Page 2 of A Raven Reborn

He hadn’t meant to be harsh, but what else was he supposed to say? He knew what heshouldbe doing with her. He should be delivering her to Raven House, where Ash would see she was taken care of, and she’d no longer be his problem. That was exactly why Raven House existed, to help women like her.

But he didn’t want to deal with Ash’s judgment or disappointment tonight, so he’d given the driver his home address instead. He’d let her sleep there tonight and deliver her to Raven House in the morning.

She shivered and he pulled her more tightly against him, wrapping his other arm around her and tucking her head under his chin.

“It’ll be alright,” he whispered.

To his surprise, she burrowed even more firmly against his chest. What had the poor woman been through?

Hell, no doubt.

She let out a sigh, and her body became limp in his arms. Poor thing must have been exhausted to fall asleep in the arms of a strange man.

“It’ll be alright,” he whispered again. Perhaps reassuring himself more than her.

A short time later, Patrick carried her into his flat. His valet stopped in his tracks, his eyes grew wide with shock and Patrick could see the endless questions brewing in his mind.

Patrick shook his head and gestured towards the door to his chamber. Finch rushed to open it and then quickly pulled back the blankets so that Patrick could lay the unconscious woman in his bed. Carefully, he removed his coat from around her and covered her with the blanket. She stirred slightly, but only rubbed her nose and nestled further into the blankets before sliding right back into a deep sleep.

She looked so peaceful, the fear gone from her face as she slept. He was tempted to tuck a stray strand of her hair behind her ear but didn’t want to risk waking her. Why did he feel so protective of her? He would gladly stand there and watch over her as she slept, but that was ridiculous. She was perfectly safe now. He tore his gaze away from her and followed Finch out of the room, closing the door softly behind them.

Now what? Pain throbbed in his shoulder, so first, he would have a drink, and then he’d work on figuring out the rest.

Halfway down the hall, Finch turned to face him, eyebrows raised and one side of his mouth turned up in a smirk. “You must be losing your touch. You don’t usually have to render them unconscious to get them into your bed.”

Patrick looked heavenward while he gathered his patience. “Really, Finch, I know I’ve forbidden any bowing and scraping and my lording, but a little respect wouldn’t kill you.”

“Yes, my lord.” He bowed deeply.

Patrick pushed past him with an irritated sigh, continuing on to his study. “I hope you’ve filled my brandy decanter recently,” he called over his shoulder.

Patrick downed the first glass and poured another before settling into the chair behind his desk. Finch hovered in the doorway. He was going to have to tell the man something. He would, undoubtedly, need his discretion and his help.

Finch broke the silence first. “Would you like me to send for the doctor?”

“No, Finch. I don't think there’s anything wrong with her. She’s just tired.”

“Not for her, for you.” He nodded toward Patrick. “You’re bleeding.”

Patrick looked down. Sure enough, a red stain was slowly blossoming at his shoulder. “Damn it, this is the first time I’ve worn this shirt!” He shook his head and rubbed his hands over his face. “No doctor. The last thing I need is one more person in this house tonight.”

“At least allow me to change the dressing.” Only then did Patrick notice the man already held the supplies in his hands. Somehow Finch always knew what he would want, sometimes before Patrick even knew himself.

He let out a long sigh. “Very well.”

“And perhaps while I’m working on that, you can tell me about the girl?”

Patrick chuckled and began undoing the buttons on his waistcoat. “I’ll tell you what I know.”

* * *

Rosalyn didn’t want to open her eyes. Perhaps if she just kept them closed, she could pretend the events of the previous couple of days had been no more than a bad dream. If only that could be true. The lingering scent of spicy cologne confirmed she wasn’t in her own bed. She recognized the smell, though. Her nostrils had been filled with it as she drifted to sleep in the arms of a strange man in a hired cab as they rolled away from the brothel she’d been sold to.

Her mind screamed for her to open her eyes and see where she was, but she squeezed them shut even more tightly. She wasn’t ready to know. Her heart beat rapidly inside her chest. Why couldn’t she just be at home in her own bed? It wasn’t perfect, but at least there, she knew what to expect. At least there, she had her mother. She didn’t want this life, whatever this life was.

She breathed in deeply through her nose and let it out gradually, giving a silent prayer that there was no one else in the bed with her, and then slowly allowed her eyes to slide open. Thank God. She was alone.

The room was fairly large and decidedly masculine, with its deep emerald hues and heavy fabrics. His room, whoever ‘he’ was. She didn’t even know his name. In the corner next to the bed stood a large mahogany armoire and on the other side, a writing desk that, along with stationary and writing implements, held a bottle of some amber liquid and a couple of glasses. The most luxurious piece of furniture in the room, an oversized, brown leather armchair, sat before the fireplace, where only dying embers remained. Apparently, he had money. Perhaps she should have guessed that by the fact that he’d thrown an entire fistful of banknotes into the air, but these furnishings spoke to a level of wealth she hadn’t expected, even still.

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