The Virtuous Widow. Anne Gracie

mind. “Stand on the stairs, darling,” she ordered Amy. “If it’s a bad man, run to your room and put the bar across your door, as I showed you—understand?”

      Amy nodded, her heart-shaped little face pale and frightened. Ellie picked up the heaviest pan she had. She turned the key and lifted the bar. Raising the pan, she took a deep breath and flung open the door.

      A flurry of sleet blew in, causing her to shiver. She peered out into the darkness. Nobody. Not a sound. Still holding the pan high, she took a tentative step forward to look properly and encountered something large and cold huddled on her doorstep.

      It was a man, lying very, very, still. She bent and touched his face. Cold. Insensible. Her fingers touched something wet, warm and sticky. Blood. He was bleeding from the head. There was life still in him, but not if she left him outside in the freezing weather for much longer. Dropping the pan she grabbed him by the shoulders and tugged. He was very heavy.

      “Is he dead, Mama?” Amy had crept back down the stairs.

      “No, darling, but he’s hurt. We need to bring him inside to get warm. Run and fetch the rug from in front of the fire, there’s a good girl.”

      Amy scampered off and returned in a moment dragging the square, threadbare cloth. Ellie placed it as close as she could to the man’s prone body, then pushed and pushed until finally he rolled over onto the rug. Then she pulled with all her might. Amy pulled too. Inch by inch the man slid into the cottage. Ellie subsided on the floor, gasping.

      She barred the door again and lit a lantern. Their unexpected guest wore no jacket or coat—only a shirt and breeches. And no shoes, just a pair of filthy, muddied stockings. And yet it was December, and outside there was sleet and ice.

      Blood flowed copiously from a nasty gash at the back of his head. Hit from behind; a cowardly blow. He’d been stripped of his belongings, even his coat and boots, and left to die in the bitter cold. Ellie knew what it felt like to lose everything. She laid a hand on his chest, suddenly possessive. She could not help his being robbed, but she would not let him die.

      His shirt was sopping wet and freezing to the touch, the flesh beneath it ominously cold. Quickly she made a pad of clean cloth and bound it around his forehead as tight as she dared to staunch the blood.

      “We’ll have to get these wet clothes off him,” she told Amy. “Else he’ll catch his death of cold. Can you bring me some more towels from the cupboard under the stairs?” The child ran off as Ellie stripped the man’s shirt, undershirt and wet, filthy stockings off.

      He had been severely beaten. His flesh was abraded and beginning to show bruises. There were several livid, dark red, curved marks as if he’d been kicked and one clear imprint of a boot heel on his right shoulder. She felt his ribs carefully and gave a prayer of thanks that they seemed to have been spared. His head injury was the worst, she thought. He would live, she thought, as long as he didn’t catch a chill and sicken of the cold.

      Carefully, she rubbed a rough-textured towel over the broad planes of his chest and stomach and down his arms. Her mouth dried. She had only ever seen one man’s naked torso before. But this man was not like her husband.

      Hart’s chest had been narrow and bony, white and hairless, his stomach soft, his arms pale, smooth and elegant. This man’s chest was broad and hard, but not bony. Thick bands of muscles lay relaxed now in his unconscious state, but firm and solid, nevertheless. A light dusting of soft, curly dark hair formed a wedge over the golden skin, arrowing into a faint line of hair trailing down his stomach and disappearing into his breeches. She tried not to notice it as she scrubbed him with the towel, forcing warmth and life back into his chilled skin.

      He was surprisingly clean, she thought. His flesh did not have that sour odour she associated with Hart’s flesh. This man smelt of nothing—perhaps a faint smell of soap, and of fresh sweat and…was it leather? Horses? Whatever it was, Ellie decided, it was no hardship to be so close to him.

      Despite his muscles, he was thin. She could count each of his ribs. And his stomach above the waistband of his breeches was flat, even slightly concave. His skin carried numerous small scars, not recent injuries. A man who had spent his life fighting, perhaps. She glanced at his hands. They were not the soft white hands of a gentleman. They were strong and brown and battered, the knuckles skinned and swollen. He was probably a farm labourer or something like that. That would explain his muscles and his thinness. He was not a rich man, that was certain. His clothes, though once of good quality, were old and well worn. The shirt had been inexpertly patched a number of times. As had his breeches.

      His breeches. They clung cold and sodden to his form. They would have to come off. She swallowed as she reached for his waistband, then hesitated, as her daughter arrived with a bundle of towels. “Good girl. Now run upstairs, my love, and fetch me a blanket from my bed and also the warm brick that’s in it.”

      Amy trotted off and Ellie took a deep breath. She was not unacquainted with the male form, she told herself firmly, as she unbuttoned the stranger’s drenched breeches. She had been married. But this man was not her husband. He was much bigger, for a start.

      She grasped the breeches and tugged them over his hips, rolling him from side to side as she worked them downwards. The heavy wet fabric clung stubbornly to his chilled flesh. Finally she had them off him. Panting, she sat back on her heels. He was naked. She stared, unable to look away.

      “Is Papa all right?” Amy came down the stairs, carefully lugging a bundled-up blanket.

      Hastily, Ellie tucked a towel over the stranger’s groin. “He’s not your papa.”

      Amy gave her an odd look, then raced back upstairs. Ellie dragged the man as close as she could to the fire. When Amy returned with the brick, Ellie placed it in the hearth. She heated some soup, then strained it through a piece of muslin into the teapot.

      “Soup in the teapot?” Amy giggled at something so silly.

      Ellie smiled, relieved that her daughter found something to laugh at. “This is going to take some time, so it’s back to bed for you, young lady.”

      “Oh, but, Mama—”

      “The man will still be here in the morning,” Ellie said firmly. “We already have one sick person here—I don’t want you to catch a chill as well. So, miss, off to bed at once.” She kissed her daughter and pushed her gently towards the door. Reluctantly, Amy went. Ellie hid a smile. Her curious little puss would stay up all night if she could.

      She cleaned his head wound thoroughly, then laid a pad of hot, steaming herbs on it, to draw out any remaining impurities. He groaned and tried to move his head.

      “Hush.” She smoothed a hand over his skin, keeping the hot poultice steady with her hand. “It stings a little, but it’s doing you good.” He subsided, but Ellie felt tension in his body as if part of him was awake. Defensive. She soothed him gently, murmuring, “Rest quietly. Nobody will harm you here.” Slowly his big body relaxed.

      His eyelids flickered, then his eyes slowly opened. Ellie bent over him earnestly, still supporting his head in her hand. “How do you feel?” she asked softly.

      The stranger said nothing, just stared at her out of blue, blue eyes.

      How did he feel? Like his head was about to split open. He blinked at her, trying to focus on her face. Pretty face, he thought vaguely. Soft, smooth skin. His eyes followed the fall of shining dark hair from her smooth creamy brow, down to a tumble of soft curls around her shoulders.

      Who was she? And where the devil were they? With an effort he glanced away from her for a second, taking in the room. Small…a cottage? Had he been billeted in some nearby cottage? They did that sometimes with the wounded. Left them to the dubious care of some peasant woman while the fighting moved on… He frowned, trying to recall. Had they won the battle or lost it? Or was it still raging? He listened. No, there was no sound of guns.

      His gaze returned to the woman. The cottage told him nothing. But the woman… He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Soft,