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She was close now, and he was wrapped in the scent of her—the mint of her breath and that beautiful, rich rosemary that he knew now was the product of her caretaking.
“You touched me,” he said softly, his lips so close to hers, testing both their sanity.
Her fingers flexed on his shoulders. “Yes.”
“I was at your mercy.”
Her eyes found his, the dark centers of them blown out with excitement and something he identified instantly—desire. “You were.”
“You noticed the places I needed you. You rubbed salve on my wounds and placed cool cloths on my brow.”
She nodded, the movement shaky and perfect.
“Tell me, Adelaide Frampton, who has noticed me in ballrooms for years... did you notice me then? Here? The parts that were not harmed?”
She closed her eyes, and triumph consumed him. She did not wish to admit the truth—the taboo of it.
He wanted every word.
“Tell me,” he commanded.
“I noticed.”
He nodded. “Good. And did you want to touch?”
“Yes.” He swore harshly at the confession and her eyes flew open. “I’m... sorry.”
“No.” The word came harsh and firm. “Don’t apologize for it. Don’t ever apologize for wanting to touch me. You may touch me whenever you like. Wherever you like. It is only that I find myself in a strange predicament.”
“How?”
He pulled her close and set his forehead to hers, breathing her in. Letting her fill him up. “Somehow... I am jealous.”
“Of whom?”
“Of myself, because I do not remember it.”
She let out a little relieved laugh. “You will require additional salve soon enough, Your Grace. And I hope very much you will be conscious for it.”
The words—the promise in them—made him instantly hard. Apparently, he’d had plenty of rest. It would take more than a knife to the side and a few broken ribs for him to stop wanting this beautiful woman in his arms. In his bed. In his life. “Adelaide?”
“Yes.” Christ. She would be his undoing. The word should have been a curious reply. Should have been punctuated with a question mark. But instead, it came out breathless and aching, and when it reached him, it was full of all the things he wanted to do to her.
How was he to resist kissing her? He licked into her mouth, sucking on the full, pretty swell of her bottom lip until she whimpered her pleasure. Good. He wanted her aching. Christ, she was sweet and soft and warm, and the way she leaned into him, her fingers sliding into his hair as her tongue met his... She was perfect.
The kiss went on and on, until temptation had them both gasping for air, and Henry released her for a heartbeat, ready to pull her down and have his way with her. He couldn’t look away from her, her hooded eyes, her pink cheeks, her mouth, full with the raw pleasure of their kiss. And there, faint on her skin, the scrape of five days of beard.
He stroked a thumb over her skin, hating the marks on her. “I hurt you.”
She shook her head, her hands coming to his face, her nails scratching over his beard. “I don’t even feel it.”
“You will,” he said, leaning in for another kiss, this one soft and lingering and as gentle as he could make it. Not enough. “And so, first things first.”
That furrow was back, and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning up to kiss it smooth. “I require a shave.”
Chapter Sixteen
Adelaide was known for steady nerves.
