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‘I’m afraid the jumping-jack took the brunt of one knife blow and then you managed to twist the knife out of his hand.’
Kit fell back amongst the pillows. Had the jumping-jack not been in his breast pocket, the knife would have sliced through his chest. A cold shiver went through him. ‘Obviously a good-luck charm. I intend to keep it.’
‘I’ll get it for you.’ She handed him the remains of the jumping-jack and shook her head. ‘I don’t think it is worth saving.’
‘I must be more sentimental than you.’ He smiled up at her. ‘I think it is worth keeping.’
‘That is your choice.’
‘I shall treasure it always. Generally I take better care of my gifts than this.’
Her lips parted as if she was about to say something, but thought better of it. ‘You need to rest. The doctor left some more laudanum for you.’
Kit shook his head. He felt as if he had been run over by a cart and then stamped on, but he could manage. If he drank the laudanum, the dreams about his childhood would start again—a figure in a blue dress smiling down at him, laughing at her boy, asking him to be brave.
He forced a wry smile and hoped Hattie would believe him. ‘I dislike having my wits clouded. I’ve endured worse pain.’
‘It is here if you change your mind.’ She put a small glass beside the bed. He was aware of the intimacy and how her hair fell about her shoulders.
Gingerly he felt his jaw, sore but unbroken. He wanted her, he wanted to feel her move under him and catch her soft sigh in his mouth as she surrendered to the heat and passion. But he also wanted to hear her laugh, see her smile and above all he wanted to talk to her.
‘Is there some reason why you are nursing me?’ he asked in case she decided to leave.
‘Instead of Mr Hook?’ Hattie leant forwards and tucked the bedclothes about his body. Impersonal, but intimate at the same time. Her round gown gaped slightly and he caught a glimpse of the shadowy hollow between her breasts.
He tore his mind away from such thoughts. Hattie nursed his broken body out of compassion and duty. The fact that he noticed her considerable assets showed him that death would have to find another victim. He’d recover. It was merely his blinding headache that bothered him.
‘If you like, Rupert could have done it.’
She laughed. ‘He appeared distinctly ill at the prospect of blood. I’d no wish to torture him.’
‘And Johnson, my valet?’
‘Your valet was no use. Last seen in the ale tent, according to Mr Hook, rather the worse for wear.’
Kit silently blessed Rupert’s quick thinking. If they had found Johnson, he would not be here. And despite everything, he was glad to be here. In this room. With Hattie. He valued her friendship. He groaned, remembering the taste of her mouth. He wanted to taste it again, particularly now.
At her look he said, ‘I gave him the day off. It is his to use as he pleases.’
‘You are a generous employer.’
‘I can afford to be. Johnson’s ability with boot polish and the starching of neckcloths is second to none.’ He watched her, waiting for the slightest hint of what she was thinking, if she was aware of him as he was of her. ‘No doubt he will turn up early in the morning with a suit of clothes. Johnson takes his job very seriously.’
‘It is good to know. I will leave a note for Mrs Hampstead so she isn’t surprised.’
‘You still haven’t said. Why did you insist on bringing me here?’
‘You saved me from those drunken men and I’m determined you will be nursed with all care and attention.’ She dipped her head. ‘Too many people in my life have died who were not nursed properly. It was time to make sure it didn’t happen again.’
Her husband. It was painfully simple to guess who she wasn’t naming. Kit hated the twinge of jealousy he felt for Charles Wilkinson, the hero of Talavera. He had to be slipping. He prided himself on not caring about anyone’s past or who they had loved. It was only the present that interested him. Ever. Except
Hattie’s past interfered with his present. She had the capacity for life.
He breathed in and his ribs ached.
‘Then I’m grateful,’ he said stiffly. ‘You mustn’t feel you should sit up with me. It will take more than a few knocks on my head to kill a reprobate like me.’
‘You always insist on painting yourself blacker than you are.’
‘I will not have you thinking I am better.’
