Page 7 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
Not that he cared about any of that. He cared only about her and the gentleness with which she touched him, as though he were something to be treasured, protected, appreciated. Not a man from whom women ran.
Her ministrations with his lower body completed, she brought the sheet up over his waist, dropped her head back, rolled it from side to side and released a low groan that would have had him growing hard under different circumstances. He wanted to reach out, rub her back, ease her aches as she’d eased his. “Thank you,” he croaked.
She came up off the mattress fast enough to jar the bed, and the pain that had taken up residence in his body protested by increasing, causing him to moan low.
“I’m sorry.” She reached for him, then withdrew her hand, stepped farther back as though not quite certain what to do with him—or herself, for that matter. “You startled me yet again.”
“It seems to be my way.”
“I didn’t realize you were awake.”
The dimness from the nearby lamp allowed him to see her more clearly, but the faint lighting prevented him from gaining a complete picture of her. She was tall, possibly the tallest woman he’d ever seen, a couple of inches shorter than he was. Slender, but not in a sickly way. There was meat on her, strength in her.
“Are you thirsty?” she asked.
It was an effort, but he nodded.
“I’ll get you some water.” She wiped her hands on her skirt, before leaving the room, and he wished he’d kept his need to himself, but his throat was so dry he could barely swallow. The urge to drift back off to sleep was strong, but he fought it because he didn’t want her going to such trouble for nothing, so he focused on his surroundings. Or what he could see of them. A rocker by the fire and a thickly padded chair nearby. Mermaid and unicorn figurines on the mantel. He thought it was the mermaid she’d thrown earlier, when he’d first startled her. Was he doomed to always startle her? She didn’t strike him as a nervous sort; she’d braved the ruffians to save him. Yet he seemed to cause her to be wary. But then what did she really know of him or him of her?
She was courageous, no doubt. She possessed inner and outer strength that had forced him to reach deep into his own well of determination in order to get himself up the stairs, which might have possibly saved his life. She was kind, gentle, not quite comfortable with his presence. Was she married? Were there children? How did she manage?
Speculating about her sapped what little energy remained to him so he returned to his perusal. A dresser. A wardrobe. Not much else. Nothing particularly fancy or decorative. She had simple tastes, this woman who had been out and about when decent folk were abed. Was she a harlot? If so, she didn’t dress provocatively enough to sell her wares profitably. In addition, her enunciation was too refined for the streets, not quite cultured, but she’d definitely received some sort of education. She could have had a position in a noble house, or perhaps one of her parents had. In rebellion, she’d run off and now she was here. What did it matter? Yet, somehow it did. He didn’t like the notion of men pawing at her when she had risked herself to save him. What if the footpads hadn’t dashed off? What if they’d decided to take advantage of her? And yet they’d run off becauseshewas the one calling out. Who the devil was she?
Hearing footsteps, he turned his attention to the door. She moved too quickly to be seen as clearly as he’d have liked, but he did note her clothing gave the appearance she had no curves to speak of—although he knew that to be a falsehood—but her shirt, hugging her nowhere, billowed out when she walked, like a sail striving to catch the wind. She didn’t want her feminine attributes to be noticed. He wondered at the reason.
She set a tray on the bedside table, grabbed the glass, sat on the edge of the mattress, slid a hand—cool and comforting—beneath his head, and lifted it gently. “Easy now.”
He didn’t know if anything had ever tasted as good as the water trickling into his mouth, along his throat, quenching his thirst with a sweetness that was almost painful.
“Just a bit,” she cautioned, taking the glass away and setting it back on the tray. “We don’t want you to make yourself ill.”
As though he could feel any worse than he did at that moment. She began fiddling with something on the tray. A bowl, with steam rising from it. She dipped in a spoon, stirred, seemed to concentrate on her actions as though her very existence depended on doing it correctly.
“You didn’t think I was a woman,” she said quietly.
It took him a moment to realize she was referring to the statement he’d uttered upon his first awakening, when she’d thrown the figurine at him. The blow to his head must have rattled his senses. He did hope it wasn’t permanent, because he suspected carrying on a lucid conversation with this woman would be an unforgettable pleasure. “I couldn’t see you clearly. The bastards took my spectacles.”
“Bastards,” she repeated softly, giving her attention back to stirring the bowl. “That word is tossed about so carelessly.”
“Apologies. I meant no offense. I’m not quite myself.”
He could see the corners of her mouth curling up slightly, and suddenly the loss of his watch paled in comparison with the theft of his spectacles. He’d have liked to bring her into sharper focus, to make out the concise edges of her nose, her chin, her jaw. He wanted to make note of any freckles or blemishes, flaws and perfections.
“You have had a bit of a rough night.”
“I owe you my thanks.”
“You’re not out of the woods yet. Dr. Graves says you can’t travel for a while, because of all your wounds. They’d reopen and you’d die.” She didn’t sound at all happy with him. “I’ve kept some broth simmering in case you should awaken again.” He wasn’t heartened by her tone, which implied she’d had doubts regarding the likelihood of his avoiding an eternal sleep. “Shall we see if we can get a spoonful or two into you? You’ve got to keep up your strength.”
Whatever strength he might have had seemed to have abandoned him completely. Still, she was correct. He needed to recover quickly, and nutrition was the path to rapid healing. But when he tried to lever himself, his body didn’t want to cooperate.
“Don’t move,” she commanded, once again giving the impression she was accustomed to being obeyed. Most of the younger women with whom he associated wouldn’t dream of telling a man what to do, ordering him about, expecting him to fall into line with her wishes. Yet, considering how rotten he felt, it was nice to have someone else in charge.
Standing, she came nearer, sliding an arm beneath his shoulders, lifting him slightly, adjusting the pillows behind him so he was partially sitting. She was a strong one, but then he’d known that, recalling how she’d borne his weight when he’d been so weak, sapped of strength, encircled in a vortex of agony. He was rather embarrassed that even now he still required her assistance, that she should see him in such an enfeebled state. But with her nearness, she brought a conglomeration of smells: oak and yeast, dark and rich, yet underneath it all was a fainter, more feminine fragrance, the scent of a woman. He would blame his injuries for his earlier idiocy in ever doubting her gender.
With him sinking back into the pillows, she settled on the edge of the bed and raised the bowl, again stirred the contents, then lifted out the spoon and carried it to her mouth, her upper lip touching the edge of the liquid, then her tongue darting out to touch her lip as well. In spite of the pain radiating throughout his body and extremities, the lethargy that wanted to drag him back into oblivion, he was mesmerized by her actions, felt his mannerless cock twitch in response to her sensual—but he was rather certain innocent—gesture. She wasn’t trying to lure him into her arms; she was striving to get him out of her bed.
He nearly laughed aloud. That was a first. Women were never in a rush for him to leave their beds. Lady Lavinia would have discovered that fact tonight had she not left him standing at the altar that morning.
