Ashley choked up at his unexpected display of serious emotion, and could only nod and curtsy.
Westbrook rode away in one direction, and Ashley and Sally walked the opposite way, toward the street where there were always vendors selling oranges, meat pies, and other ready-to-eat foods.
Back in her room, Ashley went straight to the bed to check on Ravencroft, barely acknowledging Sally collecting her outdoor wear to put away.
Maggie set aside her sewing and came to stand beside her. “He woke up for a bit, miss. Ate a little bread and cheese, and drank two cups of the willow bark tea.”
“Two? The girls at the academy hated the taste. Getting them to drink even one was a struggle.” Ashley held up the meat pies in their grease-stained paper wrapping. “These will taste much better warm than cold.” She bit her bottom lip. Should she wake him, or let him sleep? She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. Definitely warm enough now to be considered a fever. “Blast,” she murmured. She handed the pies to Maggie, who wrapped them in a towel and set them on the hearth.
Had she made a mistake, not just in bringing him here but in keeping his presence a secret? Should she have summoned a surgeon? There must be several surgeons in London experienced at treating the kind of injury Ravencroft had sustained.
Then she recalled Captain Blackthorn’s stories about the aftermath of battles, as surgeons worked frantically to save lives. Often the course of treatment for bullet and bayonet wounds alike was amputation. Better to lose a limb than a life.
But if Ravencroft’s arm was amputated at the elbow, he’d never be able to play the viola da gamba again.
He can’t play anything if he’s dead.
His life was more important than either of their reputations, or his ability to play instruments. If his condition continued to deteriorate and his wound did not respond to her treatments, she would send for a surgeon.
She washed her hands with gin and sat on the edge of the bed to treat his bruises. When she applied the balm to his split lip, she noted how soft his skin was, especially compared to how rough the razor stubble was on his cheek and jaw. Rarely had she seen a man with this much stubble, up close.
Soon Sally tied on her bonnet to go meet with Gilroy, Ravencroft’s manservant. “You go, too,” Ashley said to Maggie. “I might need to send you by yourself at some point.”
As Ashley could do nothing more for Ravencroft at the moment, she removed her shoes, lay down on the sofa, and rested her eyes. If his fever continued to rise, the night ahead could be a long one.
She must have dozed off, as she sat up in time to see Ravencroft walking back to bed.
Limping.
“Oh no!” She jumped up.
At her startled exclamation, he stumbled the last step and barely turned in time to sit on the edge of the bed instead of falling to the floor. He tried to pull the blankets over his lap as she knelt before him.
“I was worried your legs might be hurt but I didn’t see any blood.” She lifted each foot in turn, rotated the ankle, and felt along his calves.
He again tried to pull the blanket over his lap. “That’s not necessary, Miss Hamlin. My legs are not injured.”
She barely registered his low, gravelly voice. “Nonsense. Why else would you be limping?” She pushed his linen drawers above his knees, and froze.
They didn’t line up.
His knees didn’t match up, because one leg was shorter than the other. Smaller.
She finally looked up at his face, which was flushed red. Anger or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure which. Probably a combination of both. Her cheeks began to feel hot as well.
Slowly she became aware that she still had her hands on his bare knees. He was sitting on the edge of her bed wearing only a bandage on his right forearm and the drawers that she was touching, a man’s most intimate, most personal garment.
His long hair was dirty and disheveled, his jaw unshaven, bruises discolored his face and torso, and his bare chest and shoulder glistened with ointment she had applied with her bare fingers.
He was magnificent.
One knee beneath her hand twitched.
She glanced down. She should probably move her hands. Keep them to herself. Instead she realized her thumbs were stroking him. “Have… Have they always been this way?”
He flipped the blanket over his lap. She took the hint and sat back on her heels, her hands resting on her own thighs.
“No.” He looked away, out the window.
