He’d journeyed through hell seeking the answers. What was a little pain when they were so close, but he could see that she was beginning to sag, to grow pale. While she’d certainly provenher mettle earlier, it had no doubt come at a cost, and she’d tended to him with gentle care that he’d not deserved. “Tomorrow I’ll put you through the gauntlet until you’ll wish you were back at Whitehall instead of facing me.”
She gave him a wry smile. “I look forward to it. But for now, I can have my carriage readied, see you returned to your residence, or you’re welcome to rest here until you regain your strength.”
He had no residence to which to return. He slept at missions or in cheap lodgings or on the ropes—when he didn’t have the coins for a mattress, a ha’penny would get him a bench shared with others, a rope stretched across it at chest level to lean over so he didn’t crumple to the floor when he fell asleep. He sought nothing permanent because he didn’t want to be easy to find. Not quite trusting her, he shouldn’t remain here. And yet, being near to her might provide him with more insight because she had a good deal left to tell him. He had no doubt of that. “I’d welcome the bed.”
And you in it. Pressing your lips to my skin again, blushing as you did so.He’d have never thought her to be a blusher and yet her cheeks had gone crimson and he’d very much like to cause her to turn scarlet from her hairline to her toes. He held those thoughts to himself because after giving him the care she had, she deserved only his respect and gentlemanly behavior. She still wore his blood on her clothing. He’d made a right mess of it, bleeding on her as she’d provided supportfor his weakening body while they’d made their way through a series of different hansom cabs and later into the residence.
“Very good,” she said calmly, once more rising to wash and dry her hands. “Go on up, top of the stairs. My bedchamber is the first on the right. You may make use of any of the other three. I’ll be following once I’ve tidied up the mess I made. My cook will have my head if she sees her beloved kitchen was used as a hospital for a while.”
“I’ll help—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She cut off his offer before he could complete it. “You’re injured. Get yourself to bed for some rest. I can send up a footman with some warm water.”
She’d cleaned him well enough as she’d tended to him. He shoved himself to his feet, hoping to find the strength to make his way up the stairs. “No need. You have the right of it. All I want is sleep.”
“I’ll see you in the morning then.”
With a nod, he snatched up his shirt, waistcoat, and jacket from the edge of the table where he’d placed them earlier and strode from the room. Out of her presence, he gave in to the weariness that descended like a heavy fog. Remaining still while she’d worked when there had been times he’d wanted to grunt and groan at the constant prick, poke, and pull on his skin had taken a toll, not to mention the loss of blood. He hadn’t thought the wound that bad, but her frock told a different story.
He reached the stairs, put a foot on the first step, and froze. His wound was on the left. Her frock was bloodied on the right where her arm had come around him, providing support, but there was a swath of scarlet across the left that resembled the result of a child’s fingers dipped in paint and swiped across canvas. Why was the fabric stained with crimson on her left side? Why was there so much more blood where he hadn’t leaned against her?
Abruptly, his heart pounding, threatening to seize up on him, he headed back the way he’d come and stormed into the kitchen, his feet pounding on the stone floor. At the table, she spun around, that loosely flowing frock bunched at her waist, revealing plump, beautiful breasts that he was a beast to notice, because one was smeared with blood. In one hand, she held that ghastly huge needle, threaded, ready to begin its work.
“Stanwick, get the hell out!”
“Not bloody likely.” He advanced, tossed his clothing on the table beside her corset. “Why didn’t you tell me you were injured as well?”
At this point, most women would have covered themselves, but she merely stood there bold and brazen, not an ounce of modesty to be seen, as she jerked up her chin, her eyes blazing with fury. “I can see to it.”
“But why inflict pain upon yourself when it’ll bring me unbridled joy to do so in your stead?”
Her gaze dropped to his extended hand, and for a heartbeat, he saw relief course over herfeatures, relief that someone else would see to the unpleasant task. She lifted her eyes to his. “Skilled with a needle, are you?”
“I’ve found no fault with my handiwork when I’ve had a need to apply it to my own injuries.”
Her lips twitched. “You use my own words against me.”
“I use them for you, to reassure you.” He didn’t know why it suddenly mattered that she trusted him completely, but it did.
She angled her head slightly, a bit of teasing in her eyes that also reflected pain. “We’re not about to become friends, are we?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“All right then.” With a small nod, she handed him the needle before settling into the chair she’d occupied while seeing to his wound. He dropped into the other, reached back for his shirt, and held it out to her. “You might wish to cover yourself somewhat.”
She smirked. “Are you modest, Stanwick?”
“Your lovely breasts are incredibly distracting. I’d think you would prefer my entire focus remain on your sliced flesh rather than how much I’d enjoy running my tongue around your nipple.”
Blushing, she snatched his shirt, clutched it in one hand, and pressed it to her right collarbone so the linen draped over the uninjured breast. He rather regretted that he’d asked her to hide a portion of herself away. He trailed a finger over a ragged scar that ran along her upper arm. “Another knife wound?”
“Glass. When I made my escape through a window without opening it first. No time to mess with latches, you see? Only the few seconds needed to throw something through it so I could clamber out.”
Gently, he nudged her arm aside, giving him easier access to the gaping wound that marred the side of her breast. Christ, he wished he hadn’t volunteered to do this. Suddenly he hated the thought of hurting her.
“Go on, Stanwick. I’ve had enough rum that I doubt I’ll feel it.”
With a nod, he went to work, her strangled groan telling him that she did indeed feel it.
