She’d torn him apart and then started blathering on about horses.
When he’d first seen her, standing there in nothing but a night-rail, he’d wanted to do utterly wicked things to Miss Trewent and then she’d apologised so sweetly.
Dark thoughts entered his head as he remembered her talking of a kiss that had been forced upon her. Had that man done more? Was that the reason for the secrecy of her past and her supposed ill health? She didn’t look sickly, although slender, she seemed to have the constitution of a horse.
Visions of broken, violated women he’d seen in war, damage wreaked by both sides, made a gorge rise in his throat. If the debaucher had still been alive, he’d have beaten him senseless without a moment’s hesitation. He looked down. Christ, his fingers were trembling; these hands were meant for healing now, not violence…
She’d said exactly the right thing, damn her. No one ever saw him – they saw a war hero for amusing anecdotes, a doctor for help, an earl for money and power, but who saw him?
She did, apparently.
Pulling on his crumpled jacket, he could still smell roses. It was on his shirt and under his skin. She’d been so goddamn sweet. He’d thought to keep the kiss gentle and non-threatening but then she’d grabbed hold of his hair and all hell had broken loose.
Roses had been in all his senses: the taste in his mouth, the scent in his nose, Rosalind’s satin touch on his nape. His body had been so ready, so wanting, but then she’d brushed his scars, and he’d remembered the futility of it all.
Was it merely a flirtation to her? Where would it lead? She said she trusted him and saw him, but for how long? She didn’t know about his trouble with laudanum and his body was uglier than his face. Rubbing his stubbled chin, he sighed. He’d learned long ago that sometimes you had to trust fate, and all he could hope was that fate wouldn’t hurt too much.
And then maybe, just maybe, he’d find out that he had been fighting for Rosalind as well.
