Page 28 of Tender Blackguard

Suddenly, his contradictory demeanor made sense. The man might have a high tolerance for pain, but she’d wager her life’s savings his tolerance for blood was essentially nonexistent.

“Of course, my lord,” she replied, resisting a twitch of humor.

Chapter Ten

Alastair tried to relax in the thick-cushioned armchair while doing his best not to look at the wound in his side. He knew it wasn’t very bad. He’d had worse. But still, he struggled to keep the metallic scent of blood that lingered in the air from twisting his stomach.

It had always been that way. Since he’d been a small child and had accidentally sliced through his finger with a sharp rock. The sight, smell, feel, acknowledgment of blood made his head spin and his insides clench against a rise of nausea. He hated the weakness, but he’d learned to live with it. Somewhat.

Mostly, he just tried to avoid any opportunity to bloody himself or anyone else in his vicinity. It wasn’t exactly a reasonable expectation considering his current activities, but one he did his best to adhere to nonetheless. Not that he wasn’t willing to engage in a fight. He just preferred the methods he’d learned abroad, which focused on things like pressure points to incapacitate an opponent rather than weapons that tended to break the skin.

Tonight, however, had been unavoidable.

He’d gone to the late Lord Shelbourne’s property, which had stood empty and essentially abandoned since the man poisoned himself rather than face the consequences for his failed attempt at forcing the Blackwells to do his bidding. Alastair had gone to search the mansion immediately after he and Hale had safely recovered Lady Katherine. But there had already been someone rummaging about the place, so he’d retreated. He’d realized later that it had been someone sent by Hale to recover the journals stolen from Lady Katherine’s father.

Since then, Alastair had managed to explore the abandoned property extensively. Similar to his own inherited house, the Shelbourne mansion contained a few secret passages. Not similar, however, was the fact that it also contained a stubbornly locked room that he hadn’t yet been able to access. Despite multiple searches of the house, he hadn’t located a key to the complex iron lock.

Tonight, he’d gone back to make yet another attempt. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been the only person slinking about in the abandoned mansion. He’d just gotten down to the cellar, where the locked door was located, when he’d literally bumped into a man dressed in heavy wool and a concealing cap tugged low over shaggy hair.

Alastair had already been stepping back when the other man lashed out. Alastair had leapt to the side, but the man’s wide-swinging blade got him across the side. As he fell back against the wall, the intruder took off into the night.

A common burglar, perhaps? Or a lackey?

Though the wound was likely no more than a scratch, as soon as he’d felt the warm, wet stickiness soaking into his clothes, Alastair’s head had immediately begun to spin, and he’d been forced to leave or risk losing consciousness right there in Shelbourne’s house. By the time he’d gotten home, he’d almost succumbed to the dizziness more than once.

And then...Mrs. Evans.

He shouldn’t have gone to her rooms. Shouldn’t have allowed the intimacy of her ministrations. But the impropriety of accepting his housekeeper’s assistance seemed less a risk than collapsing in his own blasted hallway. He’d never have been able to address the wound himself. And he didn’t wish to wake one of the other maids, who all seemed to eye him with wary suspicion whenever they passed him in the halls after nightfall.

Now that the most significant evidence of bloodshed had been removed and the threat of losing consciousness had passed, another feeling started to stir inside him. It was the kind of discomfort that wouldn’t be eased quite so readily.

Mrs. Evans might have a steady hand and refined focus in moments of crisis, as well as exceptional skill with a stitch, but he couldn’t believe his appearance in the middle of the night, sporting a knife wound, wouldn’t rouse the intelligent woman’s curiosity.

The door opened quietly and the housekeeper reentered the room. She carried an earthenware jar in one hand and a small basket of linens in the other.

He was too distracted by his spilled blood to have noticed earlier, but as the woman crossed the cozy little room toward him now, it was impossible to miss the fact that he sat half-nude, while his housekeeper wore nothing but a voluminous nightgown. Glancing down, he noted her bare toes peeking from beneath the hem. The woman hadn’t even bothered to throw on a robe before answering her door, and the shawl draped over her shoulders did little in terms of propriety.

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