Page 7 of Sweet Hellion

Then, blessed darkness consumed her.

***

Rhys eyed the beauty passed out on the table before him. Tory’s sister seemed so very far from settled and safely wed in a happy marriage as her brother had thought. Clearly, tragedy had befallen the lass. Had her husband died? The pain he’d seen in her eyes was so very much like his own. When had she last eaten a decent meal? She was far too thin and pale. Her hands, so delicate and slender, were roughened from hard work.

He ran a hand over his face. He’d allowed Tory’s belief that his sister was safe give him an excuse not to face her. A quick glance at the window revealed darkness had fallen. He could cradle her in his arms and take her back to Blackstone Abbey. Nae. Too dangerous to travel at night.

“Do you have rooms?” he asked the tavern keeper at the bar.

The man crooked a lip of disapproval but cocked his brow at the key hanging on the wall. “Just the one. But one’s enough, I daresay.”

Rhys silently placed a coin on the bar and took the key. The man wasn’t worth a response, and with Inverness a good distance away, Emma’s reputation risked little harm. He had no choice but to stay with her. Perhaps, it was just as well. In the morning, she might very well bolt before he could explain his intention to offer his help.

Emma didn’t stir as he lifted her in his arms. She weighed scarcely more than a child. She didn’t wake as he carried her to the room and laid her gently on the bed.

For the space of a minute, he stood over her, studying her face in the dim light spilling into the room from the open door. Even in sleep, she frowned.

“Nae,” Emma moaned, eyes closed. “Nae. Tory. Nae.”

Rhys pulled the blanket from beneath her, then pulled it up over her shoulders. After lighting a candle, he closed the door, then placed her gun on the rickety table beside the oil lamp and started a fire in the hearth. On the bed, Emma tossed. He shouldn’t have let her drink so much; yet, how could he deny her the chance to numb her pain? Suddenly, she sat up, looking decidedly green. He snagged the washbasin and reached her side in three, long strides.

“Nae.” She lurched from the bed.

He caught her as her knees buckled. Her breasts pressed soft against his chest.

“Unhand me, scoundrel,” she slurred the words.

“There you have it.” He guided her back to the bed. “You cannot order a scoundrel to go against his nature. Sit.” He dropped the basin into her lap. “You will need this.”

He no sooner said the words than she doubled over and began to retch. He waited by the fire until the gagging and groans receded, then retrieved the basin and tossed its contents out the window. When he returned to the bed, she lay in a crumpled heap, cold sweat on her brow.

“Forgive me, Tory,” he murmured, and drew the coverlet over her shoulders.

He’d erred, but he would set matters right.