“My dear Miss Woodford.” The speaker had a deep, fruity voice of the sort normally heard from pulpits. “I thought it incumbent that I call on you in your hour of need.”
“My hour of need?”
The fruity voice lowered, retaining its dramatic flair. “Your Unwelcome Imposition.”
“My unwe—oh, you mean the injured stranger. He’s not really an imposition.”
Little liar,the imposition thought.
“But of course he is,” the Reverend Fruit-bowl declared. “An unmarried young lady, forced to give shelter to an Unknown Man! And a man—I may add, without sullying your Tender Ears—of Unsavory Habits!”
Unsavory habits? The imposition was tempted to demand an explanation, but aware of his hostess’s instructions, lay indignantly feigning unconsciousness. What the devil did this prosy windbag know, to accuse him of unsavory habits?
“So you know him?” she asked calmly.
“Know him? I thank the Lord I do not. But I know of His Kind.”
“What kind is that?”
“It would not be proper for me to explain, but suffice it to say—”
“You mean the kind that travels without a nightshirt?” There was a faint gobbling sound, but she went on undisturbed. “The doctor told me of your concerns, dear Mr. Matheson, but truly there is nothing to worry about. We managed to get him into the nightshirt you sent—”
“We?” the fruit-bowl declared ominously.
“The doctor and John, of course,” she said smoothly.
Oh, she was good. The doctor and John had been nowhere in sight when she’d wrestled him into the blasted thing. No wonder the nightshirt swam on him. The Reverend Fruit-bowl was obviously as rounded as his vowels.
“I should hope so, too! And Miss Woodford, I beg of you, there is no further need for you to refer to an Intimate Masculine Garment. I realize it must be Distressing for a Lady.”
And what would you think, good Rev. Windbag, if you knew she’d stripped me of every stitch of clothing and then put me in her bed, stark naked. And then joined me there, albeit chastely.He muffled a snort of laughter.
“What was that?” the windbag asked.
“Nothing,” she said hurriedly. “And intimate masculine garments don’t offend me in the least. I wash the boys’ smalls each week. Now can I offer you a cup of tea? There is only peppermint tea with honey, I’m afraid, but—”
“No, no, I thank you. My good lady will have tea waiting when I return, but I’m sure I heard . . .”
“No doubt it was one of the children playing. They often make the most ridiculous sounds, and oddly, it sounds quite clo—Rev. Matheson, I beg you, do not disturb—”
The faded red bed curtains were flung open.
There was a long silence as he feigned unconsciousness under the close stare of the vicar. He could hear the man breathing as he leaned over to scrutinize him closely. His breath smelt of port and caraway seeds.
He attempted to look pale and at death’s door. How deeply did one breathe when unconscious? he wondered. And did one let one’s mouth fall open or not? Not, he decided. It was not an attractive look, and he was sure she was standing by the vicar, watching him for any sign of awareness.
“A vicious-looking Ruffian,” the vicar declared. “A Veritable Pirate.”
“That’s because of the bruises and bandage, and because he hasn’t shaved for a few days.”
So she thought he looked like a pirate, too, did she?
“He’s like this most of the time,” she told the vicar. “Day or night, he never moves, so you can see, I’m in no danger.” She was defending him. Interesting.
The vicar huffed. “Dr. Thompson said he was conscious earlier today.”
“He was, that’s true, but he was so exhausted by the doctor’s ministrations he lapsed back into unconsciousness almost immediately and hasn’t moved a muscle since.”
