“Ines Neves. I am from London.
“And who is this?” She gestured to Murray.
“Duncan Murray. He served in the war with Mr. Pope. He came to see him because”—she waved a hand—“never mind why now. Can you please fetch the gin?”
“Right away, miss.”
Ines looked at the soup. She didn’t think she could eat it. Her belly disagreed and growled. Ines decided she would be of no use to anyone if she was fatigued from hunger. She touched Mr. Murray’s forehead, still no trace of fever, then lifted the spoon and ate a few mouthfuls of soup. It was not particularly good soup—the vegetables were soft, and the broth had little flavor—but it was something.
This was all her fault. Murray would probably die, and it was all because of her. They’d only come here because he needed someone who spoke Portuguese. If she’d just told the truth from the beginning, she would be on the way back to London and Murray would be unharmed. Mr. Fortescue and Miss Wellesley wouldn’t be running about the countryside looking for a surgeon, either. No wonder Draven said Ines could not live above the shop. He knew that given half a chance, she’d cause more trouble than she was worth.
Hadn’t she done that and more in just two short days?
But it was very hard to feel contrite for long. One glance at Mr. Murray’s bare chest, and she quite forgot she was partly to blame for his injury. Of course, she didn’t want him to be injured, but was it wrong to enjoy the benefits of touching his brow, sliding her eyes over his broad chest, and following the trail of hair on that chest to the waist of his trousers?
It was most certainly wrong, and she was probably doomed to an eternity of hellfire for the direction of her thoughts. In which case, what was the harm of one more? She allowed her gaze to shift to Murray’s face again and wondered, for the hundredth time, what it would feel like if he kissed her.
Mrs. Brown returned, and Ines focused guiltily on her soup again. “I’ll just ready everything on this table, miss,” the cook said as she set the gin down on the table beside the couch.
Ines forced herself to watch Mrs. Brown and not Murray. As a respectable young woman, she should not be imagining kissing a man like Duncan Murray. Perhaps she wouldn’t think of it so much if she had been kissed before. It was very hard to be nineteen years old and unkissed. If she’d stayed with her father in Portugal, she would have been long married and the mother of children by now. Of course, she would have had to kiss a cruel, old man. As she’d grown older, she had appreciated her narrow escape more and more. She’d also realized she had a chance many, if not all, of the women she knew would never have—to make her own destiny. Why could that destiny not include Duncan Murray tossing her over his shoulder?
“Are you alright, miss? Is it too cold in here? You’re shivering.”
“Oh, I am fine.” Desperate to change the subject, Ines stood and went to stand beside the cook. “What should I do?”
“One of us needs to douse this rag in gin and apply it to the wound. The other needs to hold him down.”
“Hold him down?” Ines suppressed another shiver. “I will do that.”
Fortunately, Murray’s injured arm was the one most accessible to them, and it was a simple matter to remove the bandages. He groaned but did not open his eyes.
“Should we give him more gin?” Ines asked.
“Best just to do it while he’s unaware. We risk a stronger reaction if we wake him first.” The cook held the clean rag to the mouth of the gin bottle and wet the cloth thoroughly. Then she set the bottle back on the table, moved the table out of the range of flailing arms, and nodded to Ines.
Ines was not at all certain where she should place her hands. She settled on his shoulders, setting one knee on the couch in case she needed to leverage her full weight to help hold him down.
“Ready?” Mrs. Brown asked.
“Ready.” Ines nodded.
Mrs. Brown moved quickly, placing the hand holding the rag over the wound, and squeezing the cloth so gin ran into the injury.
Murray reacted like he’d been stung by a bee. He yelped and jumped. Even using all of her weight to push his shoulders down, she was no match for him. He seemed blinded by pain, and his flailing arm almost hit Mrs. Brown, who struggled to keep the rag in place.
“Lie still!” Ines ordered. He stilled for an instant, seeming to listen, and it was just enough time for Ines to throw a knee over him and sit on him to keep him down.
“That’s it, love!” Mrs. Brown said through clenched teeth. “Give me one more minute.”
Murray bucked beneath her, but Ines held him as still as possible. Finally, when she was certain he would throw her off, Mrs. Brown removed the rag, reached for the bottle of gin, and put it to Murray’s lips. Instantly, he stilled and drank. His good arm reached for the bottle, and Mrs. Brown nodded at Ines to allow him to take it. When he’d taken another drink, he lowered the bottle and looked up at her. “Are ye trying to kill me?”
“We had to clean your wound.”
“Why? In Scotland we rub a bit of dirt on it and grit our teeth.”
“Thank the Lord you are not in Scotland, then,” Mrs. Brown said. “Now be still while I bind your arm again with clean linen.”
Murray looked up at Ines. “Who is this now?”
“That is Mrs. Brown, the cook.”
“Nash has a cook?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Brown said, “and there is soup over there for your enjoyment once I have finished my work. Almost done.”
She tied the bindings neatly, far more neatly than Ines and Emmeline had, then stepped back and nodded her head. “I’ll just bring these soiled cloths to the laundry.” She took the gin bottle from Murray’s hand. “I had better take this too.”
Murray made a sound of protest, but with Ines still sitting on top of him there wasn’t much else he could do. A moment later, Ines realized she was still straddling him and from the way he was looking at her, he realized it as well.
“I dinnae usually complain when I find myself in this position, but I’d rather Draven killed me quickly, and if he were tae see ye now, lass, he’d make sure I met a slow, horrible end.”
“I should stand up,” Ines said. But she made no move to do so. How could she when she could feel the warmth of his body between her legs, enjoy the sight of his muscled chest, look into his amber eyes?
“Any time now, lass,” he said.
Her cheeks heated, and she slid off him, not trying to keep her skirts from showing too much of her ankles. He winced. “Did I hurt you?”
“Nae. Ye moved a wee bit slower than I expected.”
Ines raised her brows. “You liked it?”
Murray sat gingerly and shook his head. “I dinnae like anything tae do with ye, lass. As far as Draven knows, I never touched ye. I dinnae even look at ye.”
“You worry too much about Benedict. It is me he will be angry with, not you. Here, let me help you.” She reached to take his arm and assist him to the table with his bowl of soup, but he yanked his arm back.
“I can do it.” He slammed a heavy hand on the table, steadied himself, then lowered his body into the chair.
“Do you think Draven will find us today?”