The silence was ominous and Daphne looked from one pair of identical brown eyes to the other. “Come, I know you must have questions.”
Richard shoved back his chair hard enough to knock it over, his eyes blazing. “Is he going to die—just like Papa?”
Daphne took his hand and pulled him toward her. “Of course not, sweetheart!” She squeezed his small, rough fingers. “He has a broken collarbone and a few bruised ribs. It is nothing at all like Papa’s injuries.” She could not tell them about the possible danger to his head.
Richard’s expression turned mulish. “Papa fell from his horse and you put him in the Rose Room and he died.”
Her son’s logic was infallible.
Daphne drew both boys close, one in each arm. She spoke into Richard’s curly blond hair. “Yes, that is true, Richard, but your papa’s injury was much more severe and he was not as young and healthy as your cousin Hugh. He is only in the Rose Room because it is the nicest room on the main floor.” She kissed the top of his head. “It is only a room, Richard.”
“May we see him?” Richard said, squirming away to look at her.
“He is resting now and will sleep through tonight. It is possible you might visit him tomorrow or perhaps the next day.” Richard continued to look skeptical, his expression so like hers, it caught her by surprise.
“Why would Hugh fall, Mama?” Lucien sounded amazed his idol could have such an accident.
“It happens to even the best riders. I have taken falls and so will you. Come,” she said, taking advantage of the moment of calm introspection to herd them toward the washbasins and the hated before-dinner ritual.
When she left them an hour later, they were still subdued, but at least they were chattering to each other.
Rowena was waiting in a chair in the hallway. “How is he?” she asked, putting aside her needlework.
“He is sleeping.”
“Will this delay the trip to London, my lady?”
Daphne frowned. “How could you even ask such a thing, Rowena? Of course we will not leave him here while we jaunt off to London.” Honestly, sometimes Daphne wondered if the woman wasn’t unhinged.
“Yes, of course.” Rowena looked down at her hands, which she was lacing and unlacing. “For how long, my lady?”
Daphne glared at her bowed head, sorely tempted to give in to her fear, anxiety, and anger and deliver a thorough dressing down. But she held back; Rowena was old and set in her ways and she had taken Hugh in dislike—a thing she’d done often enough in the past. What good would scolding her do?
“I refuse to justify that question with an answer,” she finally said. “Doctor Nichols wants to keep him resting for at least two days. I shall watch him tonight. You may sit with him tomorrow, if you care to be helpful.” She turned to leave, but Rowena’s voice stopped her.
“I should sit with him tonight, my lady. It would be more proper,” she said, managing to sound nervous and adamant at the same time.
Daphne spun around. “Proper? To care for him when he is sick?” She strode back toward her. “Rowena, are you not sensible of what we owe this man?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You can relieve Kemal tomorrow afternoon and that is an end to it.”
She marched away without waiting for an answer, deliberately putting Rowena and her phobia of Hugh out of her mind. To own the truth, Daphne was more than a little worried about her own state of mind since Hugh Redvers’s arrival. And now there was this—somebody trying to hurt or kill him?
She wanted to barricade herself in the library and never come out again.
* * *
Daphne woke just before midnight. She’d slept, but only lightly, anxious about spending the night in Hugh’s bedroom even though he would be sound asleep. She considered her sleeping cap for a long moment and then removed it. After tidying her hair she put on her periwinkle-blue dressing gown, the most flattering garment in her entire wardrobe. This would be the first time she wore clothing around him that was not gray or black and he would be asleep. Daphne was ashamed to admit to such vanity, but there it was. She tied the eight ribbons that closed the gown and picked up the book she’d been reading to the boys at bedtime.
Kemal was waiting for her and stepped into the hall to give her a brief report.
“He slept without waking but had a fitful period after which I tightened his bandages.” He gave her a speculative look. “You may leave such tasks until the morning, if you wish, my lady.”
Daphne was amused by his concern for her tender female sensibilities. “Get some rest, Kemal. I will take good care of your captain.”
Kemal bowed deeply and padded away down the hall.
Hugh had a bit more color than earlier and a slight sheen of perspiration glistened on his forehead. He did not stir when Daphne seated herself beside the bed and adjusted the brace of candles to keep it from shining on his face.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been reading when he began moving restlessly and mumbling. She leaned closer to listen, but the words were too garbled. She was just about to return to her reading when he flung himself onto his side and then cried out as he rolled onto his injured ribs.
Daphne tried to roll him onto his back, but it was like trying to move a fallen oak tree. She exerted more pressure on his shoulder and his other hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, yanking her toward him.
His eyes were wide open, both of them. “I’ll see you dead before I let you lay a hand on me again,” he hissed, his grip as brutal as a snare.
“Hugh, it is Daphne,” she whispered as he tightened his grasp.
He stared up at her with mismatched eyes, one a blazing emerald green, one a cool, mossy gray, as if it had been leeched of color.
“Please, you must lie back, Hugh.” She grabbed his arm with her free hand and used her body to press him back, careful to avoid his ribs and collarbone.
“You lying bastard! You killed them—all of them!” The words were filled with a soul-wrenching agony and he thrashed wildly, pulling her onto his ribs. He yelped and released her, falling back onto the bed and shielding his chest with both arms, his eyes squeezed shut.
Just as suddenly as he’d erupted, he became still, his breaths coming in shallow, ragged bursts. Sweat ran down his temples in rivers.
Daphne wet a cloth in the basin of cool water and sponged his brow; he radiated heat like a banked fire. With her free hand, she stroked the fine silver-gold strands at his temples, a motion that seemed to soothe him. After a few minutes his breathing slowed, and he wasn’t perspiring so heavily. She continued to smooth his damp hair, feathering the fine lines around his eyes and tracing the deep groove that ran from the side of his nose to his mouth. His face was a study in contrasts, his angular chiseled jaw softened by full lips and long blond lashes that fanned his sun-bronzed skin. His nose was as straight as a knife’s edge, the white notch in the bridge the only flaw.
The urge to press her lips against his—to taste him again, to dip into the heat and the softness of his mouth—made her thighs tighten in a way that sent powerful spirals of pleasure straight to her sex. She forced herself to look away from his tempting mouth. Not that the sight of his scarred, muscular shoulders lessened her desire to touch him.
His arms were crossed protectively over his chest, his biceps bulging and his right hand bunched into a fist. She gently loosened the fingers, massaging his taut, striated forearm until the muscles relaxed. Once his hand was open she put her own against it, palm to palm.
Thomas had been a tall man, only a few inches shorter than Hugh, but his hands had been those of an aristocrat: white and elegant and unmarked, hands accustomed to doing nothing more strenuous than holding the reins of a horse and tending orchids.
Hugh’s fingernails were neatly squared and smooth, but the hand against hers was not that of a man of leisure. It was massive, its scars, enlarged knuckles, and the thick muscles of his fingers and wrist silent evidence he’d known punishing work. His forearms were brawny but w
ell-defined, leading to heavily muscled biceps that were as bronzed as his face, making her realize he must go without a shirt on occasion. She swallowed at the thought, the sight of all this masculine power lying within her reach making her giddy and aroused as she recalled the last time his big hands had been on her body.
She laid his arm at his side, her palms sweating, her hands shaking. She needed to get away from him—away from who she became when his body touched hers. After a lifetime of rational thought and behavior, why had she suddenly developed such a capacity for self-destruction and foolishness?
She glanced up and gasped: he was watching her, both eyes open, his face a mask of feverish intensity. Moving faster than she would have thought possible for a man in his condition, his hand shot behind her neck and he pulled her down, his lips crushing hers before she could make a sound.
His arm was like a vise, holding her motionless while his hot mouth sealed over hers. This was not like the last kiss, when he’d gentled her. This time he pushed into her without hesitation, thrusting without invitation and showing no restraint. Daphne opened beneath the onslaught and he held her in an unbreakable embrace.
Instead of feeling caught or bound by his touch, his hold freed her and she surrendered to the silken heat of him, their mouths engaging in a challenging, sensual joust she had relived a thousand times over. This time she did what she’d been too scared to do before. She tilted her head and seized the offensive, stroking deep into his mouth and mimicking his actions, exploring him without reserve, her body shaking with . . . something.
He made a deep sound of pleasure and his hand slid down her neck, grazing the taut column of her throat before drifting over her shoulder and settling between her arm and rib cage, where he stroked up and down the side of her breast, a butterfly touch that followed the contours of her body and became firmer with each pass.
His tongue wrapped around hers and they engaged in an erotic dance as he taught her newer, more exciting moves. His hand caressed her side again, this time boldly curving around her breast, his thumb grazing her nipple through the fine silk of her dressing gown, moving in circles over the taut, sensitive tip, over and over.
She gasped and pulled away and he nudged her chin, tilting her head back to get at the sensitive underside of her jaw, nuzzling and sucking and biting his way down, and then back up to her lips.
Daphne opened her eyes and looked straight into his. Up close the injured eye was fascinating, bisected cleanly, a pale gray ring that surrounded a pupil that appeared to be frozen open, so large it seemed to swallow her whole. She wanted to dive deeply until she found him—the man who lived behind the easy laughter, the smooth, lazy charm, the skilled lovemaking.
He pulled her closer and the arm she’d been using to support her body slipped and she dropped onto his chest.
“Aiyee!” He thrust her away like a burning coal, pressing his body into the bed to get away. Daphne jerked back and pushed up her heavily fogged spectacles.
“I’m so sorry, Hugh!” She shifted her weight and Hugh hissed in a breath.
“Daphne, perhaps you should return to your chair.” He was cradling his chest, his expression apprehensive.
His words scalded her. “Oh. Yes, of course.” She leapt to her feet and dropped clumsily into her chair, commencing to fuss with her rumpled gown, too miserable to even think—a first in her adult life.
“Daphne?”
She twitched her skirt straight and retied one of the ribbons.
“Daphne, look at me, sweetheart.”
She looked up at the warmth in his voice and the endearment.
He smiled, and there was both amusement and pain in the expression. “I apologize for sending you away, but I’m afraid I can’t exercise any restraint if you remain within reach.” He gestured to the bedding that covered him, now tented around his hips.
Daphne’s brain took a moment to absorb what her eyes were seeing.
“Oh!” She looked away, lust, mortification, and curiosity swirling inside her. “It is I who should be apologizing for waking you.” She directed her words toward the bedpost.
“Yes, you should.”
Her head whipped around.
He was grinning. “There, I knew that would get you to look at me rather than the furniture.” He laughed and then winced. “Damnation, that smarts!” He clutched his side and took several shallow breaths. “Wicked woman, stop trying to beat me up or make me laugh. Tell me, what you are doing here at this hour? Dressed as you are.” His one eye did the work of two as it roamed her body, smoldering. The sheet around his waist jumped in her peripheral vision.
Her mouth went dry at the primitive desire on his face and she yanked her eyes away. How could he discompose her with only a look? She stared at the patterned carpet and did what she always did when she needed to focus her attention and gain control of her thoughts: she conjugated Latin.
Amo, amas, amat—
“Daphne?”
amamus, amatis, amant.
“Do I need to ring for Kemal to get an answer?”
She looked up at the threat. “Doctor Nichols wants to keep you under observation for a while.”
“What the devil for?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Where is Kemal? Surely he should be here observing me?”
“He has been observing you, for the greater part of the day and evening. As much as watching you snore is a delight to him, I insisted he get some sleep.”
Hugh raised his eyebrows at her tart tone and then frowned, his left hand going to his temple. A hard, cold look slid across his face and transformed him into someone else—someone terrifying.
“Where is my eye patch?” His voice held a chill menace she’d not heard since that day in the clearing, with Malcolm.
“I do not know—it was not on you when I arrived.”
“Will you find it for me, please?” His mismatched eyes skewered her as if she were a thief he’d interrupted riffling his luggage.
“Of course I will bring it to you,” she said with deliberate calm, rising from her chair and going to his dressing room on shaking legs. Once she was beyond his sight, she leaned against a tall cupboard and caught her breath. What in heaven’s name was that all about? He’d gone from teasing lover to gelid stranger in a heartbeat. Who was this man?
Daphne stared into the small mirror atop the bureau, forcing her pulse to slow and schooling her face into neutral lines before picking up the leather patch and returning to the other room.
“Here.” She tossed the small scrap of leather onto his chest and turned away.
“Thank you, Daphne,” he said a moment later.
She turned and found him smiling up at her, as sunny as ever.
“May I have a glass of water, please?”
Daphne hesitated. Had she imagined the personality change? It had happened so quickly it—
“I apologize for my rudeness.” His expression was honestly repentant, without his characteristic amusement.
She nodded, more than a little shaken. It didn’t startle her that he would apologize; he did not seem like the kind of man who would find it difficult to admit when he was wrong. What startled her was his ability to shift moods in an instant. He appeared so amiable now—but was that amiability just a mask?
She brought him a glass of water.
“Thank you. I’m afraid I’m overly sensitive. I do not care to expose my deformity to the world in general.”
“I am not the world in general.” For once it wasn’t an effort to give him a cool look.
“You are correct, Daphne. As usual,” he added, his expression far too meek for her to believe. “It has been so long since I’ve had a ministering angel that I’ve forgotten—” His gorgeous face distorted with a huge yawn. “I beg your pardon! I’m not sure what has come over me.”
“Doctor Nichols gave you a sedative earlier. He wanted you to rest. You should get some sleep.”
“What if I’m not tired?” She raised her eyebrows and he chuckl
ed. “All right, I’m a little tired.” He looked down at the white strips of cloth around his chest and his smile grew. “I think my bandage needs to be tightened.”
She snorted and picked up her book, determined to ignore him whether he slept or not.
“Daphne?”
She turned a page.
“Daaaaaaphneeeee . . .”
The laugh broke out of her before she could stop it and she looked up. “What?”
“Won’t you read to me? Please?” His brilliant green eye was half-closed and he appeared sleepy, an overgrown boy playing at being a pirate, complete with eye patch. He looked . . . adorable.
Daphne huffed out a disgusted sigh. She would read to him—or sing an aria or declaim a Shakespearean soliloquy—anything to put him to sleep.
As it turned out, he was fast asleep before she’d read five minutes. Once he was breathing deeply, she closed the book and slumped in her chair, exhausted. He looked even more beautiful asleep than he did awake, and considerably less alarming. His hair was tousled and the tanned skin of his face and neck glinted with golden growth.
Daphne was completely, utterly, foolishly infatuated; there was no use trying to deny it. She should have been outraged both times he’d touched her. Instead, she was shattered that he’d stopped. Her hands twitched to stroke his face, neck, and all the parts of him she could imagine but had never seen. She drank in the sensual curve of his full lower lip, remembering how he’d felt and tasted—how his mouth was soft and firm at the same time. And his upper lip, much more chiseled but every bit as skillful and teasing.
Raw, demanding want pulsed through her body and she dropped her head back and closed her eyes. What was she to do? Did this type of thing simply need to run its course—like a fever or infectious disease?
Her mind drifted back to the book she kept hidden in her bedside table. At least now she knew something about what occurred between men and women. She had read the entire book, several parts more than once. The story in Fanny Hill was rubbish, but the graphic descriptions provided information beyond price.
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