He eyed the top of her head and forced himself to breathe through his mouth. Her hair smelled of soap. No different to the scent he smelled every time he took a bath. But that clean, fresh scent made him feel lightheaded from some inane reason. As did the feel of her body against his.
Touch her.
He was touching her, damn it. He had her shoulder grasped firmly in one hand. And, look, now he was wrapping another arm about her. That was quite enough touching.
Touch her more.
Hell’s teeth. He swallowed hard. How easy it would be to sweep a hand along her chin, raise her face to his, and drop a gentle kiss on that tiny, cupid bow mouth.
How easy and stupid it would be. He’d never kissed a woman in his care, and he would not start now. What a cad he had to be to consider kissing a crying, vulnerable woman. He glanced at his father’s portrait as it peered down disapprovingly at him. The last thing he wanted to do was prove his father right. He would not kiss her—not now, not ever.
“Dessert is here,” trilled Mary. “We have trifle, baked apples, and Banbury cakes. I will admit, I got a little carried away.” He heard her footsteps still. “Oh.”
Nash twisted to view her. “It is fine,” he murmured. “She is just having a little cry.”
Grace straightened and swiped hands across her face. “I am fine now, thank you.” She smiled at Mary. “Dessert looks delicious.”
He frowned as she broke contact. She did indeed look fine. “Are you certain you are well?” he pressed.
“Oh yes,” she said, taking a generous helping of trifle. “A cry is good for your health. My father always said as much.” She delved into the dessert with relish. “Thank you,” she said through a mouthful. “You were right. I needed that.”
Nonplussed, Nash watched her finish a pile of trifle then move on to the next dessert. He had to wonder where on earth she put it all. Someone her size, he’d have expected to eat like a sparrow but instead she ate like a hawk. This was no ordinary woman.
Chapter Seven
Wind and rain beat at the windowpane. Nash grunted and rolled over in his bed. Another blast of wind struck the building and he sat up. The weather wasn’t likely to improve anytime soon, so it was doubtful he’d be getting to sleep anytime soon either.
He rubbed a hand over his face, fumbled for the tinder box, and lit a candle. He stepped onto the cold wood floor and shuddered then snatched up his robe from the nearby chair, shoving his fists blindly into the arms and cinching it tight. If he couldn’t sleep, he doubted Grace could either.
He should check on her.
But she would have come to him had she needed him, surely?
No, perhaps not. It was hard to tell with her. She was the sort of woman who never asked for anything. Never seemed to need anything. He frowned to himself. It made her difficult but not in that usual haughty sort of way. At least with most women, one could fling something nice their way and they would be beaming at him and thanking him ever so much. With Grace, he had yet to figure out quite what she wanted in life and, for some damned reason, he really, really wanted to give her a reason to smile.
However, if she desperately needed something, she would come to him. Right?
God knows, she was about the most honest, blunt woman he’d ever met. If the gale outside scared her, she would not hesitate to come to him.
Maybe.
Blowing out a breath, he pressed his face to the window. A cloak of darkness surrounded the house, offering him nothing but a few splatters of rain on the window and not even the outline of a tree or two. No way to tell when the storm might pass.
He grabbed the candle and eased open the door, peering up and down the darkened corridor. Wind whistled through a crack somewhere in the building but there was no hesitant woman outside his door, seeking comfort.
Of course there wasn’t. She was just fine.
He should still make certain, though. After all, her welfare was his responsibility.
Nash closed his bedroom door behind him, ensuring to do so gently. Perhaps she was one of those unusual people who could sleep through gales like this. If she was, he envied her indeed.
Pausing outside her bedroom, he listened for a moment. The faint sound of the wind howling made him freeze. Good lord, it sounded awful coming from her room. One of the windows might be slightly ajar or perhaps broken. He’d have to move her as there was no chance he could get it fixed anytime soon.
He scowled. That really was quite the racket. Surely she wasn’t sleeping through that? A pang of guilt thread through him. From what he could tell, she’d lived a basic sort of a life with her uncle. What a shame he had no funds to ensure she at least enjoyed living in luxury here. Unfortunately, as long as he was cut off from his father, he had nothing to spare to maintain the house any better than it already was.
As had been promised, he thought bitterly.
He rapped a knuckle on the door and waited a few moments.
Definitely asleep then.
He should just leave her.
He twisted around then turned back. Hand to the doorknob, he rotated it slowly and slipped inside.
The warm glow of the room made him blink. Coals still glowed in the fireplace and several candles and an oil lamp were lit about the room. His gaze fell on the bed, but it was empty, the blankets tossed aside. He slowly shut the door behind him and placed the candle on the armoire.
Where was she? Clearly, she had been here only moments ago, and it was careless of her indeed to leave everything lit unless she was only gone for a moment.
He scanned the room again as though he might have missed the petite woman curled up in a corner somewhere. On the small table near the fireplace, sheets of paper were stacked carefully, and he stepped over to them, spreading them with his fingers.
His gaze fell to his name.
Was she writing about him?
A howl of wind echoed through the room. He whirled at the sound and frowned. That was no howling wind, that was...
No, it couldn’t be.
He listened again. It damn well was. It was Grace. She was in the adjoining dressing room.
And she was singing.
Well, if it could be called singing. There was certainly some resemblance of a tune but not one he recognized and the sounds she was making were more sort of squawks. They reminded him a little of when he’d visited Lord Kirkland when he was a child and had spent far too long teasing his talking parrot.
Who would have thought such a delicate woman could make such a racket?
The singing continued then stopped. Footsteps padded across the floor and Nash’s heart came to a halt. She was coming back into the room.
And she would find him here. In his robe. Nosing through her belongings.
He wasn’t sure it was the cleverest move, but it was the only option open to him. He darted down by the side of her bed.
So there he was, cowering in her room, ducked by her bed like some awful intruder while she moved about the bedroom, humming to herself. He grimaced. What a foolish thing to do. He should have remained where he was and explained he had simply been checking on her.
But, no, he had to follow his stupid instincts and lurk like some sort of...lurking thing, and if she discovered him, he’d give her the fright of her life.
Perhaps he could slip out once she had gone back to bed. Maybe she wouldn’t notice there was someone skulking about her bedroom.
Her humming increased in pitch and he winced. The woman couldn’t even hold a tune in a hum.
He peered over the blankets and his heart hammered to a stop.
God Lord, now he was not just some sort of skulking creature, he was also a pervert.
The candlelight silhouetted her against the thin sheath of her slip. Silhouetted every little bit of her body. He could make out her tiny, tiny waist and his fingers itched to span it. There was a slight rise of breasts too.
Pervert. Definitely a pervert. He should look away or cough loudly—quickly befo
re he saw anything else.
She turned and he groaned inwardly. Now he saw the curve of her rear.
Stupid Nash. He should have just stayed in bed and trusted she would come to him if she needed anything. Cleary, she was utterly content, singing to herself in that tiny, thin sheath of fabric, all nearly naked and far too—
It was no good.
He rose sharply. “Grace—”
She screamed, whirled, and flung herself across the bed at him.
AS HER FIST landed square in the intruder’s gut, she flopped onto the bed. Grace scrabbled backward off the bed, fists raised.
“Oh no.”
It only took her a moment to figure out the intruder was not some stranger or, indeed, an intruder at all.
“Nash!”
Shoving her hair from her face, she dashed around the bed to put a hand to his shoulder. Doubled over, he wheezed in a few breaths and Grace grimaced.
“I thought you were an intruder,” she explained.
“I know,” he muttered, an arm banded about his waist. He finally straightened and her gaze fell to his open robe. And underneath that, his open shirt. Held together by a mere thread, looped loosely into a bow, she saw all the way down to his naval. Her cheeks heated.
“I’m so sorry.” She touched his shoulder again and snapped her hand back swiftly when her traitorous gaze fell onto his chest once more. She’d seen men’s chests before. In drawings or on statues, of course, but still it should have been enough to prevent her from reacting this way to a mere bit of flesh. After all, that’s all it was. Skin over sinew and muscle.
Lots of muscle. So much muscle. She cocked her head. How was it he was so strong? How did he get those bumps on his abdomen? She glanced up to find him looking at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Are you hurt?” she asked hastily.
He shook his head and leaned a casual arm on the poster of the bed. “Not at all.”
She eyed him. “It seemed like I hurt you very much.” She glanced at her fist. “I didn’t know I could punch.”
“You took me by surprise that’s all.”
“I’m sorry I hurt you. But you took me by surprise too.”
“You did not hurt me,” he insisted.
“I must have more strength than I realized.” She bunched her hand into a fist and tried to recall how she had thrown that punch in the first place. “How fascinating.”
“You did not hurt me,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Maybe I shall see if I can punch something else.”
“No!” He held up his hands.
“Oh no, I won’t hurt you again, I promise.”
“You did not hurt me,” he repeated.
“Maybe I should punch some pillows.” She dropped her hand and eyed him. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“I came to check if you were well, what with the gale and all that.” He indicated outside.
“Oh.” For the first time since she’d struck him, she recalled she was still in her chemise. Practically naked really. She reached for the blanket on the bed and Nash’s gaze shot up to the ceiling. Oh Lord, she had probably given him a finer view down her shift than she’d had of his chest.
That she still had.
Snatching up the blanket, she held it against her front. No doubt a man like Nash had seen many a woman naked and most of them likely had a lot more to offer than she did. Nannette Arbuckle had always reminded her how much she looked like a boy. She supposed Nash was probably shocked to see such an unfeminine body.
“The wind...” he muttered, finally returning his gaze to hers. “It’s quite aggressive tonight.”
She lifted a shoulder. “It doesn’t bother me. We are in quite a solid building, but I shall admit the noise on the windows was keeping me awake.”
“I...uh...heard you singing.”
“Oh dear.”
“I thought it was the wind at first then I realized...”
“Did I wake you?” She clapped a hand to the side of her face whilst keeping the blanket firmly in the other. “I am sorry. First, I wake you, then I hurt you.”
“You did not hurt me.”
“I am quite well I promise, and I shan’t sing anymore. You can go back to bed.”
“So long as you are quite well.”
“Yes, yes, I am quite well.” She paused and scowled. “Though, why were you hiding behind my bed?”
Nash stilled. “I was just, uh, well that is...” He lifted a shoulder. “I thought I saw something.”
“Something?”
“Yes, but it was nothing.”
“I see.”
His gaze darted briefly over her then he started to shuffle sideways away from her bed. He came around the end of it, paused in front of her, and reached out. Her heart stilled. She could hear her breaths in her ears. His hand moved at the most infinitesimal pace. He plucked the shoulder of her shift and hauled it higher, covering a bare shoulder she had not even realized was exposed.
Grace tried to swallow the knot gathering in her throat and failed. Why did the room feel so unbearably warm? Why was he standing in front of her? Why could she not resist staring at his chest?
“Well, goodnight,” he said formally, his hand still upon her shoulder.
“Yes, goodnight.”
“My bedroom is...that is...” He coughed. “I am only down there if you need me.”
“I know.”
“Yes, of course you do.”
His hand had to have left singe marks by now, surely? She glanced at her shoulder, expecting to see steam rising from where his fingers were splayed.
He jolted and snatched his hand back. “Goodnight then.”
“Goodnight.”
Nash backed away and stumbled over where Claude was curled up on a blanket. The cat opened an eye, gave a yawn, then closed it again, unperturbed by the disturbance.
“Sorry,” he muttered then hurried out of the door, slamming it shut behind him with such a bang that Claude jerked fully awake.
After a few moments of staring at the closed door, she sank onto the bed. Even if it were not windy outside, she doubted she’d sleep now. How strange that moment had been. Why had Nash been so odd? Why had he touched her for so long?
She spread her fingers over where his hand had lingered, still able to feel his touch. She knew human touch was important—that children who were embraced more often tended to be more well-rounded humans. But she’d never heard of a simple touch making one feel like one was on fire. All over too. Every part of her was aflame, tingling with some strange sensation that pooled low in her stomach. It compounded, too, when she considered what she had seen of him tonight.
Claude jumped onto the bed and butted his head against her hand. She sighed and stroked her hand down Claude’s patchy fur. “Men are strange creatures,” she said to the cat.
And intriguing. Or at least Nash was. Intriguing indeed.
Chapter Eight
“Grace said she hurt you yesterday.”
Nash made a dismissive noise and ducked his head behind the week-old newspaper, away from Mary’s inquisitive gaze. Although they could not obey the usual formalities in their unusual circumstances, Nash hardly needed Mary knowing he was in her bedroom last night.
Though it sounded like Grace had already told her. He sighed, folded the paper, and set it on the dining table. “When are we going to get a new newspaper? I’ve read this one five times already, and if I have to read about Lady P’s feathers one more time, I might very well shoot myself for mere entertainment value.”
Mary shook her head and took the newspaper off him, tucking it under one arm while she tidied away the plates from breakfast. “You are not normally so uptight. She really must have hurt you.”
“She did not hurt me, no matter what she says.”
“She felt quite awful about punching you.”
“Have you seen her, Mary? There are five-year-old girls with more strength than her.” He jabbed a finger at the table. “S
he did. not. hurt. me,” he insisted.
She lifted a shoulder and paused by the window. “At least the weather has cleared now. Grace is outside with the cat.”
“Damned ugly creature,” Nash muttered.
“You really are quite grumpy today. Are you certain she did not hurt you?” Mary turned away from the window and leaned against the sill, plates in hand. “What were you doing in her room anyway? You know the earl will have your head if there is anything untoward happening.”
He cocked his head. “You must think me a fool.”
“No, not at all.” Her lips curved. “Well, you do have a history of making foolish mistakes, everyone knows that, but I’ve never known you to touch one of the women.”
“And I still will not. I was simply doing my duty and ensuring she was well. In case you had not noticed, we had quite a storm here last night.”
Mary nodded. “I did notice. One of the trees is down along the lane. My brothers are going to chop it up later and I’ll send Tommy along with some of the wood tomorrow.”
“And a new newspaper, please.”
“Yes, yes.” She straightened and peered out of the window. “She’s quite pretty you know.”
Nash regretted giving away the newspaper now. He should have kept it and continued to pretend to read it. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with Mary’s pervasive stare. “Who is?”
“Grace, of course.”
He shrugged. “I don’t think she is. Too small.”
Mary shook her head vigorously. “She has a pretty face. I’d wager there would be many a man intrigued by her, especially given how small she is. Makes them want to be all primitive and protect her.”
“I am protecting her because I’m being paid to do it. And quite handsomely too. Not because she is small or vaguely pretty.”
And he didn’t want to think of other men wishing to protect her.
“I thought you said she wasn’t pretty.”
He paused. “Well, you said she was. I was only copying your words.”
Her smile widened. “You’re allowed to find her pretty, Nash. Lord knows, you don’t normally watch your tongue when it comes to the attractiveness of our guests.”
Capturing the Bride (The Kidnap Club Book 1) Page 5