John returned, his arms piled high with bedding and towels that he placed at her side. Nell passed a towel to the marquess, who watched her with a level gaze that set her nerves prickling. “We need to get him out of his wet clothes.”
“I tried to get his coat off, but it seemed cruel rather than helpful.” He rubbed at his hair, although it no longer dripped water onto his wide shoulders.
“I’m all right, sir.” Mr. Crane’s strangled tone indicated that he lied.
“Perhaps we could cut off the coat,” Nell suggested. She tried not to look at the marquess. He was dangerously approachable—and appealing—with his damp black hair ruffled and tumbling over his brow.
“Good idea,” the marquess said. “John, will you fetch a knife from the kitchen?”
John scurried off. Nell turned her attention to drying Mr. Crane as best she could and tending his scrapes and bruises. The water in the bowl was soon cloudy with blood and dirt. She dropped the cloth into the water and started to rise, but to her astonishment, the marquess’s elegant hand landed on her shoulder.
The contact shuddered through her. And strangely bolstered her strength. “I’ll go. Your presence calms him.”
Whether that was true or not, Mr. Crane breathed more easily.
“My lord, you shouldn’t wait on me,” the injured man objected.
“Stow it, Paul,” Leath said.
“Thank you,” Nell said quietly. “The kettle’s on the hearth. The handle is likely to be hot, so you’ll need a cloth to lift it. Or perhaps John can help.”
The marquess sent her a mocking glance. “I’ll have you know I can fend for myself.”
She blushed, too conscious of that strong hand resting on her shoulder. She was glad she hadn’t given him directions to the kitchens. She nearly had. But it was a stretch to imagine the magnificent Marquess of Leath in that workaday setting.
He lifted his hand, which offered her racing heart a reprieve, and collected the bowl. “Try and get some more brandy into him, Miss Trim.”
When they were alone, Mr. Crane regarded her with rueful amusement that made her commend his courage. “His lordship is too kind.”
“He values you.” She rose to fill the brandy glass.
The liquor added a trace of color to his cheeks. She prayed that the broken arm was all that was wrong. He seemed cogent, but she needed to be sure. She set the glass on the table and collected a candle.
“Any other man would have left me on the moor and fetched help, instead of putting me on his own horse. The rain was coming down in sheets.”
Nell wasn’t sure what to say. The more she saw of James Fairbrother, the less she believed that he was Dorothy’s treacherous lover.
She was passing a candle before Mr. Crane’s eyes when the marquess returned bearing fresh water and a clean cloth. “I don’t think he’s done his head any lasting damage.”
“You seem to know what you’re doing.” She heard the question in Leath’s voice.
“I nursed my mother and my sister. And helped the village doctor when he needed an assistant. Apart from his arm, I doubt if Mr. Crane’s seriously injured.”
“That’s a relief,” her patient said as Leath placed the bowl on the table.
John came in and Nell bit back the urge to say “at last.” Then she saw that he’d brought a large pair of scissors as well as a knife. “Well done, John.”
Leath seized the scissors. “John, wait in the hall for the doctor.”
“Very good, my lord.” The young man bowed and left.
“I’ll hold him.” Leath passed her the scissors. “You cut.”
“My lord…” Mr. Crane bleated.
Nell struggled not to jar her patient, but before she’d finished both she and Mr. Crane were sweating and shaking. After she’d splinted the broken arm, Nell felt ready to collapse. Mr. Crane was barely conscious and shivering under the blankets. Only Leath appeared in a good state as he stoked the fire to a roaring blaze. Nell admired his stamina. After all, he’d transported his secretary through a storm before assuming sickroom duties.
Mr. Crane looked tired, but more comfortable, by the time the doctor arrived. Nell stood wearily and collected the bowl, intending to fetch more hot water. And to save Mr. Crane’s blushes when his breeches came off.