Page 142 of Every Rake Has A Silver Lining

“It’s a flesh wound. I’ll be fine, especially with you hovering over Rutledge and glowering. He wouldn’t dare make a misstep. But I do need something to keep my mind occupied away from the pain until we arrive home.”

As she tenderly peeled back the blood-soaked sleeve from his body, she said, “Shall we stop the carriage so you can run about?”

“No.” He pulled her close. “Tell me you love me and kiss me again.”

A sly smile broke across her lips—lips she would soon press to his. “I love you, you buffoon.”

Five days passedand Simon had practically gone mad from the inactivity Charlotte demanded for his recovery. Constantly hovering over him, Charlotte monitored the time his family spent with him when they came to check on his recovery. Like clockwork, she would shoo them all out after thirty minutes. His wife would have made an excellent commanding officer in the military.

She’d insisted Simon provide some financial support to Albie Mooney’s family while he remained incarcerated—anonymously, of course. “We can’t have Albie’s family suffer for his heinousacts. Especially the children. Perhaps Mrs. Mooney will take the children and move far away from that monster’s reach.”

The fierce determination in his wife’s eyes told Simon she would be an even stauncher defender of their own children. Which, speaking of, he was more than eager to start making.

He rang the little bell on the side table, then stretched his legs out on the sofa. The stitches in his arm itched like the devil.

Charlotte rushed into the drawing room, her usual alto voice rising in pitch with concern. “What is it?”

“I need my medicine.” He placed a hand over his wounded arm and adopted— what Charlotte had taken to calling—his sad puppy expression. Curled by his side, Trifle gave a pathetic littlemeowof camaraderie.

“More willow bark tea?”

The day after theincident, Charlotte had insisted on sending a message to Ashton by express post, requesting his opinion on Dr. Rutledge’s course of treatment. Ashton had written back posthaste, commending Charlotte for cleaning the area thoroughly before Rutledge had sutured the wound. In addition, he sent packets of willow bark with instructions to keep the wound as clean and dry as possible and to send for him if the area became red, swollen, or oozed pus.

“No more of that abominable tea, please.” Simon’s stomach revolted at the mere thought.

His wife laughed. “Such a baby.”

“I need something stronger.”

Like the slash of a blade, the words cut off her laugh, and she raced forward, placing a gentle hand on his forehead. “Are you feverish? Another episode of malaria? Do you need your quinine?”

Guilt squeezed his chest that he had frightened her. “No. Something sweeter. Your lips.”

She scowled and drew her hand back. “You are incorrigible!”

Grasping her fingers, he kissed them. “But you love me.”

“And those areyourlips, not mine.”

“Care to remedy that?” He laughed at his own pun.

The lips he desired twitched at the corners. “Buffoon.”

“Minx.”

Careful to avoid jostling his injured arm, she settled next to him on the sofa, displacing Trifle, who meowed in protest.

“I believe little doses at a time are called for—to ensure your tolerance. It is, as you say, strong medicine.” Pressure no more than a light brush, she kissed the corner of his mouth, then moved to his cheek, his eyes, and his nose.

He grinned up at her. “This is supposed to be making me feel better, not torturing me.”

She rolled her eyes, the hint of the dimple on her cheek belying her annoyance. “Impatient man.”

“You know me well.” No longer waiting, he pulled her down to him, capturing her lips in a glorious kiss. “Mmm. Much better. I’m feeling stronger already. In fact...go lock the door.”

Her dark brows arched, informing him she gleaned his meaning. “But your arm?”

“If I go one more day without being inside you, I’ll have a relapse. I’ll simply lie here, and you can have your way with me—exactly as you like.” He wiggled his own brows.

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