by Sharon Page
Her head swam from the blows, she could barely see, but meager fingers of daylight touched the second man as he strode in. Her attacker backed off her to confront this new intruder.
Silvery light illuminated golden hair on this man. Then light shone on his face, and her heart leapt with hope.
“Bloody hell,” Cary spat, and his fist arced through the air and sent her attacker’s head on an arc of its own.
The man reeled and stumbled to the side; he was off her. Her whole body ached. She slithered off the table and struggled against her binding corset to stand. She stumbled toward the fireplace, trying to find a weapon in the gloom.
Cary fell back, having been hit.
Then the bulky shape of her attacker went back.
Each time they staggered at each other, swinging, then grappling.
Cold metal touched her hand. She hefted the poker and went for the huge bastard who’d planned to kill her. But the iron bar was so heavy and she was so hurting and weak, she stumbled as she lifted it.
Cary hit her attacker in the stomach, then the jaw. The man teetered back, but suddenly laughed, grabbed Cary, and pushed him at her as he ran out of her room.
The poker was on a deadly arc.
“Cary!” she shrieked.
“Bloody hell again!” the duke yelled, and he jumped to the side as the poker came crashing down. The weight pulled her forward, and he caught her.
“Are you all right? Wait here. I’m going after the bastard.”
Wait here? She could barely move. She stood, swaying. She still gripped the end of the poker, but its tip was stuck in the wood floor.
Cary was going after a killer.
Brandishing the poker, she went after the duke. She stopped in the doorway. The carriageway was empty except for Cary, who had reached the main street and stopped. He looked up and down the street. Even from where she was, she knew he was cursing. He turned and sprinted back. He passed her and reached the courtyard beyond the carriageway.
Tentatively, she stepped out and went to him. Dawn was lightening the sky, turning the buildings into planes of slate-gray and giving some form to the things around them.
If Cary hadn’t come, she would have been dead.
The buildings around suddenly took flight around her, twisting and writhing like fanciful things. She reached out to fight them off, and suddenly felt as if she’d fallen off the edge of a precipice—
“I wish I could take this away from you. Make this so it never happened.”
Cary spoke so softly to her, his voice ravaged and raw, but Sophie found she couldn’t stop shaking. In his carriage, he had wrapped a fur throw around her, surrounding her in the warmth of black sable. And in the strength of his powerful arms.
But nothing seemed to stop this awful trembling.
“It is all right,” she whispered. You are safe with him, she told herself. With Cary, you will be safe.
If she could be with him forever, she would always feel safe.
“It’s not all right,” he said softly. “An attack . . . it changes you. It makes you never feel quite safe again.”
She snuggled harder against his chest and felt his heartbeat against her cheek. His heart was pounding terribly fast. “I do with you,” she told him.
“I will keep you safe. That I promise. I know what it is like to be hurt.”
His time as a prisoner of war had hurt him deeply, and that touched her heart. “I want to make you forget about those horrible days when you were captured.” She wriggled up from his chest and cupped his jawline with both of her hands. “Let me do that.”
He hesitated.
She moved in to kiss him.
“No.” He stopped her. “You are vulnerable and you are scared. You’re turning to me out of fear—it’s instinct to want someone to protect you.”
“It’s because—” She stopped. Nell had advised her never to talk about love to a protector. She had already broken that rule. She shouldn’t make it worse by doing it again.
“I know what happens,” he went on. “You start to believe no one can take care of you, and that fear hardens you and makes you cold. But because I know what it is like, I know how to really take care of you.”
She gazed into his eyes. He seemed so strong. “What did you suffer in Ceylon? It must have been horrible to have hurt you so deeply.”
He just shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
But it did. If she wanted to heal him, she had to understand what had happened to him, didn’t she?
The carriage stopped.
Cary conferred with his majordomo for only moments, then he led her to his study. She still shivered even though a good fire blazed in the hearth and she was still wrapped in the fur throw.
“I’m going to undress you,” he said softly. He walked behind her, but he kept his hand resting gently on her arm. It was soothing to have him touch her.
Quickly, he worked to undo the fastenings of her gown. Sophie looked down and saw all the tears in the bodice and skirts from where she’d been thrown to the table, shoved against the wall. Even with the heat of the fire filling the room, she felt cold.
She never wanted to wear this dress again.
“I will have this destroyed,” Cary said. “I’ll get you other clothes.”
It was so exactly the answer to her question—if she destroyed the dress, what would she do?—that she whispered, “You do know what this is like.” She met his gaze. “What happened to you in Ceylon? What did they do to you?”
He hesitated. His long lashes shrouded his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”
“Not that long,” she declared. “It was only three years past.”
“Yes, that’s right. It feels like longer.”
Her bodice sagged, and the duke eased it down. She shoved it. She wanted the wretched thing off as fast as possible. When she looked down at her skirts, she remembered the man pushing them up. His laughter. His mockery.
A little bit of fun before he killed her!
Cary helped, pulling the bodice off quickly. He took her hand to help her step out. “Where did he hurt you?” he asked. “What did he do to you?”
“He just pushed me around. You came before he did anything more. I was only bruised.”
Cary unlaced her corset and took it off, over her head. Her shift was thin from many washings, and through it she saw her bruises. Green and purple ones bloomed on her arms, her chest, and her stomach where she had been slammed against the table edge.
“I’m going to find the bastard and kill him.”
She looked up, into Cary’s eyes. So unusually pale, they glittered in the firelight. She saw anger there. The same anger that pulsed when he’d looked at Stratham. Cary’s jaw twitched.
She remembered how much rage he’d shown the four times he’d rescued her—from Halwell, Stratham, her mystery attacker, and from the footpads. But when he had been fighting, he hadn’t been facing those foes, she realized. He was fighting the foes of his past.
“But they hurt you, didn’t they?” she asked.
“Sophie, that was not important. What matters is what happened to you.”
“But—”
“Sophie, stop talking about it.” Impatience vibrated in his husky voice.
She knew she had to stop. She couldn’t make him angry.
He was right—she needed to feel safe, and she only did so with him.
He bade her to sit down, and he took off her dainty shoes and her stockings. They were ravaged beyond repair. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Are you all right? Damn, I didn’t mean to be so curt with you, Sophie—”
“It’s not that. It’s”—she gulped on tears—“it’s so silly, but it’s my stockings. And not because they were the first nice pair I had. I did so much for the money I used for them, and it was all a waste—”
She broke off. Oh no.
“What did you do?”
“Oh, it was all the labor I had to do to
get them,” she murmured. “I managed to get several menial jobs for pennies.” Not entirely a lie. She had tried that at first—she had tried honest work—before Devars went after her, forcing her to need so much more money to keep them all safe. But where she got the money for the stockings was Devars’s bracelet, and she couldn’t tell Cary that.
“Not such a disaster,” he said softly. “You have me now.”
“I do. Then it is all wonderful.” And she meant it.
“Now your shift.” His tone turned matter-of-fact. He stood and looked ahead, not down at her. “Do you need help?”
“I—” She needed him close to her. How else was she to start to heal him? And . . . and she just needed him close.
“I do,” she said.
He crouched down, and together they grasped the hem of her chemise. Their hands brushed. For her, it was like sparks and electricity. For him—his teeth were gritted.
Slowly, she drew up the shift, his hands following. This was the last piece of clothing she wore. She revealed the tops of her legs, the dark curls between her legs—he had seen those. Then her belly, and her breasts bounced as she lifted the shift.
He took the shift away from her. Walked over and tossed it into the fire. Flames flared and ate it.
For the first time, she was completely naked in front of him.
And he wasn’t reacting. He didn’t even look.
“There is a robe and nightdress. You need rest, but there are things I should do first. I’ll return in a moment.”
“Where did you get a woman’s robe and a nightgown?” She knew his majordomo had sent a footman with a bundle of things.
“They belong to my sister Claudia. My majordomo had them brought here as I brought you to this room.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you will. Now get dressed, love, before you catch cold.” With that, he walked out.
That wasn’t what she’d hoped for.
But she did feel shaky. Could she really work on seducing him, caressing him, trying to heal him?
A bit of fun before I kill you . . .
Sophie shuddered. She felt sick. A chill went through her, but from the inside out. She hurried to the clothes. The silk nightdress slithered over her fingers, soft as heaven.
She shouldn’t wear his sister’s nightclothes. He was a kind man, but he’d gotten a steely eyed look of determination, and he’d ordered her to do it.
She couldn’t displease him. He was going to be her protector.
The silk nightdress skimmed over her skin, gliding on. Her bosom was a little large for it, as were her hips, so it tugged oddly. But it fit.
And the robe. It was voluminous—an acre of thick, warm velvet.
She’d just gotten the belt tied, snuggling into the warmth that touched her bare toes, when the door opened. Cary came in and shut it.
He set a basin of water on a table near a small sofa. Steam rose.
Someone must have heated the water. She swallowed hard. “Aren’t your servants shocked?” Gentlemen might have mistresses, but there was a reason they provided their ladybirds with houses.
“Probably, though not the servants who were here in my father’s day.” He dipped in a facecloth—a neat, elegant square, not the worn-out things she had used on the farm. She’d always had worn-out things. Lifting it, he wrung it out.
She had a fleeting thought—that the money her mother had given for her upbringing had supported the doctor’s house, had funded her adoptive mother’s dreams to elevate her own children. Sophie had always got the worst. The scraps. The hand-me-downs. The roughest fabrics, the chewiest morsels of food.
She hadn’t really cared. It was only when her son’s fate mattered, that she suddenly cared.
Had her mother deliberately left her to that fate? But if so, why leave so much money for her care? Why give her to a doctor’s family anyway? Did her mother have no other choice? Maybe no one else would take in a courtesan’s bastard?
“Come here and sit on the sofa,” Cary instructed. His voice was gentle, but it held a quiet, irresistible command. Probably a skill he had developed in the army, when he had led men.
She, for example, would follow him anywhere.
Sophie sat, and Cary got on one knee before her. Samuel had done that, to propose marriage—well, at least to promise her they were engaged.
But Cary’s blue eyes were full of concern, and they crackled with anger as he gently cleaned her face. She had no idea she was dirty. Or she was actually cut, until she felt a sharp sting.
“Ow.” She lifted her hand.
“It’s all right. A cut on your cheek. I want to ensure it’s clean. Nor large enough to require stitches.” His eyes darkened. “It will likely mar your cheek though.” He looked furious at the idea.
“You look so angry. But I’m alive! He was going to kill me. A scar on my cheek is nothing—” Or was it? Courtesans were supposed to be beautiful. The more lovely, the better. Maybe the scar ruined things. If he hated it . . .
Suddenly, she remembered something she hadn’t told him. “That man—he said he was paid to kill me. This wasn’t just rape or robbery!” Her voice rose. “Who would do that?”
“Shh.” Cary gently bathed her cheek. With care. Watching her carefully. Sometimes his gaze was so intense, it took her breath. “You need care first. Then we’ll talk about what happened.”
Someone knocked on the door. She jumped, but his hand cupped her cheek for a moment. He gentled her like a horse, took his hand away. “Enter,” he commanded.
His majordomo, in a robe and a nightcap, came in, carrying a tray. On the tray sat a bowl of cut ice. Strips of cloth. A silver pot and a teacup on a saucer. The pot gleamed. The cup was edged in gold.
A fleeting look of disapproval was emitted by the servant as he set the tray down. That was directed at her from behind the duke’s back.
“That will be all,” Cary said. He wrapped the small pieces of ice in cloth and held the wrap against her face. The cool soothed. “This will take down some of the swelling. It’s late, but it will help. Hold it while I pour your chocolate.”
Chocolate?
It was. Dark and thick and so piping hot that coils of steam rose. Placing his hand over hers, he said, “I’ll hold this against your bruises. You take the chocolate.”
“Th-thank you.”
“I thought this would be better than brandy. Hot and soothing, and a bit of a stimulant also.”
She sipped. It was like silken heaven in a cup. Now her insides were as warm as her outsides, which were wrapped in a thick, perfect robe. Well, her outsides were all hot except where Cary gently held the ice.
Wrapping her hands around the cup, Sophie sipped and sipped until she finished the drink. She’d been hungry, and the drink was thick, creamy, delicious.
When she finished, he got her to hold the ice while he refilled her cup.
“What did you see of the man who attacked you?” he asked. And she felt full of warmth and so much calmer. It felt more difficult to grasp on to fear and panic again. She felt . . . sleepy. He was a very smart man. He had known exactly what to do for her.
“Almost nothing. My room was in the dark. He was in there, when I went in—” And danced like an idiot! “And I didn’t even see him.”
“You didn’t hear anything?”
“Oh yes. I heard footsteps in the other rooms and carts rattling and dogs barking at the dawn. I didn’t hear him until he moved out of the shadows. Then he made a board creak behind me. It was too late to run then. If you hadn’t—how did you know?”
“I had waited to ensure you were safely inside, then I heard something crash in your rooms.”
“That was just me at that point, I think.”
He stared at her, confused.
“I was twirling around the room—dancing around it—and I knocked over the teapot and fell on the bed.”
“In the dark, you were dancing around the room?”
“I was happy.” She look
ed up at his face. “Because of you.”
He didn’t react to that. “You said he told you he had been paid to kill you.”
“That’s what he said,” she explained. “I offered him money to spare me, and he said he’d been given more to kill me.”
“Poor love.” He looked at her so tenderly, she almost melted. Then he asked, “By whom?”
“He didn’t bother to tell me.”
“Sophie, you are remarkable. Any other woman would be sobbing and in a mess.”
“But I’m safe now.”
His gaze lingered on her eyes. “You are.”
“I didn’t see hardly anything of his face. I think he wore a cloth over part of it. In the light—there’s barely any light in that room, even on the middle of the sunniest day—I saw his eye, his cheekbone. Oh, and hair. He had golden hair. Rather like yours.”
“No, he did not.”
“He did. That much I am certain of, because I saw it.”
“You saw this, Sophie.” Cary picked up something from behind him, on a table. At first, she thought he’d picked up a cat. No, it was a handful of blond curls.
“A wig,” he said.
“But why? Why wear a blond wig?” She stared at Cary’s beautiful sculpted face and his golden hair, which was a mess, drifting over his brow.
“A woman was killed—a woman I had been seen pursuing at a Cyprian ball. Last night I was seen with you, and subsequently, you were attacked.”
“But you had nothing to—” Then she understood. “You mean, someone is trying to make you look guilty of this? But why?”
“I don’t know. But you are not going to return to that room. You can spend the night here. Tomorrow, I will have a house rented for you.”
But he said it with a sigh. He did not look particularly happy.
Why would he be happy? He was not going to have any of the pleasure of having a mistress. She felt suddenly nervous. He was rescuing her, but at a huge cost.
She really must become his lover. She must give him something back. “I wish you would . . . come to my bed. I don’t understand you. Why would you buy me a house and give me so much?”
“Apparently, now, my dear, I owe it to you. You were attacked because of me. I don’t why, but that’s what happened.”