Page 50 of The Duke's Dream
William nodded reluctantly.
As her hand approached his bruise, William tensed, anticipating the contact. When she applied the pomade to his flank, he exhaled, closing his eyes tightly. Pain mingled with a surge of desire so strong it left him lightheaded. He was glad for the pain. Otherwise, he would have pulled her onto his lap and kissed her to Morpheus’ realm and back.
Gently, she spread the salve over the bruise, her fingers moving in circular motions. Her signature scent of rosemary enveloped him, weaving through his senses. So this was the origin of her smell, a salve for her tired muscles, not to beguile but to soothe.
The riot still raged outside, and if he were not careful, so would the storm inside his chest. The heat of the camphor contrasted with the gentle coolness of her touch, and William exhaled, wanting to squeeze every drop of sensation from her care.
When her hands traveled from his ribs to his front, her face inches from his hips, he stiffened.
“Are you done?”
She nodded briskly and moved away from him.
While she stored her medical supplies, William dressed and went to the window. It was pitch dark, but he could make out movement in the street below. The tumult was dying down.
“I will leave you to your rest. I advise you not to step out of this apartment tonight.”
“No!” Helene’s voice was sharp, tinged with an edge of panic. “No, please. Stay the night. It is not safe to walk the streets. I wouldn't forgive myself if something happened to you.”
He set his jaw, his gaze avoiding hers. His legs were restless. He needed distance to regain control over himself. Staying was a risk to his sanity.
A crash reverberated outside her door.
Miss Dubois screamed, covering her mouth.
William cursed under his breath. How could he leave these women to spend the night here without a lock?
William nodded.
Miss Dubois nearly swooned, her relief apparent. Helene offered a grateful smile, her eyes meeting his.
She flitted about the garret, collecting pillows and blankets. “You can have the bed, and Celeste and I will sleep on the floor. We do that often when we are on tour.”
“You two share the bed. I’ll have the chair.” His voice invited no arguments.
He doubted he could sleep, anyway. William turned the old armchair to the door so he could keep watch.
He sprawled, his legs stretching before him. Crossing his arms, he shut his eyes. He could hear Helene and Miss Dubois fussing, whispering, settling for the night. His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the armrest.
The bed creaked a broken symphony and then silence.
Long moments passed. Alert, William opened his eyes to a darkened apartment. His forehead stung, his side burned. The sounds of the building were strange to him. How had he ended up sleeping in Soho with no lock on the door?
The squeak again. William stiffened. Helene rose and, on silent feet, padded close. With heavy-lidded eyes, he watched her approach.
She placed a cover over him, leaning forward to reach his shoulder. Her divine hair brushed against his chest. Humming softly, she smoothed the wool. William held his breath, wishing to see her expression in the dim light.
His body relaxed under the blanket despite himself. Even awake, she haunted him.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“I was cold.”
“And you gavemea blanket?”
“I thought you’d be colder sleeping here in the chair. It’s too close to the window, and I—” Her chin trembled, and she rubbed her nose furiously.
Sometimes, he wished he couldn’t read people so well. The only light source was the yellowish London night sky, but he knew. She was reliving the violence, and she was afraid. A creature of air and music should be shielded from harshness. If there were a deity who protected sprites, she should reclaim them the moment mankind mistreated them.
