Who Will Take This Man?

Sixteen

Philip ran as he’d never run before, his every muscle straining to reach her in time. He saw the terror flash in her eyes, saw her freeze for those few vital seconds before she moved. Too late… too late.

He leapt toward her, grabbing her around the waist, knocking her off her feet and propelling them both forward. They landed near the edge of the road with a bone-jarring, skidding impact, just as the carriage thundered by them, spewing dirt and grit, shuddering vibrations through him as the wheels passed them with only inches to spare.

Heart pounding, breath scorching his lungs, he pushed himself off her. He’d tried to twist sideways to protect her from the impact, but they’d gone down hard. Shaking with fear, he gently rolled her onto her back.

His stomach dropped at the dirty scrape marring her cheek, and the trickle of blood seeping from a cut on her temple. Her chin was smeared with dirt and already showing signs of bruising. Her gown was torn in several places, and covered with road dust, as was her hair. She stared up at him, her normally crystal-clear eyes glazed and unfocused, but at least she was conscious.

“My God. Meredith.” He gently touched shaking fingers to her uninjured cheek. The rational part of his mind shouted out a litany of things he should be doing-checking her for broken bones, moving her from the side of the road-but every other part of his mind was immobilized with stark fear. And fury. Turning his head, he noted the carriage had nearly disappeared from view. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut. Jesus. One more second. Just one more second and she’d have been killed under those churning hooves, those speeding wheels. “Please say something,” he implored.

She blinked, and some of the cobwebs left her eyes. “Philip.”

He had to swallow to locate his voice. “I’m right here, darling.”

“Are you all right, sir?” a gentleman asked, running over to them.

“I’m fine. I’m not yet certain about her.” Philip didn’t look up, but he was aware that several people had gathered around, all of them murmuring about how it wasn’t safe to cross the road these days, how the speeding carriage had seemed to appear from nowhere, and what a splendid rescue he’d made.

“Meredith, I want you to remain still while I check to see if you’ve broken any bones.” He examined her arms and legs, then gently pressed on her ribs. “Nothing appears broken,” he said, his voice hoarse with relief. Scooping her up into his arms, he rose, trying to push down his alarm at her silence. If she were completely herself, his Meredith would surely scold him for scandalously hauling her about like a sack of potatoes, especially in public. And God knows he’d have given anything to hear such a reprimand, to know she was truly all right.

“She’s going to be fine,” he said to the half dozen people who had gathered. A collective sigh of relief went up, but Philip didn’t waste any more time. He strode quickly across Park Lane, then up the steps to his house, where he banged on the door with his boot. A young footman named James opened the door, his face set in a fierce scowl.

“Now, see here-” He cut off his irate words as Philip marched across the threshold.

“Miss Chilton-Grizedale is hurt. I need warm water and bandages. Lots of them.” He headed down the corridor to his private study, cradling his precious cargo close to his chest. “Also, there’s a bowl of Bakari’s ointment in the kitchen. Cook will know where. Bring that as well. Then I want a bath made in my bedchamber.”

“Shall I send for the doctor, my lord?”

“Not yet. There are no broken bones, and I’ve some experience in treating injuries. I’ll let you know if the doctor is needed.”

After opening the door to Philip’s private study, James hurried off to do as he’d been ordered. Philip strode to the sofa in front of the fire and gently laid Meredith on the cushions. Kneeling beside her, he gently pushed a tangled skein of dusty midnight hair from her scratched cheek. “Move your arms and legs about a bit,” he instructed. “Does anything hurt?”

A moment later she shook her head. “Nothing hurts, although I’m a bit sore all over.” She looked up at him, her wide, serious gaze searching his face. Reaching up, she brushed her fingertips across his chin.

“You’ve a terrible scrape,” she whispered.

Damn it, words felt beyond him. Never in his life had he felt this undone. This frightened. “I’m fine.” His voice sounded like he’d swallowed a mouthful of rusty nails.

“And your spectacles. They’re all bent and… askew.”

“I have another pair.”

“I owe you my thanks.” He heard her swallow. “You saved my life.”

“Barely. The sight of that carriage speeding toward you will haunt me for the next decade. At least.” Lifting her hand, he pressed a fervent kiss against her fingers. “I was walking home from my father’s townhouse when I saw you standing on the opposite side of the street. You stepped into the road…” A shudder ran through him. “In your note, you wrote that Goddard would be with you. Why were you standing alone outside the park?”

“I hadn’t been alone. I’d just seen Albert, Charlotte, and Hope off. I was on my way to call upon you. To talk to you.”

A long look passed between them. Her expression gave him little hope that he would like what she had to say. Well, he had a few things to say to her as well. And as soon as he bandaged her up, she was damn well going to listen. But first he needed to warn her. He quickly told her about last night’s attacks on Catherine, his father, and Andrew.

“Meredith, you almost being run down was not an accident. Whoever did this knows your importance to me, tried to harm you because of your importance to me.”

Before she could reply, a knock sounded on the door. Without looking away from her, Philip said, “Come in.”

James entered, bearing a tray laden with two pitchers of water, an assortment of linen bandages, and a blue ceramic bowl covered with a handkerchief. “The bath you ordered will be ready directly. Do you need any assistance, my lord?” he asked, setting the tray on the floor next to Philip.

“No, thank you.”

The young man quit the room. Philip removed his filthy, torn jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and made a quick adjustment to his bent spectacles. Then he dampened several strips of snowy linen and began gently cleansing the dirt from her face.

“A bath will be good for you,” she said, wincing when he touched the cut at her temple. “You’re very dirty.”

“Thank you. I’m a fool for such flattery, you know. However, the bath is for you.”

Her eyes widened. “Me? I cannot bathe in your home!”

If he’d been capable of it, he would have smiled. His decorous Meredith was back. “You most certainly can. A warm soak will help relieve the soreness in your muscles.”

Her lips flattened into a prim expression. “My muscles are not sore.”

“Perhaps not now, but they will be. We hit the ground with a most resounding thump. Besides, you calling me dirty is rather like a dog calling a cat hairy.”

“Oh, dear. You mean I’m-”

“Filthy. I’m afraid so.”

She tried to sit up, but he gently pushed her back on the cushions. “Do not distress yourself. I need to examine and clean the scrapes on your face. After you’ve bathed, I’ll bandage you. While you’re bathing, I’ll arrange for your gown to be cleaned and repaired.” When she seemed about to protest, he rested his fingers upon her lips. “No arguments. Let me take care of you.”

Meredith looked into his brown eyes, so earnest, so serious, so filled with concern and guilt, she couldn’t refuse his request. Besides, she still felt rather shaky. And her cheek stung like the devil himself had set fire to her skin.

Let me take care of you. She could not recall anyone, ever, having uttered those words to her. It was an odd notion, giving herself over to someone else’s care, his care, but certainly not an unpleasant notion. And one that allowed her to postpone for a few more precious minutes the words that would forever deprive her of him.

With a nod, she relaxed back into the cushions, torn between her desire to shut her eyes and simply absorb the feel of him touching her, and keeping her eyes wide open, to watch him, memorize his features, for this would be her last opportunity to do so.

Opting to keep her eyes open, she watched him carefully clean, then examine, her cuts and scrapes. He worked carefully and methodically, his eyes intent, his hands steady. A lock of dusty, disheveled hair fell over his forehead, and her fingers itched to brush the strands back. But he wasn’t hers to touch.

Her gaze lowered to the scrape on his chin, and her stomach dropped. Dear God, he’d risked his life to save her. With that same heroic spirit he’d exhibited the first day she’d seen him outside Madame Renée’s shop. Had that only been a matter of days ago? Impossible. She felt as if she’d known this man her entire life. And had yearned for him all that time. She longed to dampen a strip of linen and press it to his hurt chin. But he wasn’t hers to heal.

Her gaze then focused on his mouth. That beautiful, sensual mouth that had kissed her with both tender perfection and white-hot passion. A flood of memories of that beautiful mouth touching hers swamped her, remembrances she would never be able to erase from her mind. Her lips tingled with the overwhelming desire to kiss him. But he wasn’t hers to kiss.

He touched a piece of dampened linen to her bottom lip, yanking her from her reverie. Her gaze flew to his, and she saw his attention was riveted on her lips as he dabbed. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and she realized that he was suffering from her nearness just as she was suffering from his. The knowledge should have appalled her, but instead a completely inappropriate wave of feminine satisfaction raced through her. A minute later he turned to place the used linen back on the tray. He took a moment to cleanse his own face, then dab some sort of ointment from the ceramic bowl onto his scraped chin. When he returned his attention to her, their gazes locked, and her breath caught at the intense, compelling look in his eyes. He went perfectly still and she heard him swallow.

“I’m finished,” he said in a husky voice. “Neither the scrape on your cheek nor the cut near your temple are serious, thank God, nor is the bump on your chin.” He held up the small blue ceramic bowl. “This is one of Bakari’s concoctions. It will aid in the healing process. I don’t know how he makes it, but it works wonders.” Still kneeling next to the sofa, he gently dabbed on the cream, which stung a bit at first, but then seemed to evaporate the burning sensation from her scraped skin. When he finished, he set the bowl aside, then asked, “How do you feel?”

“Much better, thank you.” She smiled to show him she was telling the truth. “But what about you? That scrape on your chin-”

“I’m fine. I’m-” He blew out a long breath and raked his hands through his hair. “No, I’m not fine. I’m sick inside that you’re hurt, that you were very nearly killed. Furious that someone is trying to hurt me by hurting everyone I care about. Frightened that he might somehow inflict more damage before I can stop him.” Taking her hands, he pressed her palms against his chest. Through the soft material, she felt his heart beating, hard and fast.

“You were almost lost to me today, Meredith. Before I ever had a chance to tell you all the things I want to tell you. It brought home the sobering fact that we never know what the future holds. Every minute is a gift, and should not be squandered, for it might well be your last. I therefore refuse to waste so much as another second.” His brown gaze locked with hers, and he pressed her palms more firmly against his chest. “I love you, Meredith. With all my heart. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”