Page 12 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
Her own lips twitched. “I’ve always favored the unicorn a tad more.”
“Why?”
She shrugged, embarrassed to have shared that, not wanting to share more, but how could she not if it would keep him distracted from his pain? “It always seemed more mythical, yet also more believable. I couldn’t quite bring myself to accept a woman could be half a fish, but it seemed plausible that at one time, somewhere in the world, a horse might have a horn. Don’t you think?”
He merely stared at her, no doubt because she had spouted such utter nonsense. “I know it seems silly—” she began.
“Not silly. Endearing.”
“You will have me blushing, if you’re not careful with your flattery. So, there, now you know everything about me.”
“I doubt that.”
She dipped the cloth in the bowl, squeezed out the excess water, and gently dragged the linen just below his collarbone from shoulder to shoulder, carefully avoiding the wound. “What were you doing out in the streets at such an ungodly hour of night, alone, a target for footpads?”
He averted his gaze, turning his head toward the fire. The golden light danced over his features, in a macabre display of shifting shadows he almost seemed to welcome hiding within. “Chasing a dream.”
Disappointment, sorrow, and the beginnings of defeat wove their way through his quietly spoken words. What sort of a dream would a man search for within these wretched environs? She nearly laughed aloud at the absurdity of her question. Her own dreams were anchored here, although there were times of late when she found herself yearning for more. She wouldn’t pester him with probing inquiries, as she doubted he would answer anyway, but she couldn’t allow him to give up. “Instead you found a bit of a nightmare, didn’t you?”
He released a solitary huff of breath that might have served as a laugh if he had more strength in him. She longed to see him well and robust, imagined how bold and daring he might appear under other circumstances. “A bit.”
Turning his head back in her direction, he seemed to be struggling to keep his eyes open. “They knew you, called you by name.”
“Did they now? I thought as much, that they might know me, since they ran off with little more than a shout chasing after them. I don’t suppose you got a good look at them.”
The shake of his head was barely noticeable. Now was not the time for an inquisition. But she’d keep an eye out, take notice if someone suddenly appeared flush from fencing off some items stolen from a gent. “You should try to get some sleep.”
“Might not awaken.”
“You’ve a fever, but I’ve checked your wounds. They’re not festering. Still your body has to fight, and rest will serve it well.”
“Keep talking.”
“About what?”
“You.”
It was wrong to lose patience with a man who was suffering. “I’ve told you everything there is to say about me. I’m not very interesting.”
“Tell me about the mermaid... and unicorn.”
She didn’t think he was asking about her tavern but rather why she took a fancy to those creatures, why she’d chosen them. Once more she wrung out the cloth. Hoping to cool him, she set it across his brow. After dampening another piece of linen, she wiped it across his chest, careful to avoid his brown nipples, and thus something that seemed far too intimate. Then she dragged it along his sternum where more sweat gathered. “They can never be together. I have a soft spot for things that can never be together... I think because of my family. We’re the result of people who couldn’t be together.” Except for her brother Mick. They’d recently learned his story was a bit more complicated, but it wasn’t one she’d share with this stranger—even if he were no longer a stranger. It was Mick’s story to tell, not hers. “We’re all by-blows, you see.”
His eyes nearly shut, he didn’t react. Perhaps her voice was lulling him into slumber or he was lost to the fever, beyond comprehending what she was saying. That thought emboldened her a bit. She wasn’t much for talking, but if the noise would keep him beyond death’s reach and it wasn’t really making much sense, then what did it matter what she said? “The mermaid lives in the sea. The unicorn can’t go there, now can he? The mermaid can come to land, but not for very long. So they can have a friendship, but nothing more than that. Silly name for a tavern where mostly blokes visit. I should have named it the Black Boar or something that would make men feel strong when drinking there. But I wanted something a bit softer. There wasn’t a lot of softness in my life when I was growing up. Not a lot now, either, really, but now it’s by choice. I work hard because I want to work hard. And now I’m rambling like a bloody idiot.”
His lips twitched, which caused a strange tightness in her chest. He was listening. Made her wish she’d kept her tongue still, although if she were honest with herself, she also liked that, in spite of his pain, discomfort, and fever, he was paying attention to her words. She wished only that she had more interesting stories to share with him.
After a few moments of silence, he mumbled, “More.”
More. He might be near death’s door, but she thought it unlikely he’d step over the threshold. There was a command in his tone. He was obviously accustomed to giving orders, probably didn’t take kindly to her bossing him about, wouldn’t heed Death’s orders either. But then few people had a choice in the matter. If her voice would keep him from answering the knock, so be it.
“I said my life was hard, but it wasn’t awful. When I was very little, I’d help my mum make matchboxes. My tiny fingers were suited to the task. We should have known then I’d be tall, because they were so long. But the chore required tedious hours of sitting, and I grew bored rather quickly. I wanted to follow my brothers on their adventures. They were always off doing one thing or another, finding the odd job here and there, but I reasoned whatever they were doing had to be more fun than my labors. When I was eight, I began working as a step-girl.” Although based on the clothing she wore at the time—trousers, shirt, jacket, and cap—they’d all thought they were hiring a boy.
He gave no reaction except for the fluttering of his eyelashes, as though the lids were too heavy to lift. She replaced the linen on his forehead, placed another damp one at his throat, then went about outlining each of his ribs with a cool cloth. “You strike me as the sort who doesn’t pay any attention to how his house is kept tidy. It takes more than sweeping to keep the outside steps clean. Takes scrubbing to get it done. I’d start at one end of the street, yelling, ‘Steps cleaned! Three-pence! Three-pence to clean your steps.’” She released a caustic laugh. “Three-pence per house, not per step. But I liked the independence of it. I could go off for a wee sleep when I got tired. Sometimes if the cook was kind, I’d get a jolly good meal or maybe a bit of pastry or a biscuit. I seldom went home hungry, which left my mum with more to feed the boys. Caw, you’d think they were starving every time they sat at the table.” She dipped the cloth into the bowl, lifted it out, began to wring it and, for the first time in ages, truly noticed her hands. Marred with tiny scars, callused. “I’ll never be mistaken for being a lady,” she muttered.
Her patient was breathing a little more heavily. “Do you want some laudanum, pet?”
“Words.” It came out soft, strained as though he’d pushed it out from the depths of his soul.
