Her Captain's Heart. Lyn Cote
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will need a stitch or two. I’ve got some experience nursing. I’ll take care of it.”
“Just clean it and use some sticking plaster to close it.”
Ignoring him, she gently washed away the blood. It felt odd to be touching a man. His wet hair released the distinctive scent that was Matthew Ritter. She forced herself to focus on the gash on Matthew’s forehead. He sat very still, probably as uncomfortable with this nearness and touching as she was.
Finally she was able to turn away, drawing in a ragged breath. She’d nursed other men without this breathless reaction. Matthew should be no different. She emptied the basin out the back door and returned the medical supplies to the pantry.
The chair behind her scraped as Matthew rose. “What are we going to do about Mary’s boy?”
She looked out at the pouring rain. “This is not a night to go afield. We should get him out of his wet clothing and into a warm bed.”
Matthew swung the thin boy up into his arms and carried him upstairs. Hearing the creak of the rocker in her room and realizing Joseph was rocking Beth, she directed Matthew to lay the boy down on Beth’s empty white-canopied bed. Beth and Verity could share a bed as long as Alex needed to stay.
Verity gathered a clean nightshirt from Joseph’s room and brought it back to Matthew. “Here, put this on him. It will be too big, but it will be dry.” A pile of soaked clothes sat on the floor.
Matthew had lit the bedside candle and stood, looking down at the boy. His expression caught Verity’s attention. “What’s wrong?
Matt hesitated and then folded back the top edge of the blanket covering the boy. Verity gasped.
Chapter Four
The boy was covered in harsh purpling bruises—hardly a spot of skin had been spared. Matt felt a wave of anger wash over him.
The widow turned away, shuddering as if fighting for control. “That couldn’t have happened to him just from the storm,” she finally said in a low voice laced with revulsion.
Matt had to stop himself from putting an arm around her. No woman should have to see something as cruel as this. “No, but it explains what he was doing in our barn.” Matt’s low words scraped his throat. “He was hiding. This isn’t a normal whipping of a boy. Somebody has beaten the living daylights out of him. Somebody bigger and stronger.” Anger steamed through Matt. He had no doubt who’d done this. He met the widow’s eyes across the bed. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t tell her who he thought was responsible. Poor Mary. I have to think what to do to help, not make matters worse. But what? If I confront Orrin, he’ll just beat the boy worse or turn on Mary.
“What are we going to do?” Verity asked, echoing his thoughts.
“Let me think.” This was a sticky circumstance. Going over to Orrin Dyke’s house and beating the thug into the mud wouldn’t help Mary or her son. But Matt had to fight himself to keep from doing just that. Dyke was lucky enough to have a son, and he treated him like this?
Matt glanced up at the rustling of the bedsheets. The widow was very gently and thoroughly checking each of the boy’s limbs for movement. The candle cast her face in shadow. And for once, she was without her armor, her widow’s weeds and tight corseting. In her muslin wrapper and slippers, she looked slender and almost frail. Very feminine.
This reaction rolled through him like the thunder in the distance. He throttled it and asked harshly, “Are any bones broken?”
“His legs, arms and shoulders move in the normal ways. But I’m sure that he has bruised or cracked ribs. Is there a doctor nearby?”
Her compassion touched him. He fought against showing this. “Not near. About eight miles from here. Do you think he is in need of a doctor?”
“I don’t know. I can’t get him to wake up. See here.” She brushed back the boy’s bangs and showed him an especially nasty bruise. She had long slender fingers and her hands showed signs of honest work.
For a moment the woman looked down, a soft expression on her face as she stroked the boy’s cheek. Matt felt her phantom touch on his own cheek. He was conscious of both the sound of steady rain against the window and of the scent of lavender wafting from the woman. He dragged his gaze from her, forcing himself to study his surroundings. This must be her daughter’s room. Pinafores hung on pegs by the door and a canopy covered the bed—it was a homey place that contrasted with the ravaged boy.
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