A/N: I'm so glad you found your way back to read this…

Chapter 3

William spent most of the train ride staring at a sleeping Eliza, her head resting against the luxurious, high-backed seat. He'd brought with him the small bag Ivy had packed for them, which had included a few sandwiches for their trip, bandages, a small box of willow bark, and a bottle of laudanum. Ivy had related to him the doctor's orders of rest, the tea or laudanum for the pain, and the daily cleaning of the wounds and changing of the bandages.

He'd saved the sandwiches for later, ordering from the dinner service on the train instead: soup for Eliza, a couple of pasties for himself, and a pot of hot water to steep the willow bark tea. Though she denied it, he could tell she was in pain, evident in the strained expression on her face and the involuntary flinching whenever she moved her right arm. And so he prepared the bitter tea for her, which she sipped with a grimace.

"If I weren't a lady, I'd tell you what this tea tastes like."

William grinned. "Most things that are good for you tend to taste like pi—uh, very bad."

She nodded, but obediently took another drink.

"I'll save the laudanum for later," he told her, "to help you sleep."

After he'd cajoled her to eat half of her pea soup, she finished her tea and very soon dropped off, obviously exhausted and relieved to feel the effects of the willow bark. He watched her in this rare, unguarded moment. Her skin, though still more pale than he'd like, was smooth and beautiful, and he longed for the day when he might caress her whenever he had a mind. Long, lush lashes rested in half moons against her cheeks, but he found he missed seeing the sky blue of her eyes, whether crinkling in humor or narrowing in anger at him. Her lovely hair, stylishly arranged now beneath her smart little hat, had felt like gold silk beneath his hands when he'd found her on the floor that morning. His fingers still itched to touch her, and it was his fervent hope to one day see those lively eyes fill with love as she looked at him, to kiss those full, sensual lips. More often than he should, he thought of that long ago day when he'd felt so helpless witnessing her pain at the loss of her obnoxious little mutt. He'd impulsively kissed her to distract her, to comfort her, and had found instead that that simple, chaste pressing of his lips to hers had stirred in him a longing that had stayed with him until this day. Had she not slapped his face in delayed reaction, he would not have to use his vivid imagination to know the taste of her mouth, the feel of her body melting into his.

William pivoted restlessly in his chair and forced himself to look away from her, out the window at the passing Hampshire countryside in early spring. Soon, he too had dozed off to the rhythm of the train, neither of them waking until a sudden jolt and loud whistle signified their arrival at Portsmouth. Eliza looked up at him in embarrassment that she'd fallen asleep, but he smiled reassuringly at her, and helped her to her feet.

"Are you all right to go on?" he asked in concern. "We could just stay here, find lodgings in Portsmouth and avoid the ferry crossing and further train journey on the Isle. No one would think to look for us here."

She shook her head. "I will be fine. I'm just…uncomfortable and a bit tired still. But now I can't wait to get to our—to the cottage," she finished with pink cheeks.

Our cottage, his mind echoed, a thrill of happiness running through him, despite the grave circumstances of their trip. "Suit yourself then," he said, unable to hide his smile.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

The ferry crossing was uneventful, and they caught the train at Ryde Pier Head Station onward to Sandown where the Fitzroy cottage was located. William's eyes were ever alert, scanning the crowds for any suspicious characters that might have followed them from London. He was satisfied that none had. It was a mere twenty minutes by train to the small village of Sandown, and then there was the bustle of getting their luggage once more off the train and finding a hackney cab. Eliza was seriously dragging, and William was regretting listening to her judgment about her condition. It was evening by the time they made it to Rose Cottage, and while the hackney driver unloaded their two small trunks, William remembered they hadn't made arrangements to hire a lady's maid for Eliza.

He paid the driver and pulled the house key from his pocket. Tired himself, he unlocked the door to the two-story, four bedroom cottage, not a half-mile from the beckoning sea, and brought their luggage inside. Eliza had stopped at the foot of the front steps to breath in the air, a weak smile on her face. He noticed she gingerly cradled her injured arm, and he hurried back down to her to help her climb up the steps. She leaned heavily against him, holding onto his arm for support. She needed to eat something and get to bed, he thought, as they looked around the front parlor. White cloths covered the furniture against the dust, and it was beginning to get cold as the evening sea breeze picked up.

"I don't want to leave you alone out here to go back into town. Can you do without a maid tonight?"

She nodded. "I've done without a maid many times when Ivy has gone to her mother's. I'll make do."

He was skeptical, but he said nothing, and the reality of their predicament brought a new tension in the air. They were two unattached people, alone together far away from anyone they knew. He knew he would have to be the one to tend to her wounds, to take care of her needs, at least for this night, and his heart skipped a beat at the thought of what this might entail.

"Come then, I'll see you upstairs. I think you should get some rest. I still have those sandwiches Ivy packed, and I'll have a look at what might be left in the pantry we can use."

The first room he claimed as his own for security reasons, being closest to the stairs, and he walked with her down the narrow hallway to the next room, which seemed to be the master bedroom. It had its own sitting room and, when William drew the drapes apart, they were treated to a lovely view of the sunset over Sandown Bay. A large four-post bed with a curtain canopy surrounding it rested against one wall of the bed chamber, the focal point of the room. Eliza went immediately to a chair in the sitting room, removed the protective sheet before sitting down, tired to her bones, while William took matches from a box on the hearth to light the lamp. Golden light filled the room. They went about these things in silence, each focused on their own thoughts. William started a fire in the neatly laid fireplace, and soon the flames danced merrily.

"Get comfortable, Eliza," he said. "You don't have to pretend with me; I know you're weak as a kitten right now. I'll bring up a tray, if I can find one."

For once, she didn't argue with him.

Off the kitchen, William found the pantry, and, lighting a candle, he began to explore. There were bags of flour and sugar and oats, tea, and rows of tinned meats, fish, soup, and fruit.

"This should keep us alive until Eliza is up to going with me into town."

He decided to heat some chicken soup to go with Ivy's sandwiches. He lit the stove and opened the can, then banged around the cabinets for a pot, bowls, and a serving tray.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Eliza sighed heavily and began to unbutton her coat. It was more difficult to do by herself, given that her arm pained her so and Ivy wasn't there to help ease it off her shoulders. Her hat came next—easy enough with one hand, and then the silk cravat at her throat. But the blouse would pose a problem, as it was buttoned at the back. She sat a moment, knowing from experience there was no possible way she would be able to get out of it herself, especially with her injury, and she knew it would be necessary to do so to check her wounds and change the bandages. Without Ivy or a maid, she was left with one option, and despite her fatigue, she felt her pulse pick up at the thought of William touching her so intimately. She heard William moving around somewhere downstairs, heard the squeak of an interior door opening, the distant rumble of his gruff voice as he spoke to himself. Despite her quandary, it made her smile.

"Well, Eliza," she said to herself, in a mockery of William's amusing habit, "you must swallow back your pride and your missish modesty and ask for his help. You are at his mercy." Resigned to her fate, she rested heavily against the chair back, promising just to close her eyes for a moment...

"Here ya go, yer majesty," proclaimed William as he entered the open door. She woke with a start, feeling as if she'd only just closed her eyes. She blinked through the haze of sleep to see him there, holding a silver tray laden with a bowl of steaming chicken soup, a cup of tea, and a plate of Ivy's roast beef on crusty bread, cut into four neat triangles. He set her supper on a nearby table and stood back in satisfaction, like a man who'd returned after a successful hunt.

"Why, thank you, William," she said, trying very hard to keep the humor from her voice. "It looks delicious, and I am starved."

He eyed her closely a moment, then moved a small table around to act as a makeshift dining table. "There, that's better. Do you uh, need any help eating?"
She grinned. "I think I can manage. But—" and here her face flushed a delicate rose—"I fear I will need your help afterward, to ahem, remove my…uh outer garment, and see to my wound." Her gazed dropped demurely.

His eyes widened. "Oh. Right. Well." He looked around the room then—anywhere but at her—as if he could find assistance in the stylish curtains or the damask wallpaper. "I'll be back in a bit when you're finished with your supper, to uh, offer assistance." They'd both found some comfort in rigid formality, it seemed.

A half-hour later, William returned, her trunk and his carpet bag in tow. Eliza was once again drowsing in her chair, half of the soup and sandwich gone, as well as all of her tea. She'd used the indoor necessary (albeit with difficulty given her limited state) and once her hunger and thirst had been slaked, she could barely keep her eyes open waiting for him to come back.

"Sorry I woke you. I'm glad to see you were able to eat—you'll need it to keep up your strength. Now, if you're ready, I'll help you." His voice had taken on a brisk, impersonal tone, and he was all efficiency as he went briefly into the bathroom for towels and a small bowl of soapy water. He'd removed his own coat, hat, and waistcoat, more comfortable now in his rolled up shirtsleeves.

She moved to rise, and he held up a hand. "Don't get up. You'll be more comfortable there, I think." He moved the table and tray back to the side of her chair and, setting the water on the floor, knelt beside her.

"The buttons are at my wrist and uh, in the back," she prompted shyly. She sat forward on the chair so he could have easier access, and, most assuredly wide awake now, sat there, her back ramrod straight. The scents of citrus and clove cologne and lavender soap filled her nostrils, enhanced by the heat emanating from his body. She looked down as he took her left wrist, and, with the lightest and gentlest of touches, turned her hand over to unfasten the row of four mother-of-pearl buttons. She stared in fascination at the thick mat of black hair on his bare muscled forearms. Was it her imagination, or were his hands trembling as much as hers? She wondered if he could feel her wild pulse jump at her wrist.

He was even gentler with her right hand, and she watched as he parted the cuff before meeting her eyes. His were dark green pools, softly regarding her as awareness hummed between them. They were back again to the closeness of the morning, when he'd nearly kissed her in relief that she was alive.

"There," he said.

"Thank you."

Shaking himself out of his daze, William abruptly rose to stand beside her chair in order to reach her back. He surveyed the seemingly endless line of buttons, like a regiment of white-clad soldiers, guarding the valuable territory beneath. He smiled then at his foolishness and began his job in earnest. But his fingers felt like giant paws, and he struggled to loose each tiny button from its cloth mooring. He couldn't remember being this nervousness with a woman. It wasn't as if he hadn't acted as a lady's maid of sorts many times in the past, although he'd tended to lose patience on those occasions, fairly ripping the shirt from the lady (the term lady sometimes applying only loosely) in his haste to get on with things.

As Eliza's blouse began to part in the back, exposing even more of her alabaster skin than he'd seen that morning, he noted another pretty mole, and it took everything in him not to pause and caress it, or, better yet, ardently kiss it. A shuddering breath left his lips as he reached the bottom button at last.

"I'll try not to hurt you," he said, warning her to prepare herself. Slowly, he pulled the right side of the shirt down over a slim shoulder, pausing when she inhaled sharply. "All right?" he asked.

"Yes," she breathed. "Go—go on."

He did, taking the right sleeve off all the way, then the left. She sat before him in her lacy camisole, and he avoided looking at the front of it, although he noted with mounting interest that her back was rising and falling more rapidly than before. The fact that she was as affected by his touch as much as he did nothing for his nerves, not to mention his self-control. He laid her blouse over the back of the chair and then his attention rested on the bandaged arm. He was relieved to see that only a small amount of blood had seeped through the cloth, and, with a glance of permission at her stoic blue eyes, he began unwrapping her bandage.

The black thread of her stitches was a sacrilege against the delicacy of her arm, and he had the oddest compulsion to weep, or kill the shooter with his bare hands. The areas around the wounds—he gingerly lifted her arm to view the other side—were only slightly red, but angry bruises marred the smooth skin. He noticed that, instead of turning her head against the sight of her injury, Eliza was looking at her arm dispassionately. He remembered that she'd had no fear or feminine vapors when witnessing autopsies or dead bodies on a slab in the morgue.

"Do you see signs of infection?" she asked as she might Mr. Potts.

"No. It looks like it's healing well." He knelt again and wrung out the cloth before tentatively pressing it to the stitched wound. She hissed involuntarily, and he slowed his movements. "Sorry," he said. "But I must say, you've been very brave throughout this whole ordeal. No crying, no hysteria. As a matter of fact," he continued, dabbing the area with the dry towel. "Were you with Scotland Yard, you might very well have received a medal for your bravery."

She chuckled, and he began wrapping her arm with a clean bandage. "Perhaps I should apply to work at Scotland Yard as a detective. I'd finally get the recognition I deserve."

He immediately stopped his nursing duty, looking at her with a decidedly sour expression. "Over my dead body."

She shrugged. "That could be my very first case."

He smirked, and continued wrapping. When he finished securing the ends of the bandage, he looked to see her eyes closed tightly, and she was gritting her teeth.

"I think you should take the laudanum tonight. From one who's been shot before, that second day is the worst."

Her brows knit in concern. "How many times have you been shot, William?"

He thought a moment. "Four."

She gasped. "How did I not know this?"
"They were nothing to fash yerself about. Two were flesh wounds, one was through and through like yours, and the other was too serious to mention. Your father and I agreed it might be too upsetting for you."

"What? I would have been there to see you in the hospital every day."

"Exactly," he reasoned. "I'm sure he would have told you if it had become too dire. I wouldn't have minded your nosey visits had I been on my deathbed."

She gave him a weak punch in his powerful arm, then groaned as the contact reverberated up her bad arm. He chuckled as her violence toward him received its just reward. "I'll get the laudanum. But first, is there anything else you'll need help with?"

She was still annoyed with him, but she thought a moment. "I think I can get the rest of my clothing, but I'm not sure I can unlace my boots myself with one hand."

One eyebrow rose skeptically, but he bent to do her bidding. She looked down in amusement while he took hold of her booted foot and begin to expertly remove the laces from their hooks. "You would make a fine lady's maid, Inspector," she said, enjoying tremendously the sight of him kneeling at her feet.

"Well, don't get used to this royal treatment. And I'd better not be hearing about this later from my men."

"I won't tell a soul," she said with a wide yawn, which she quickly stifled with her hand.
Naturally, he didn't believe her, but he finished the job and set her boots to the side. Before he rose, he leaned forward and wrapped an arm around her waist.

"I'll help you up," he said, before she'd processed what he was about. "It's time for your medicine and a good night's sleep."

Her tiredness and increased pain made her unsteady on her stocking feet, and he pulled her closely against him so she wouldn't fall. For a moment, as she caught her breath, she leaned her head against his chest, nestling there while he gave in and fully embraced her, mindful of her damaged arm. The fear and trauma of the day suddenly caught up with both of them, and William closed his eyes, allowing himself to feel all the emotions that he'd suppressed throughout it all. He very nearly made a fool of himself and pronounced his love, but neither of them was ready to hear that in this moment; there had been enough upheaval for one day. Besides, when he told her at last, he wanted to be the only thing on her mind. Instead, he settled for a tender kiss atop her blonde head, inhaling the scent of summer roses and reveling in this unfamiliar closeness, his hand on the thin lace of her camisole.

She was the first to slip out of his arms, and he reluctantly let her go. He retrieved the medicine from his carpet bag and used her tea spoon to administer a small dose, knowing first-hand how it gave one troubling dreams. "If you wake in the night in pain, you may have two more spoonfuls. I'll leave my door open so I might hear you if you call."

She looked up at him, knowing her eyes must be filled with longing as well as gratitude. "Thank you, again William, for getting me safely here, for taking care of me."

He wondered if she could see his true feelings when she looked into his eyes, if she knew how difficult it was to leave her. "Good night, Eliza."

"Good night, William."

He closed the door behind him with a soft click. Tears gathered in her eyes, and suddenly she was too tired to hold them back. It must be from the long day, or from the pain, or the laudanum beginning to take effect, she thought, and not how much she wished she could have asked him to stay with her until she fell asleep.

Not because he wasn't hers to ask.

A/N: I appreciate all your support for this story. I'll have more soon.