Julianne MacLean Read Free Page B

shot.”
    “Yes,” she rasped.
    He crawled toward her. Without so much as a second’s hesitation, he tossed up her dress to uncover her leg from top to bottom.
    Adele leaned back on her hands, trying not to show her sudden ridiculous sense of modesty in these circumstances. She had been shot. He—whoever he was—needed to see the wound.
    She looked down at it. Her ivory stocking was stained red just above her knee, on the inside of her thigh. The whole area burned like nothing she’d ever experienced before. It was as if someone were branding her with a red-hot poker.
    Clenching her teeth against the throbbing pain, she watched her rescuer’s face briefly while he examined her leg. He had such a striking face—the kind that draws one’s attention, clutches it in a tight grip, and doesn’t let go.
    He wrapped his large hand gently around hercalf and moved her legs apart to get a closer look. Her muscles stiffened. She had to fight the urge to squeeze her legs together. This was far too intimate.
    “I must remove your stocking,” he said, “to get a better look. May I have your permission?”
    “Of course.”
    Her reply came instinctively, but after she’d said it and had time to think about it, she felt her modesty return. He was a man, after all—a handsome and frightening man—and he was going to remove her stocking.
    She swept the petty notion aside, for it was not the time to be worrying about decorum. Meanwhile, her senses began to buzz like bright, snapping, electric currents. Adele closed her eyes and tried to focus on overcoming the pain.
    The man’s hands were gentle as he rolled down her stocking. He barely touched her skin; his movements were swift—as light as silk. He eased the stocking down to her ankle with great care, as if he were handling something very precious. Adele held her breath the entire time.
    “This looks painful,” he said.
    It was. Her whole leg throbbed, and the pounding sensation reverberated all the way up to her shoulders.
    Adele opened her eyes and watched his face again. His dark brows drew together with concern as he inspected the gash. He slid a hand over her bare thigh as he touched all around the wound.
    She wanted to gasp in pain as well as shock, but she resisted. He leaned down. Closer.
    A man’s face had never been so close to her inner thigh before. Her naked inner thigh. She could feel his warm breath on her skin. A thousand winged creatures flapped violently in her stomach, sending her heart racing.
    “It’s just a graze, thank God, but you’re still bleeding.” He sat back on his heels. “We’ll bandage it, and you’ll live.” He stood up and glanced around the room.
    Looking up at him, so tall and serious above her, Adele had to fight the sense of embarrassment and intimidation that made her almost afraid to speak. She had never, never let a man who was not a doctor touch her so intimately before. “May I ask who you are? How you found me?”
    He considered her question for a moment, then crouched down to meet her gaze at eye level. “I apologize, Miss Wilson. I should have identified myself.”
    Suddenly, he seemed to transform into a proper gentleman. At least his words were gentlemanly. His appearance was quite another matter altogether. He was unshaven, wild, and rough. His black wool coat looked shabby, dusty, and weathered, as if he’d rolled down a hill in it. There was intensity in everything about him, and it left her breathless and panicky.
    Adele was nowhere near ready to relax. Especially when she gazed into his dark, gleaming eyes.
    “I’m Baron Alcester,” he said. “Damien Renshaw is my family name. I’m Harold’s cousin.”
    Harold’s cousin. Good God, she knew of him. Her sister Sophia had met him before, and had said that he was the complete opposite of Harold. He was irresponsible with money, and his mother had been a scandalous adulteress. He was following in his mother’s footsteps, it was said, and led a careless life