Page 5

Her chin dipped. She smelled heavenly. Henry found himself reluctant to move away, even though he was a complete cad for pinning her on the floor like this. Speaking of which, they still hadn’t addressed why she was down here in the first place.

With considerable reluctance, Henry rolled over and sat up, tugging the blanket over his nether regions. To her credit, and his annoyance, Artemisia kept her gaze averted as she got up. “You were asleep when I returned with your clothes. I cannot promise they will fit properly, but they should serve until we can get you back to your family. In the morning we’ll try to borrow a pair of shoes that suit you. I didn’t want to attempt to guess your size, and there wasn’t much selection, I’m afraid.”

She was rambling. A ball of warmth took up residence behind his sternum. That was most definitely a blush. He could see it staining her cheek in profile. A fascinating constellation of tiny dark spots beneath her ear was almost hidden by the thick chestnut curls that had escaped from her braid. Artemisia wore a long-sleeved nightgown trimmed in lace. The garment had slipped down the curve of her shoulder.

The dying firelight turned the creamy linen nearly transparent.

Henry’s mouth went dry. His cock kicked hard against the rough wool he was holding in front of his crotch. His palms itched to ruck up her gown and taste her skin.

“I’ll turn my back while you dress,” she said quickly, striding to the stand with his medicine.

“Right.” Henry dropped the blanket and reached for the pile of clothes she had obtained for him. He stepped into the smalls and tugged one of the shirts over his head. The sleeves were slightly too short, but otherwise, it was a good fit. “Ready, now.”

He went to the bed and lay down.

Artemisia took the blanket to the chair and sat in it, covering herself from throat to knee.

“What are you doing?” Henry asked, perplexed.

“I can’t decide which is more uncomfortable, the floor or the chair. I have tried both. Several times tonight.” She blew out the candle, plunging them into darkness.

He sighed. “Artemisia?”

“Yes, Henry?”

“Get into the bed.”

“I cannot possibly⁠—”

“Artie.” Terrible nickname; he would have to find something better to call her. “You are a widow, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Then why can’t you sleep beside me?”

“It isn’t big enough to fit two people,” she said primly.

“How do you know if you haven’t tried?”

“I have eyes, Henry.”

“Very pretty ones, at that. Unfortunately, they seem to have failed you. The bed is sufficient for two. Get in.”

A tense, silent standoff ensued.

“Do I have to come over there and carry you?” he asked after several moments of listening to the quick thumping of his own heartbeat.

“You are not supposed to exert yourself,” Artemisia said in that same prim tone that did not fool him one bit. She might have high moral standards, but she was no prude.

“Then don’t make me. I will get up and carry you if you won’t come of your own volition.”

Another tense moment passed before she huffed. A spring squeaked when she got up. Footfalls padded around the end of the bed. The coverlet moved, and the mattress dipped.

He had been wrong. Utterly, completely, catastrophically incorrect. This bed was not big enough for the two of them. With her shoulder and hip pressed to his, the erection he had barely subdued surged to new, almost painful heights.

“I won’t touch you,” he said.

“I appreciate that.”