He’d never woken with a woman in his bed and wanted to stay there with her. She was only halfway on his bed, having fallen asleep at her bedside vigil. He felt guilty for robbing her of rest at the same time he relished having her all to himself. Her hair beneath his palm was a river of silk, the skin beneath her light wrapper firm and warm. He wondered what she would do if he pulled her into bed and fit the delicious length of her against him. He knew his ribs were not quite healed, but his lower body was very interested in the image.
“You stayed with me all night?”
“You didn’t want me to leave. Your nightmares are getting worse,” she said softly. He nodded, his throat stuck. “And I feared you might throw off your blankets and develop a chill, you were sweating so.”
She laid a hand on his brow and he clasped his other hand over hers. He ought to be burning up with embarrassment that a woman should see him so weak and vulnerable, pursued in his sleep by memories he couldn’t summon in the light of day. But she was calm, unaccusing.
“I’m not sure I want to remember everything,” he said.
The corners of her eyes tightened and her lashes fluttered as she looked away. He didn’t want her to withdraw but she did, taking away her hand and straightening on the stool.
“Perhaps the dreams would cease to be a torment if your memory returned.”
With a haunted look, she stood and left, departing toward the stair that led to the kitchens. Her lost warmth left a hollow space in his blankets. In his chest. He was a fool, pulling on his clothes in haphazard haste to follow her, but she drew him like a siren lured doomed sailors to the shore.
The kitchen was empty, a surprise. Perhaps everyone else was already at their tasks. He saw a crust of bread wrapped in cloth and a hunk of cheese on the table, he guessed left out for him. If he took it to Gwen, would she eat with him? She’d woken with her guard down, for the first time not wary or distant or short with him. He wanted more of that Gwen.
But then she came into the kitchen in her day gown and customary red woolen shawl, tying a kerchief over her hair, and he feared the golden moment was lost.
“Bore da,” she said. “Good morning.”
No, no, no, she couldn’t retreat. That moment when she looked in his eyes and smiled had woken something in him. If she turned away now that raw, aching thing in him would still be there.
“What are you doing?” He tied, or attempted to tie, his neckcloth as she put a copper kettle on the stove, then went to the scullery and emerged with an earthenware bucket. “What’s that?”
“Soap lye infused with oil. It’s time I made a new batch of soap.” She sent him a wry half-smile as his eyes flared. “It’s not chamber lye, ’tis pot ash and quick lime, with a bit of goat’s milk. Your delicate sensibilities won’t be offended.”
“I’m not the least bit delicate,” Pen said, stepping closer.
She snorted. “All right. Then you can go to the King’s Head today with Evans and help shovel out Mr. Trett’s stable. You ran up a tab the other day when you were drinking with Gossett, before you let him knock you senseless in the stable yard. I promised Mr. Trett you would pay your debt.” She built up the fire and took up a stick to stir her concoction.
“Aren’t you worried I’ll be beaten again? They still haven’t found who fell upon that Jewish man.” Perhaps preying on her nurturing instincts would get him somewhere.
Concern flashed through her eyes. “That’s why Evans is going with you.”
He stepped closer. Appealing to her nurturing side was the wrong move. It wasn’t nurturing he wanted from her.
“Are you certain I’m up to the task? I don’t think my ribs have healed yet.” Though they hurt far less than they had. He had the vague feeling that they’d hurt much worse before his beatings. He’d spent a long time contemplating his scars, wondering how he’d gained them. All that rose to his waking mind were sensations of white-hot agony and red flashes of blood. He could move easily now, and it felt strange, like he hadn’t done so in years. Gwen had healed him.
“Don’t strain too much, and stop when you’re weary. You need to keep your lungs clear.” She tapped his chest. “Deep breaths.”
He caught her hand and held it. She’d touched him again. He didn’t want her to play nurse with him, either. He wanted her to see him as a man.
“Is that why you’ve been setting me to all these ridiculous tasks,” he growled. “And then laughing at me when I’m rubbish at all of them.” His pride still stung from being the joke of St. Stuffy’s. Everyone else had a place, had a part, made a contribution. Except Pen. “And now I’m to play stableboy?”
“Half a stableboy, with one good arm,” she said archly. “With Evans, you make a whole man. Like you said.”
He moved closer, crowding her, her hand still anchored on his chest. He hoped she didn’t notice the accelerating beat of his heart. “I would like you to know I’m a whole man. Very whole.” A step closer and she’d be acquainted with his manliness, pressing against her hip.
She froze, and the playful teasing in her face evaporated. Fear fled over her features, followed by wariness and stiff reserve. They were back to the guardedness. The smiling girl, kin to the songbirds, was gone.
“Then we’ve been good for you.” Her voice sounded strained, breathless. “Staying here at St. Sefin’s has helped you. Will you admit it?”
He frowned. “Helped me? I’ve been a prisoner. The moment I have a place to bolt to, I’m breaking out.” He lifted his free hand and stroked a curl that refused to stay beneath her kerchief. “You might come with me.”
“And do what? Go where?” Her eyes were wide, fathomless pools, sucking him in.
“I don’t care where we go. And as for what we’ll do…” He leaned toward her, leaving but an inch between their faces. She needed to close that last distance; he wanted her surrender. Wanted her to admit what flared between them. That beneath her impatience and dismissiveness with him was a deeper yearning. He felt it, too.
