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“Yes.”
She gave a shaky laugh. “That is not what you are meant to say to a lady.”
“I’ll be damned if I like the sight of a bruise on your cheek,” he muttered and shook his head. “I should have been here. I should never have left your side.”
“Roman...”
“But you are as beautiful and as lovely as ever.”
The compliment, said so sincerely, so softly, melted away any tension left inside her.
“Is Mary well?”
“Aunt Mary is shaken but fine. The servants are looking after her and the fire is doused.”
“Thank goodness.” Clem sank back into his hold, wrapping her arms about the width of his waist and sighing. She never wanted to be apart from him again.
He stiffened slightly and she drew back, scowling. Only when she glanced down did she spy the red staining upon his shirt. She sucked in a sharp breath. So much for him being unharmed.
“He hurt you!”
Roman smirked. “Only barely.” He glanced down at the red slice scarring the fabric of his shirt. “Must have caught me in the tussle.”
“God, Roman, he could have killed you.”
“Don’t blaspheme, remember,” he quipped, tugging his shirt from the waistband of his trousers and lifting that and his vest to eye the wound that marred his torso, just beneath his ribs to one side. “Just a scratch, as I assumed.”
Clem took the fabric from him and lifted it higher. “There could be fabric in the wound.” He hissed when she touched fingers to skin, his muscles visibly tightening. “Forgive me. Does it hurt?”
“Oh yes. It’s agony.”
Lips parted, she met his gaze then rolled her eyes. “You tease.”
“Not one bit. Having you touch me is indeed agony.”
She took a slight step back and swallowed hard. She’d been too close to losing him and the timing was appalling, and they’d made no promises and there were literally people still practically fighting a fire outside. But she was not certain she wanted to waste another moment. Besides, was this not the perfect excuse?
“Take off your shirt, Roman. I need to check the wound properly.”
His gaze clashed with hers. Any amusement fled from his expression. “I’m not sure that is a good idea, Musgrave.”
Lifting her chin, she refused to look away. “Do it, Rochdale.”
Only breaking his gaze from hers as he pulled his clothes over his head, Roman offered a silent dare. Give up, walk away. Run, even. Well, she wasn’t going anywhere. Not this time. She’d been so wrong about him. He wasn’t brooding and he didn’t have a stick for a spine. He was good and kind, and protective and even capable of laughter and teasing. Somehow during their search, he’d become her friend and supporter. She couldn’t imagine life without him now.
She sucked in a breath through her teeth and the sight of him. She’d only imagined the image of him shirtless and had not done it justice at all. His muscles flexed with each inhale and her fingers twitched with the need to trace the lines on his abdomen. A dark trail of hair led downward, tempting her gaze to the waistband of his trousers.
“Mr. Jones was right about one thing.”
His brow furrowed.
“You are perfect.” She stepped close and gave into temptation, bypassing the small cut on his side that wasn’t nearly as bad as she feared.
“I’m far from perfect. You know that.”
Clem looked up at him, her mouth dry. “To me, you are perfect.”
She trailed a path across his exposed collarbone with her fingertips and he shuddered. The fact she could control this ridiculously strong man with a mere touch emboldened her. Her need for this man grew, flaring deep inside of her and blazing through every limb. She continued her exploration of him, smoothing her palms over his chest and down.
