Miss Rosalind Trewent lay half under him, her hair in his mouth, and he panicked for a moment, wondering if he had crushed her slight body. Lifting his head and gazing down, he watched the shallow movement of her chest under his arm. His arm! How did it get there? How did he get here?
Pain clattered through his skull as thoughts rushed in and his head hit the pillow, eyes closing. When the thudding had subsided a little, he opened them again.
Leafy-green eyes stared back and all breath left his body. Every single hair on his bulk suddenly felt alive, and heat flooded his limbs. He didn’t say anything at all, until swiftly realising something.
“I’m in the buff.”
“Indeed.”
Watching her lips made his body twitch. “You are not naked,” he observed.
“No, would you like me to be?” The softly breathed words went straight to his nether regions and he swallowed hard.
He’d like to say yes, but that wasn’t very gentlemanly. He couldn’t say no because that would be untrue. So what came out was, “ermhmm.”
She seemed to find that response amusing, because she chuckled and a cool hand was placed on his forehead. “You must be feeling better. What’s the last thing you remember?”
Lucas thought back. “The inn. I remember being hoodwinked by that Irish blackguard. I came back. I remember hearing you in the breakfa– Oh Jesus! The breakfast room.” He closed his eyes and felt a ruddy hue rush to his cheeks. “I’m sorr–”
“Ignore that for now. And after that?”
“Went searching in the woods all morning. I found something, a handkerchief, but the weather started to worsen so I headed home. But then I thought I heard digging by that oak in the clearing, so I dismounted and looked around and… Christ, someone walloped me from behind. Then I don’t know. I remember being cold and crawling for shelter.”
“Someone tried to kill you, Lucas.”
“Maybe.”
“This is the second instance and it was no stray poacher this time.”
“Maybe,” he repeated, “but when I was lying there, I remember thinking I had to survive, to apologise…” He opened his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Rosalind. That was unforgiveable in the breakf–”
Soft fingers pressed against his lips. “I didn’t let you do anything that I didn’t want. In fact, I’m not sure I shouldn’t be apologising to you.”
“No, I was a monster to–”
“Will you cease calling yourself a monster?”
“Lady Hurst is right. I’m–”
She cut him off again and sat up, pushing him over. Her finger poked him in the chest. “Lady Hurst is a bitter crone, Lucas Mainwaring. She wants you, and she can’t have you.” The finger kept poking, hard. “I wanted your kisses.” Poke. “I wanted your touch.” Poke, poke. “I wanted more, but it was my own fault for not heeding your…warning.”
He grabbed her still poking hand. “I believe you. Please, no more poking.” Bringing it to his lips, he kissed the persecuting finger. “Bloody hell,” he said loudly, suddenly realising something else. “You’ve seen my body.”
“Well, I can hardly look after you in a full set of clothes, and you yourself threw off your nightshirt.” He followed her pointed finger to the discarded garment; it looked like it hung in some bawdy house.
“Rosalind, I’m disgusting.”
“Well, yes, you do smell a bit, but the feve–”
“The scars, Rosalind. The burns. I look like a boar that’s been pricked for cooking…and then cooked.” He felt like tearing his hair out. She seemed so calm, as though she hadn’t noticed.
“I did see, Lucas. But I don’t understand. It’s still you.”
Lucas snarled. Didn’t she goddamn understand?
“Touch one with your hand. I dare you.” He watched her frown – served her right. She’d learn that words were all very well but actual touch was a very different thing and he didn’t just want words from Rosalind Trewent: he wanted her hands on him, on every part of him. While flirting with her, thinking of courting her, he’d conveniently forgotten the state of his body, but no longer.
It was time to end this.
