"What did he say?"
The light f lickered, casting shadows on his face. "He said she has a week or two, perhaps." His voice was not quite even. "A month at most."
Callie tilted her head. "I'm sorry," she said softly.
The match went out. They stood in the dark. She could hear him breathing almost as if he were laughing. "God damn it," he said. "God damn me to hell. I ought to shoot myself."
"Nonsense," she said stoutly. "You've only had too much drink. No wonder you took a tumble. You'd no business going mounted, not in this state." She fished again in her pocket for a candle stub. "Let me look at your hand. I'm sure once it's bound up, and you're set to rights, your mother won't be upset to see you. Did you take any other hurt?"
"No," he said. He paused. "I don't know. A little bruising. I may have cracked a rib."
She touched the candle to another match. "I'd best send a boy for the surgeon."
"No," he said strongly. "No surgeons."
"Only to bind you up. I won't let him bleed you."
"No surgeon," he said.
"But-"
"I haven't taken any serious hurt." He scowled, turning from her candle. "If I can just rest a few hours, I'll be off in the morning."
She held the light over a metal trunk. "Sit down. Let me see your hand."
He blew out a breath of air and sat. Callie set the candle stub in a rusty sconce and sat down beside him. He allowed her to open his fingers and moved each of them in turn for her. She was no surgeon, but she had dealt with enough animal injuries to have a good deal of experience in judging their extent. He tensed a little, especially when she pressed gently at the swollen joints along his fist, but made no sharp move.
"I don't think you've broken anything," she said. "But it would be best to bind your fingers. There will be some bandages in the carriage boot."
She left him sitting on the trunk and felt about in the dark boot for the horse supplies, returning with scissors and cloth. As she bent over and wrapped his hand, she could feel his breath move softly against her temple and hair.
She tied off the bandage tightly and cut the ends. Then she straightened, standing between him and the carriage. It loomed behind her like a huge and awkward keepsake, a ponderous memento, as if a hidden package of love letters had suddenly mush roomed into an elephant, standing there swinging its trunk back and forth with gauche shyness.
"Well!" she said brightly. "Another adventure."
He remained sitting, his head turned a little aside as he looked up at her. "Another adventure," he said with a smile that held no humor. He closed his bound fist, holding it up against his shoulder.
"Does it hurt when you breathe? You think you might have cracked a rib?"
"I'm all right. Thank you, this helps a good deal."
"There's little enough I can do, if you won't see the surgeon."
"I'm all right, Callie. Sit down with me for a moment."
She felt her pulse beating faster. But he appeared more distracted than amorous, which made her ashamed that she was feeling quite animated by his company in the middle of the night in highly improper circumstances. She sat down, her oilskin rustling.
For a few moments, they were both silent. Callie watched the gleam and sway of light on the black carriage paint. Several layers of fabric and oilcloth separated them, but not enough to prevent her feeling the solid shape of his shoulder against her arm. She wriggled her toes inside her work boots. They were cold, but her cheeks felt f lushed.
Unexpectedly he took her hand, locking it within his. He lifted it and bent his head and pressed his mouth to her fingers. She watched him in astonish ment, feeling as if it were some other lady sitting in her place with his lips and cheek resting against her hand.
"I have to leave Shelford now, Callie," he said.
She blinked. "Leave?"
"I can't go back to Dove House. Would you-could I ask you to call on my mother? And tell her…"
He stopped, as if he could not think of what he wanted to say.
"You have to leave now?" Callie repeated stupidly. "What do you mean?"
He gave a short laugh and kissed her hand. "I'd rather not explain. I'm a brainless bastard, will that suffice?"
She was bewildered. "But… how long will you be gone?"
"For good," he said roughly.
"Oh." She stared at him.
"I've had one adventure too many, I'm afraid."
"But… I don't understand. You must leave Shelford now?"
"Perhaps you'll understand tomorrow, or the next day."
She remembered suddenly that she had written to Major Sturgeon, giving him permission to call on her tomorrow if he wished. She opened her fingers. Trev let her go.
She had thought, while she was penning her stiff invitation to the major, that Trev would be certain to hear of it eventually. Without precisely hoping that he would be angry or jealous, she had indulged in a lengthy reverie in which the news had brought him rushing to Shelford Hall to propose to her, perhaps after knocking Major Sturgeon down at the door.
Now Trev said he was leaving. And while it would have been rather pleasant to imagine this had something to do with her-that he had heard she was entertaining a f lattering proposal, and was withdrawing his presence forever because of a broken heart, that was not only preposterous but clearly would be far more devastating in reality that she could have imagined. A sense of quiet panic rose in her.
"You can't leave your mother now," she said. "I can't believe you must leave now."
He made an unhappy sound. "Will you tell her that I was called suddenly to Monceaux? Or London. To my agent there. Tell her I'll be back soon."
"But you said you aren't coming back."
He did not answer. Callie stared at his profile in dawning comprehension.
"You want me to lie to her," she said.
"No." He sat back and gave a slight laugh. "No, I misspoke myself. I shouldn't have asked such a thing. A gentleman should tell his own lies."
Callie stood up. "Something terrible has happened." Her voice quivered. "What is it?"
He rose with her, so close that she could smell the damp scent of his skin. "Nothing terrible has happened yet."
She felt his arm slip about her waist. It seemed unreal, as if she stood in a dream where nothing made sense. "Yet?" She felt close to tears. "You're going back to France?"
"It doesn't matter." He leaned his forehead down, resting it against hers. "Would you let me steal a kiss before I go?"
"Why?" she whispered, her voice breaking.
"Because my mother says I love you." His lips grazed her temple lightly.
Callie made a small painful sound. "Oh, of course." She stood back, holding her chin up. "The way the chaperones say I have a very nice smile, and can't understand why I never took. Why do you have to go away?"
His arms tightened, drawing her back to him. He bent his head and kissed her lips, his skin warm and a little rough against hers. "Callie, do you remember this?"
She was breathing deeply, poised between anger and weeping and disbelief. But the brush of his mouth on hers made her close her eyes, all the daydreams of years past coming real. This was Trevelyan, the only man who had ever touched her this way, who had ever made her want to be touched this way. It had all long ago faded into reverie, deep and dangerous and hidden in a secret corner of her mind, as far away as if she had only imagined it.
He was very real now. Very masculine, scented of drink and wood smoke and sweet tobacco like the gentlemen when they returned from hunting or supper at a club. And more than that-the special, particular scent of Trev himself, different from anyone else, fixed in her mind with a certainty that she had not known she possessed until she recognized it again.