The Scot

She could clearly see he was fuming about something.

He blinked slowly, hard, and his teeth were clenched, just as they had been when he had ordered her from the room. Susanna knew she should gather her patience and consider the fact that he was wounded and likely in great pain. But whatever nurturing instincts she possessed were worn exceedingly thin at the moment.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing with that?” he growled, pointing at the bottle she dangled at her side.

She held it up and looked at the clear, amber liquid that had provided relief from his troubles, that had granted him sleep, that dulled the edges of a man’s consciousness or eradicated it completely.

Obviously it had cured the worst of his ills. At the moment he certainly appeared hearty enough to give her a rousing set down. Damned if she would stand for that after all she had done for him.

Suddenly the three days she had just spent with her husband took their toll. With a determined movement of her free hand, she pulled out the cork with a pop, put the bottle to her mouth and drank as much as she could stand without stopping. Unable to breathe for the burning in her throat and chest, she plunked the whisky on the table by his bed and stalked out.

“Wait!” he called. “Where—”

She didn’t wait to hear the rest of his question. Instead, she marched directly to her bedroom and into the bathing chamber. The water would be cold, of course, sitting there unused after having been brought up by the maids the day before yesterday.

Susanna stripped off her blouse and skirt, kicked off her shoes and tore at her stockings. She tossed her clothing this way and that, then climbed into the large tub and sat down with a splash.

Even the liquor-induced languor didn’t prevent her screech. God in heaven, it was freezing!

She dunked her head under the water, raking the few hairpins out with her fingers. Not since she’d fallen in the mud when she was six had she ever felt this dirty, this unkempt, this ugly. Beggars on the street were cleaner than she was. On the ledge beside the tub she found soap, sweet-scented chamomile, her favorite. In moments, she was covered head to toe in lather and scrubbing herself to a fare thee well.

She could hear him calling her again, sounding almost frantic, but she refused to hurry. If he was well enough to stand for a few moments, he was well enough to remain alone for a few more. Anyone who could yell that loudly was surely in no danger of expiring.

“Ungrateful wretch,” she mumbled as she pushed suds out of the way so she could dunk her hair in clearer water to rinse it. Only when she felt clean did she abandon her icy bath and climb out. She wished for a maid to hold a warmed towel for her, but that was a thing of the past. Father had refused to hire one when they came here and she doubted she would have another where she was going.

“Independent woman?” he had questioned in that imperial earl voice of his. “Let us see how independent you really are.” He had not even brought his valet with him, probably to illustrate to her that men were of stronger constitution and better able to do for themselves.

To be fair, his valet Barnes was unable to make the trip, old and feeble as he was. And Minette, her own personal maid, had taken a position with Lady Bloom immediately after Susanna’s fall from societal grace.

“I could not care less,” she muttered. “Tending oneself is a hundred times simpler than tending that Scot.”

“Is it now?”

Susanna yelped, jerking her head around so fast she slung a shower of water out of her long wet hair. “What are you doing?” She scrunched the thick toweling closer, hastily covering as much of her as possible. “Get out of here!”

He leaned against the door frame, biting back a grin. It shone like devilment in his eyes as his gaze traveled the length of her. “Pardon the intrusion,” he said, so insincerely, she wished she had something to throw at him.

Fortunately for him, she had nothing near enough but the bar of soap on the ledge. Even that might have knocked him off his feet and she was tempted. “Get out of this room immediately!”

One shoulder shrugged. “You’ve seen me in the natural state. Turnabout’s fair, eh?” He paused while he looked his fill.

Susanna shivered. Her teeth chattered. She was not that cold at the moment. But she was furious.

He braced himself more carefully, taking his weight off his bad leg. “I was worried,” he said, sounding a bit more serious. “You seemed upset.”

“I? I seemed upset?”

“Swillin’ that whisky like you were, aye.”

Susanna reined in her anger, warned herself that cold reason was more effective and schooled her voice to a whisper. “Please. Go back to your bed. I’ll be in as soon as I’ve dressed.”

He nodded, inhaled audibly and turned on his good foot. She watched as he made his torturous way out of sight.

She stood immobile for some time trying to decide what had really prompted the Scot to endure the pain he must have experienced in coming across the suite to her. He could not have known she would be unclothed, so she didn’t think his intent was prurient. He said he had been concerned about her imbibing the spirits.

Suddenly shivering uncontrollably, Susanna hurried to don clean linens. Again, she ignored the corset. Why hamper herself with stays when she would probably be bending and stretching, repairing whatever damage he had done to himself by overextending his strength? By the time she got to him he would likely have collapsed and bled all over everything. The very thought hastened her to the point of clumsiness.

She pushed her damp curls back over her shoulders and rushed to see what must be done. After all, he was her husband and her responsibility. Father would be proud that she had borne up so well under this task. Well, for the most part, she had.

The Scot had not suffered much, she’d seen to that. But she supposed Thomas Snively was right. It was time to decrease or cease altogether dosing the patient with spirits. Surely the pain was bearable now and he could sleep naturally. It was just that she could not bear to listen to his groans and watch him thrashing about, knowing the agony slicing through him. She had almost felt it herself.

When she entered his bedchamber, she stopped short just inside the doorway. He had returned to bed and was sitting up now, his back resting against the pillows, appearing little worse for his short walk. She released a breath of relief.

Apparently before he’d left the Scot, Thomas had dressed him in that nightshirt, one of several she had ordered purchased day before yesterday when she had found none in the baggage brought from his rooms. The garment was made of soft linen with flat tucks across the upper chest. He had turned up the sleeves over his forearms and left the neck placket unbuttoned.

His smile made her uncomfortable, for she had fully expected a grimace or at least a wan expression of suffering. Before she could comment on how hale he appeared, someone knocked on the outer door.

“That must be Thomas with supper.” She went to answer it. Thomas had arrived with a large tray bearing silver salvers and tantalizing scents. “Bring it in, please,” Susanna instructed. “Put it on the chair beside his bed.”

“Shall I serve, my lady?” he asked as he strode through the sitting room.

“No, you may leave it and return in an hour or so.”

“My lord,” he said, greeting the Scot. “I’ve ordered the crutches for you. It shouldn’t be long before they arrive.”

“Thank you, Thomas. They will be most welcome.”

Susanna marveled at the strength of his voice now, considering how he had sounded not an hour ago. And she noted his way with Thomas Snively. Friendly, yet authoritative. Like Father.

For the first time, it occurred to Susanna that the Scot might not be unused to governing people. Or perhaps he was but imitating the earl’s demeanor. Or hers. Apparently, he could banish his Scots brogue at will, though he never bothered when he spoke to her. A lack of respect? A taunt?

Thomas bowed himself out and they were alone. Somehow it seemed vastly different, being secluded with him when he was not so much the invalid. In fact, he hardly appeared bothered at all by his injuries.

“I’m famished,” he admitted, his avid gaze fastened on the tray. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” she replied. She had taken very little food while tending him, worried as she was for his recovery. A slice of bread and meat here and there, the occasional piece of fruit. Mostly she had subsisted on pots of strong tea and the large complimentary box of bonbons the hotel had provided.

Only today after realizing he was well enough to quarrel had she noticed her hunger and ordered a full meal. Of course, he could not tolerate solid food as yet.

She drew up another chair to face the one holding the tray and began to uncover the dishes, setting the domed covers on the floor beside it.

He inhaled audibly. “Ach, roasted beef. And onions!”

“The soup is for you,” she told him. “Good, Thomas has put it in a cup so I shall not have to spoon it for you. Here,” she said, handing him the porcelain mug as she uncovered another dish.

“’Tis green,” he muttered and handed it back.

She stared into the cup. “Of course it is green. It is pea soup. Drink it.”