Page 27 of Lord of Mistrust

There was no mistaking his intention. That fiery heat was back in his brilliant blue eyes, and his gaze was fixed on her mouth. Bending his head, he brushed his lips lightly across hers. She thrilled at the gossamer touch, met the invitation in his gaze, and swallowed hard.

She stepped away abruptly. She’d already been imperiled once this day—now she was in danger again but of a very different kind.

“We must do something about that arm of yours. I can’t have my gallant rescuer bleed to death through lack of care.”

Robert seemed to come out of the daze he’d been in and glanced at his arm. “Indeed.”

“Take your shirt off.” Her lips still flamed from the tender salute of his kiss. Rather than give him any idea of how he’d made her feel, she must distract herself with practicalities.

She indicated the chair to which she’d been tied. “Sit down and I’ll bandage you up. Give me your knife—I know not what they’ve done with mine.”

She saw him surreptitiously wipe a smear of blood from the blade before handing it to her, and all thoughts of kisses and caresses fled. Their situation had been desperate, and he’d been forced to shed blood. In case the danger was not yet over, she must keep her wits about her.

Cutting into Robert’s shirt sleeve above his wound, she sawed gingerly through the cloth. He was then able to remove his shirt without too much pain. She examined the garment with a sinking heart—it was too begrimed to make good bandages. Turning away, she tucked her skirt up into her belt and tried cutting some clean cloth from her petticoat.

“What do you think you’re doing? You’ll cut yourself! Let me do it.” He sank to his knees in front of her and began carefully detaching a strip of linen.

She gazed at his bent head as he worked. This was a novel situation! Never before had she had a half-naked man kneeling at her feet, the muscles working in his broad shoulders as he cut away part of her petticoat. It was impossible not to be fascinated by his smooth skin and by the way his damp hair curled at the back of his neck. She would love to run her fingers through the luxuriant locks—but she must stay her hand, for that would make her a wanton. He’d been right when he said a brush with death made one feel more alive.

He rose, handed her the strip of linen, and sat down.

“I need some sort of pad.” It took all the strength she could muster to dispel her lascivious thoughts. “Wait—this will serve.” She fished in her bodice for her handkerchief, which she then folded and placed against the deep cut in Robert’s arm, bidding him keep it there.

She was no expert at wound dressing, but she used her common sense and felt she’d done a tolerably good job. He repressed a wince once or twice, but she steeled her nerve. As soon as she got home, she’d spend more time studying medical books and herbals. One never knew when such knowledge might be critical.

“Thank you. I’m in your debt. Now, Chloe—listen to me. You’ve been impressively courageous—I want you to be so just a little longer. There are some things I need to do in the lower levels of the mill before we go, and would prefer you to remain here. Have no fear,” he said quickly, as her eyes widened. “No one can get in except through that hatchway. I’ll leave you this dag to point at them—’tis usually a good deterrent.”

He handed her the gun and showed her how to hold it properly. “I suggest you walk about the room and get your legs working again. If anything goes awry, bellow through the hatch—I’ll be back in an instant.”

An uncomfortable ten minutes passed as she paced about the dusty floor, regularly gazing through the window and longing to be out in the fresh air again. She tried to close her ears to the sounds coming from below, but it was impossible to drown out the bumping and scraping—or the odd muffled curse. Robert was trying to spare her the sight of blood—mayhap even the sight of corpses. She couldn’t help but be grateful for his sensitivity.

How differently she felt toward him now! This morn, she’d hated him with the full force of wounded pride. Through his bravery today, he’d completely reversed her opinion. It was a struggle to come to terms with the admiration she now felt. He’d called her “sweeting”, a term of endearment she’d never received before. Then he’d kissed her with infinite tenderness. Could it be that he genuinely cared for her? But how could he, on so short an acquaintance?

Her reverie was interrupted by Robert panting up the steps.

“Let’s get out of this vermin-ridden relic.” He held out his hands to help her descend. She looked neither to the left nor right as they left via the mill’s main door, afraid of what might meet her eyes. For a merciless killer, Robert had made every effort to treat his rescued damsel-in-distress with consideration.

“I’m glad I chose to wade through the water, and not take the path. No one would have been able to mistake my approach through this stuff.” He gestured to the banks along which they now made their way. These were smothered with rosebay willowherb, in some places nearly as high as Robert’s head. The slightest touch against the plants released a myriad of floating seeds into the air.

“I’m grateful you did, too. It was a most accomplished rescue.”

“I’ll be in trouble with Walsingham, though, and no mistake.” Robert grimaced.

Walsingham? She frowned. “My kidnappers said you worked for Queen Elizabeth’s spymaster, but I assumed they’d confused you with somebody else.”

He looked uncomfortable. “Ah, I haven’t yet told you, have I? I daresay I must, but now is not the time. God be thanked—my horse is still here.”

“So, it’s true, then? You do work for Walsingham?” Chloe was in no mood to be fobbed off.

“I do, but it’s a long story, and we need to concentrate on getting out of here, now. There’ll be time enough later for the full, sorry tale.”

His jaw was set, and it was clear he had no intention of answering her questions. He looked like a man on a mission, and that mission was not yet done.

He looked her up and down. “What happened to your bag and all your things? Did those sewer rats take them from you? What did they do with the litter?”

“I know not. I still have my hanging pocket and my spoon. They took my knife, of course.”

“Then let us hope your possessions may yet be discovered. I’ll send someone to look for them as soon as we get back to the White Hart.” He glanced up at the sky. “It must be almost five. I wonder if ’tis too late to capture the man I was meant to see at Ralston Hill?”