"Do what?"

"Look at me like that. Not right now. Oh hell …" He closed his eyes.

Right.

Right, then. What was wrong with her?

Amelia summoned all of that nurturing part of herself and forced her hands to move with some level of efficiency. Even so, she couldn't drag her stare away from it.

It was so much larger than she'd envisioned.

But had she envisioned it? In being honest with herself, she conceded that yes. She had. But she'd only envisioned a blurry, vague, flesh-colored rod.

She hadn't envisioned that it would be this pinkish, maroonish, and violet color, or that the skin would look almost polished. And she'd expected it to look threatening and ominous, but it didn't really. It was simply… there. Waving back and forth, and bobbing ever so slightly. She tilted her head, finding it cute, actually. The absurd notion that she could fashion one out of yarn proved she was, in fact, going a little mad.

"Sorry," she gasped, realizing she'd been staring shamelessly. She forced her gaze to his thighs, to his knees. Once she reached his ankles, she felt a little dizzy.

"Can you step out?" she asked, surprised that she could speak.

Rather than answer, he placed his hands on her shoulders.

One foot, and then the other.

He is naked. He is completely naked now.

Thunder roared in her ears, but she was almost there. She knew, however, that she couldn't draw this out any longer than necessary.

He was on the verge of passing out.

And she was on the verge of losing her sanity.

"Let me just…" She was able to reach her cloth and liniment. She worked automatically on a few cuts on his thighs, the tight muscles of his buttocks, and finally, breathing a sigh of relief, his feet.

"I'll get your nightclothes." Amelia rose, feeling as weak as he looked, but knowing that was impossible.

"I don't wear any…"

"Well, then." She exhaled a long breath.

"Amelia?" The way he said her name compelled her to meet his gaze.

"Yes?"

He blinked. "Thank you."

Seeing real gratitude in his expression, Amelia's heart swelled. This wasn't the same as sending toys to orphaned children. No, for the first time in her life, she'd actually helped someone.

And not just anyone.

This man.

Her dear Mr. Beckworth.

After helping Mr. Beckworth into his bed, Amelia spent the remainder of the night sitting in the chair beside him—mostly studying him.

He'd fallen asleep the instant his head hit the pillow and Amelia couldn't help but think he looked surprisingly innocent. More than that, actually. With his lips soft and the large red mark blazing on his cheek, he looked…

Tragically vulnerable.

When he moaned in pain, she dabbed a wet cloth at his clammy forehead, wishing she could have given him some laudanum—or, at the very least, a few sips of willowbark tea.

Sometimes, he'd mumble in his sleep and Amelia couldn't help but wonder if his dreams could be as dark as his past. A past, she realized, that was likely worse than most people's nightmares.

And although fatigue tugged at her, she couldn't sleep. He was hers to care for—her responsibility. No, not her responsibility.

He was simply, hers . At least for tonight.

A thousand soldiers couldn't have dragged her from his side. By the time a hint of light crept through the windows, he seemed to be resting more peacefully.

The servants would be up and about soon. Fanny, perhaps, would be bringing him coffee.

Amelia dropped her gaze to the ridiculously frivolous garment she'd donned for her mission. There were a few stains from the liniment. She hardly noticed the vinegar smell by now, but Fanny would. Or Bessie.

Or anyone who might come into Mr. Beckworth's chamber.

Conceding that she couldn't just sit in here forever, she rose. Her limbs were stiff and, putting off leaving him, she took a few minutes to stretch and then tidied up the cloths she'd used earlier.

Once she was done with that, she returned to his bedside.

His chest rose and fell evenly. She should go.

She really needed to go.

But her feet wouldn't move. Not until after she'd leaned over him and brushed her lips across his uninjured cheek.

"Amelia…" He trailed off into incoherent whispers.

"You're going to be just fine, Mr. Beckworth," she said. "Rest up for now."