Page 6 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
She very much doubted that. “How much do I owe you?”
“I’ll settle up with him once he’s recovered.” He grabbed his things, stared at her. “Don’t forget to send word if I’m needed.”
Giving a brisk nod, she saw him to the door, closed it, and leaned against the oak, more exhausted than she’d ever been in her life. She glanced around, the usual peacefulness of her place missing. It was almost as though it had been violated. Brutality and violence—or at least the results of it—had been allowed in. She had a strong urge to scrub it all down with boiling water.
Instead, she settled for scrubbing down the table, as well as the pots and bowls that had been used. She gathered up the stranger’s tattered clothes. They could be mended. For all she knew, they were the only possessions left to him. He might have fancy garments, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t fallen on hard times. Otherwise, why was he here? She’d wash them later.
Only then did she notice her own clothes were stained with blood, his blood. She had to get out of them as quickly as she could, before he awoke, before she needed to tend to him again.
He became aware of the intense agony first, throbbing through various parts of his body. He tried to recall what had happened. The footpads, the struggle, the theft of his belongings, the man with the angelic voice who had saved him.
With a Herculean effort, he opened his eyes. The room was dark save for a single lamp on the table near the bed and the low fire burning in the hearth, the glow of which outlined someone standing near the fireplace, dragging a shirt over his head, the short strands of his hair falling quickly back into place as the shirt was tossed aside. He watched in rapt fascination as the person began to unravel linen from about his chest until firelight danced over a magnificent pair of breasts. “Youarea woman.”
A shriek rent the air. Her movements were so quick he couldn’t decipher them with his addled brain, but when the excruciatingly sharp pain tore through his left shoulder, he realized she’d hurled something at him. His anguished groan filled in the space left by her screech coming to an end. Instinctually, he grabbed his shoulder, rolled over, and made matters ten times worse as pain ripped through other parts of his body, mercilessly reminding him that the villains had used knives on him earlier—blast their deranged hearts. He was bloody well going to die because of an innocent comment. How many times could a man face death in a single night and come out the winner?
He issued another low groan as the bed shifted. Suddenly cool hands were guiding him onto his back. As much as he wanted to fight them off, they felt so marvelous, soft, and tender that he surrendered to their urgings.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but you startled me.”
He no longer cared about the agony. Suddenly the prospect of dying didn’t seem so dire, not when a man was leaving this world with a lovely bosom swaying in his face, near enough to kiss. He might have made the effort to do just that if he didn’t fear she’d smack him hard enough to send him flying off the bed.
“Damnation, you’re bleeding again.”
She pressed the heel of her hand in to the curve of his shoulder. He very nearly howled at the jolt of pain, except his pride kept him silent, gnashing his back teeth together, tightening his jaw, determined not to embarrass himself any further than he already had. Stars clouded his vision, darkness began to creep in at the edges, but he fought to stay focused on her because he didn’t want to slip back into oblivion, didn’t want to again become lost. He didn’t want to leave this woman who had saved him, who was his tether to life, who even now shoved her own modesty aside to stanch the flow of his blood.
Sometime later she stated matter-of-factly, “Bleeding’s appeared to have stopped.” Most women he knew swooned at the mere mention of blood, much less the sight of it.
Straightening, she eased off the bed. He caught sight of something cradled in her hand, couldn’t determine what it was. Turning her back on him, she said, “I’ll get some linens, change that bandage.”
She set the object on the mantel from where she’d originally swiped it, marched over to the wardrobe, grabbed some clothes, and headed for the door. Stopping just shy of it, she held the bundle to her chest, leaving her throat and upper shoulders bared, and he imagined the pleasure a man could take from trailing his mouth slowly over them. He had to be fevered to be in such discomfort and have his mind drifting to places it shouldn’t.
“Don’t leave the bed,” she ordered like a general addressing an army, as though she was accustomed to giving commands and having them obeyed without question. Then she was gone, the door closing in her wake, leaving him alone to count the minutes until her return.
Chapter 3
She was trembling with such force that it was a challenge to dress herself. Her nipples were hard little pebbles, aching and painful. Never before had a man’s fevered breath wafted over her skin. The sensation created had been at once alarming and welcome, welcome in ways she’d never anticipated or considered. And certainly never desired.
Using one arm, she’d braced herself above him when she’d dearly wanted to sink down until her lower ribs met his, to feel the pleasure of warm smooth skin against heated flesh.
With her bloodied clothes in a heap on the floor and a clean shirt and skirt finally properly secured on her person, she trudged over to the kitchen, poured cold water into a bowl, and repeatedly splashed it on her face in an attempt to cool her cheeks. She didn’t have to look in a mirror to know they were burning bright red, were fairly scalding. She was surprised they didn’t steam.
Shaking off the lingering water droplets from her hands, she grabbed a towel and patted her face dry, feeling more in control, ready to see to the stranger, although he hardly seemed one any longer, not after the unintended intimate position she’d found herself in with him.
She needed to get some broth into him. Then finish cleaning him, in spite of the intimacy of the act. Never in her life had she blushed in front of a man. She certainly wasn’t going to start now.
But when she returned to the room, his eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and even. She wasn’t particularly happy with the relief or the disappointment that swept through her. Curiosity about him had her wanting to pepper him with questions. Embarrassment that she had marveled at his breath blowing over her flesh had her wanting to avoid him.
He could eat later. For now, she needed to remove the last of the dirt and blood from him. Scrubbing her home or tavern had always been her least favorite chore. Odd then that now she was quite looking forward to the task awaiting her.
Consciousness slowly came to him. He hurt. He hurt all over, but the pain came in varying degrees. His left shoulder, his right thigh, his right buttock provided the brunt of the agony. He wasn’t certain he’d ever move them again.
Before he could groan, growl, or cry out in protest, he became aware of the nearby presence, the gentle touch of a warm, damp cloth, so he concentrated on that, shoving aside the aches, relegating them to the farthest corners of his mind, where he shoved all unpleasantness rather than dealing with it. The linen moved slowly over his chest, and he imagined the holder of said linen counting each rib as the cloth journeyed down, until there were no more, only the flat of his stomach, his hip.
Struggling to open his eyes, he managed to create only very narrow slits through which to peer. His rescuer sat on the edge of the bed, a little farther away, still blurry, but not as much, and he wondered why he’d ever doubted her gender. Her hair and clothing were confusing, but her face, limned by lamplight, was a delicate, refined silhouette. A small button of a nose, a rounded chin, a long slender neck. However, it was her eyes that drew him. He couldn’t determine the color, the lighting was too poor for that, but her compassion, her concern, was evident in the way she studied what the cloth had brushed over. She was gentle with the bruises, not so much with the dirt.
It was a bit of a shock to realize he wore no clothing; only a mere sheet draped loosely over his hips provided a modicum of privacy. When he’d awakened before, he’d noticed very little beyond her. She’d captured all his attention, keeping him spellbound. He’d wanted to stay awake until her return, but obviously he’d not managed that feat, which might have left him disappointed if he weren’t certain she’d have not taken such liberties with him had he been awake.
Now she seemed to take great care in working around the flimsy covering, moving it aside as needed to reach his thigh, his calf, his foot, but ensuring his cock was always hidden away—as though it might take a chill if exposed to the air. But that seemed hardly likely considering the warmth in the room, no doubt a result of a fire dancing on the hearth if the undulating shadows were any indication of what was happening beyond his vision.
