Page 70 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
“You are not. But you are here, you surely would have died had I left you outside as I was inclined to do, and I suppose that since it is Christmas, I’m now obliged to offer you something to eat as well as a bed near a warm fire, aren’t I?”
His grin spread, and she felt her insides responding to its inherent roguishness. “Well now, ’tis awfully kind of you, milady. Can you keep my presence here a secret as well? I have no desire to be swinging at the end of a noose should the nob who put me in this very position, find me here.”
“And who might thatnobbe, Mr. O’ Flaherty?”
“One named Blackheath. A duke, I think, and it was his coach I held up.” At her snort of disbelief he added, “Why, d’ye know him?”
“I do indeed.” It was on the tip of her tongue to confess to this man whose quiet, kind eyes penetrated her very soul that that same duke had cost her a potential husband, maybe two; that his actions had done such injury to her brother’s head, heart and soul that she barely recognized him. He was no longer a friend of the family, was Lucien De Montforte. But she did not know this man with the odd name, and though his compelling eyes—she wondered if the Lord Jesus had had eyes like that, eyes that stripped a person’s soul bare, made every nasty thought in their head dissolve into a bucket of shame—made her want to tell him all the things that burdened and blackened her supposedly ice-cold heart, her breeding and many years of training, bade otherwise. “He’s our nearest neighbor,” she said instead.
“I suppose he’s not likely to find me here.”
“If the duke of Blackheath wishes to find you, I can assure you that he will.” She gazed unhappily down at him, wondering if she should try and find a footman to take him upstairs to the servants quarters, or if she should help him to the kitchens so he could warm himself by the fire, or if she should just leave him here in this chair and let the staff deal with him when they appeared come morning.
Oh, why had she answered the knocking at the door? What was she going to do now?
Get him upstairs and into a bed.... Let Perry see to him in the morning after he’s slept off the brandy.
“So I guess, lass, you’d best hide me well, eh?”
“I am debating whether I should throw you out on your ear.”
“I’d rather a taste of fine English hospitality, I would.” He put out a hand, found the arm of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. Katharine’s upper lip curled slightly as she watched the melted snow dripping off his clothes and onto the marbled floor around his muddy boots. “Got a place for me to lay down my head, milady?”
“You can sleep in the servants’ quarters,” she said tartly, “and in the morning we’ll decide what’s to be done with you.” She stiffened as he moved closer to her and wrapped his fingers around her arm for support. Lord, he was tall. Ignoring the little flutter that started somewhere between the pit of her stomach and the base of her spine, a strange reaction to his masculinity that surprised and appalled her, she retrieved the candle and led him toward the back stairs.
He would sleep in a servant’s room tonight.
He could start by going up the servants’ stairway.
CHAPTER3
Oh, she was a cold one, this Lady Katharine.
Noel clung to her arm as she led him to a closed door and from there, a narrow wooden staircase that ran up behind what he assumed were the “good” rooms and to the floor above. There was barely room for two in the stairwell, and he was forced to press close to her as they both climbed the stairs, boxed in by walls, their faces lit by the candle she so carefully held, their progress slowed by his own pain. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman and the look, scent and feel of this one—an icy, enigmatic blonde whose eyes, the color of a bruise, betrayed a world of hurt—did things to his breathing and the organ between his legs that rather surprised him.
But why should it? Lady Katharine might be cold, but Noel suspected that beneath that frosty, distant exterior, there beat a passionate heart.
No unfeeling soul would have come back to open the door and let an injured, disreputable bit of riff-raff into her very elegant house. But Lady Katharine had.
His rib felt as though it had detached itself from his spine and was knifing a hole through his inner organs. Pain lanced his midsection at every step, his head hurt from thumping the frozen ground when the mare had gone over, and he felt nauseous and faint. But he’d be damned if he’d show weakness or give his beautiful savior even more cause to regret her actions. Instead he mustered his focus, his concentration and his strength, and put everything he had into climbing each torturous step.
They neared the top of the stairs and the door there that awaited. Despite his pain, Noel could think of nothing but the woman beside him. Her affront that they were pressed together in the small space, her revulsion that he was leaning on her, the sound of their breathing mingling in the close dark as they climbed ... he was aware of it all. He could also feel blood seeping through his shirt and wondered how badly he was hurt. No time to wonder, though; there was the door, and he all but clung to Lady Katharine, wondering how fast the fall back down the stairs would break his neck if he lost his battle to stay conscious.
She pushed open the door, looked carefully in both directions, and then guided him to the right.
A corridor with gilt side-tables and lacquered furniture, richly upholstered chairs and paintings of people from long past. A rug that was as plush as grass beneath his feet, though with his vision fading in and out Noel was hard pressed to note its color. Tall windows holding back the snowy night and reflecting the sconces on the wall, pinpoints of light in the cold black glass. A grand place, this ... grander than even Dunmore House in distant Dublin where he’d expected to spend the rest of his life and from whence he’d been driven—
“This way,” Lady Katharine snapped, and glancing down the hall, pushed open a door.
Noel looked up. It was another stairway, this one even narrower, even steeper, than the last. He could barely draw breath now without knifing pain. His knees felt like water. The idea of climbing another flight of stairs made his head swim.
“Come, let’s go!”
He just looked at her, and she must have seen how pale he was and noted the pain in his eyes. If not, she was surely sensible to the increasing weight of his body as he leaned heavily against her in a sudden wave of dizziness. She opened her mouth as though to speak and then shut it, thinned her lips, and looked at him with a mixture of impatience and disgust.
“Unless you want to drag me up there or find someone who can, I’m not making the climb,” he said simply, and leaning against the wall, began to let his legs fold beneath him. He could sleep here on the floor if he had to. The rug looked as deep and plush as the suds in a head of stout.
“You cannot sleep here!”
