She’d considered rousing Robin, having him keep watch over the man known as Thorne, but doing that would force her to admit to her own cowardice. He troubled her in ways she’d never been bothered before, which was the reason that once she heard the snore, she quietly slipped into the room, stood beside the bed, crossed her arms over her chest, and studied him.
He was so incredibly lovely to look upon, every aspect of him—except for the injuries and bruises—a pleasure to behold. Never before had she simply wanted to stare at a man, and she certainly couldn’t allow him to see her gawking when he was awake. She wouldn’t marry him—or anyone, for that matter—because upon marriage her tavern would become his, and she wasn’t going to hand it over to a man who wouldn’t appreciate it or care for it as she did. Nor did she have any desire to become chattel. She’d been independent as long as she could remember, running through the mews with her brothers—all merely a year older than she was—and getting into scrapes alongside them. They’d never treated her like a girl, not like the way they treated their sister Fancy.
Gillie had been heading toward her thirteenth birthday when Fancy was born. At fourteen, her brothers were already strong, strapping lads. By the time Fancy was old enough to be playing outside without being under their mum’s watchful eye, no one wanted to run afoul of the Trewlove brothers. As a result, Ettie Trewlove had never felt a need to disguise the gender of the daughter to whom she’d given birth. With five of her children adding their earnings to the family coffers, she’d even been able to purchase proper frocks for her youngest. Everyone tried to protect her, perhaps because she was so much younger than they were. Or more delicate, more feminine. By the time Gillie had seen a dozen years, she was as tall as she was now, slender as a reed, but there was a firmness to her muscles that came from the hard work in which she’d engaged as a child, a firmness that had only intensified when she’d reached adulthood and begun hauling casks from the cellar and slovenly drunkards into the streets.
But for the tiniest of moments, when the stranger had expressed concern about her reputation, she’d thought how welcoming it might be to be cherished and protected by a man. Not that her brothers wouldn’t protect her if needed, but that hardly counted, as they were family and that’s what family did. None of them were related by blood, but their mum had raised them to understand some bonds were stronger than blood.
Like the bond that existed between a man and a woman, the connection that caused a woman to want to marry him, lie with him, and bear his children. Or lie with him without the benefit of marriage. It was the reason she and her siblings existed. By-blows who’d come into the world because some man had enticed a woman into his bed and then refused to do right by her. She wondered if this Thorne fellow was prone to that sort of abhorrent behavior. But if he were, would he worry about her reputation?
She didn’t like the way her insides had fluttered and her skin had warmed as she’d given him a sip of water and a spoonful of broth. She didn’t relish at all that she rather enjoyed caring for him, had experienced a sense of satisfaction when he’d seemed so pleased with the simple broth that hadn’t taken her any trouble at all to prepare.
Suddenly he moved, flailed about. With her heart hammering at his quick movements, she stepped briskly to the bed and pressed her palm to his forehead, grateful to find only tepid warmth. “Shh. Shh. It’s all right. It’s all right.”
His brow furrowed, but he stilled, his breathing shallow and rapid, and she wondered if he was reliving the attack, if the nightmare of it was visiting his slumber. “You’re safe,” she whispered. “I won’t let anyone harm you.”
Beneath her fingers, his brow relaxed. “That’s it. Let your worries go. They don’t exist here. Go to a peaceful place and let your body heal.”
His breathing slowed, went deeper. She had no reason to keep touching him, yet she seemed incapable of removing her hand. His dark forelock had fallen over her fingers, and it was as though the silken strands had captured her as effectively as the coarsest of ropes.
Before him, she’d never touched a man. Oh, she’d slapped her brothers on the shoulder, hugged them, even come into contact with their skin when she tended to the numerous wounds they’d received in their youth during a time when their actions were guided more by anger at their circumstance than common sense. But she’d grown up with them; they were familiar. She’d certainly never looked at one of them and thought, “I’d jolly well like to skim my fingers over him, test the cords of his muscles, the silkiness of his flesh.”
She found it difficult to swallow with the realization she could touch every inch of the fellow, in secret, him unaware of her actions. All she had to do was move aside the sheet, and he would be presented to her like a gift. Naturally, however, if a man took those liberties with her, she’d bloody well kill him—slowly and most painfully. If she even suspected those thoughts had entered his head . . .
The riotous musings invading her mind were unconscionable. Still, she seemed unable to prevent her hand from slowly trailing down his cheek and lightly brushing over his shadowed jaw. She rather liked his unkempt state, which made him appear dangerous, strong, a man to be reckoned with—even if the four thugs had managed to drop him to his knees. She hadn’t seen the entire encounter, but she’d seen enough to know he hadn’t gone down easily.
Of their own accord, her fingers traced his lips. His warm breath fanned over her knuckles, causing an unsettling sensation in the pit of her stomach, lower still to an area between her thighs. Once, when she was no more than seven, she’d nicked an apple from a vendor’s cart. She’d run off feeling both satisfied and ashamed. In the end, she hadn’t eaten her bounty, but had passed it off to a dirtier urchin. It hadn’t lessened her guilt. She hadn’t stolen anything since.
But this felt like stealing, these precious moments of caressing a man. How many nights had she gone to sleep, aching to be held, to have her limbs entwined with another’s, to touch and be touched? While she’d always telegraphed that she had no interest in men, wouldn’t take kindly to their advances, her actions didn’t lessen her loneliness, didn’t make her yearn any less for what she knew could take place between a man and a woman.
She wanted to run her hand over his shoulders, his chest. Instead, she balled it up tightly and placed it in her lap, only then realizing she was holding his other hand there. He wouldn’t do right by her. He’d stated as much. Not that she’d want him to. She didn’t need a man. Well—looking over her shoulder, she shifted her gaze to his hips—she needed a portion of him.
She nearly laughed aloud. Whatever was wrong with her to entertain such lascivious thoughts? Her mum would be appalled. She was appalled.
Perhaps if he didn’t smell so good. Beneath the blood, sweat, and dirt she’d washed away was a woodsy scent that reminded her of the freshly turned earth in her mum’s garden. And with it mingled the essence of him, sharp and tangy.
With care, she turned his hand, clasping it palm up, within hers. So smooth. Not a scar or callus to be found. But not weak. There was strength in those long, slender fingers. She imagined them slowly caressing, stroking, squeezing. Touching a woman, loving her.
Trailing the fingers of her other hand over his, she could feel the potency housed there. If she pressed the heel of her palm against his fingertips and flattened her hand over his, she could almost reach his wrist. All parts of her had always been long and lanky, but the width of his hand compared to the slenderness of hers made her feel almost delicate, almost—
He shifted, closing his fingers around hers, drawing their joined hands up to nestle in the center of his chest as he started to roll slightly, groaned, and halted. His eyes fluttered, then settled into stillness. She barely breathed, waiting for him to awaken, to fling her hand aside when he realized he was cradling it as though it were an injured dormouse. She had one as a pet when she was a girl, and at that particular moment, she wondered if it had felt as trapped when she’d first held it as she felt now. Trapped and
comforted in the same instance, as though this injured person would protect her. She’d never taken much physical comfort from men, viewing them as being more trouble than they were worth, but she had an odd urge to wiggle her way up beneath his arm and snuggle against him.
These strange musings were only because it had been a long, stressful night, and she should be abed by now. Only he was in her bed, holding her hand against his chest as though he treasured it. Faintly, she could feel the beating of his heart, reaching between his ribs to thrum against her fingers where they furled against his skin.
She should shove herself off the bed and settle onto the sofa in the other room, but never before had a chap held her hand. Even though this one did so lost in the realm of dreams, unaware of whose hand he actually held, she couldn’t quite bring herself to break free of him. It was lovely really, to have the warmth of another human being—of a man—seeping through skin and muscle and bone to heat her throughout. Oddly she felt as though he held all of her. Perhaps that was the reason she seemed unable to move.
Lost in slumber, he appeared younger, more innocent, more approachable. Leaning forward, with her free hand, she combed back the silken strands of dark hair from his brow. “What the devil were you doing in this area, alone, so late at night? What was so important you couldn’t wait for a more reasonable time of day?”
In response, he released a soft snore. She imagined how comforting it would be to hear that snuffle occasionally through the night, to know another person was about to share the sheets, the dreams, the troubles. What fanciful thoughts. She had her mum, her brothers, and on occasion her sister. She certainly didn’t need a stranger who caused her to wonder about the delights that might not be in her life. If not happiness, at least contentment filled her days and nights. She wanted for nothing more.
But as her gaze drifted over to those lush, full lips, she couldn’t help but feel a yearning in the center of her chest for all the things she’d not experienced: sweet words whispered in the dark, a heated mouth doing deliciously wicked things, a gaze smoldering with pleasure at the sight of her. A ridiculous thought as she’d never intentionally bared herself to a man and had no idea if what she possessed beneath her clothing would be pleasing to a bloke. She took great pains to give no hint at all regarding her true shape. No sense in giving the gents who visited her tavern any ideas or temptation. Or to discover she appealed not in the least.
She was still indulging in the luxury of combing her fingers through his hair when the brisk knock at the door had her jerking her gaze to the window, where the first rays of morning sunlight filtered into the room through a part in the yellow curtains. When had daylight arrived and how long had she been sitting there lost in her musings about this man?
Careful not to wake him, she gently twisted her hand free of his hold and hurried to the entrance, as the knock again echoed through her lodgings. With care, she opened the door only slightly and peered out. A small woman, slender and petite, one who more closely resembled the size of a normal female, smiled brightly with perfect teeth and sparkling blue eyes. “Hello. I’m Alice Turner. Dr. Graves sent me, said you were in want of a nurse.”
“No.”
The smile dwindled. Alice Turner blinked. “I thought there was a man here in need of looking after. Knife wounds and such.”
“He got better and left of his own accord.”
That smile again, blindingly bright. Too bright. “Oh. Well. That’s good news I suppose.”
“I’m sorry you came all the way out here for no good reason. Hold on. I’ll get a few quid for you.”
“That’s not necess—”
Closing the door in the woman’s face, she rushed over to the kitchen area and reached into a crock on a high shelf where she kept her emergency funds. After counting out five quid, she made a hasty return, opened the door, grabbed Alice Turner’s hand, and shoved the money into it, closing her fingers securely around it. “Have a good day.”
She didn’t wait for a response before once again leaving the nurse on the other side of the threshold. With a sigh, she leaned against the oak that barred her from the rest of the world. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why she’d just spouted lies to a stranger. Deception was one of the things she didn’t tolerate in herself or others, but she’d done it to protect him. Hadn’t he stated he didn’t want anyone to know he was here? Perhaps he was in trouble, had come to this portion of London to hide out. He wouldn’t be the first.
Or perhaps the truth was that she’d done it simply because she hadn’t wanted another woman seeing to the needs of the man in her bed.
Chapter 4
“I need you to manage things for the full day and night, until closing.”
Jolly Roger—no one believed that was his real name, but in this area of London one changed names as easily and sometimes as often as one changed stockings—narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips as though he couldn’t believe the words she’d just announced, words that had seemed foreign rolling off her tongue as she stood by the polished counter near the back of the public taproom of her tavern. Never before had she missed an entire day of work or put him in complete charge. Not that she didn’t trust him to do the job—she did. Occasionally she took some time to herself in the afternoon, and he’d handled matters while she was away, but her absence never lasted longer than a couple of hours because she’d never had anything better to do or anything she cared about more than her tavern.
Seeing to the needs of the man upstairs wasn’t going to be more to her liking than managing her tavern, but she felt an obligation to ensure he survived and had decided she was the best one to guarantee his survival—especially after she’d been daft enough, due to lack of sleep no doubt, to send the tiny nurse on her merry way.
“Are you not well?” he asked in a voice as robust as he was, with his barrel chest and stocky legs that served him well when he hauled casks up from the cellar. His red hair and bushy beard softened the hardness of him.
“I’m a bit under the weather.” She hated lying but couldn’t tell him the truth. While she trusted him implicitly with her tavern, she didn’t trust him not to give his opinion on the wisdom of having a man—even if he was too weak to cause any harm—in her lodgings.
“That’s not like you.”
“We all have a bad day now and then.”
He nodded. “Women and their monthly ills.” And walked away to begin lifting chairs down from the tables where they placed them each night at closing to make it easier to sweep and mop up.
“It has nothing at all—” She cut off her tirade, not liking one bit what he was thinking, that she was having her courses and succumbing to the pain of the monthly hell. Damn Eve and her bite into the apple that had cursed women for all eternity. But she wasn’t going to argue with Jolly Roger or set him straight, because that would only lead to more questions she wouldn’t answer and word would reach her brothers—and then the man who didn’t want to marry her would find he didn’t have a choice.
She strode through the kitchen and the door that opened onto the alleyway and very nearly tripped over Robin, who was setting out a saucer of milk on the stoop. In charge of keeping the stray cats in the area happy so they kept the rats unhappy, he twisted his kneeling body around to squint up at her. “Did ’e die, Gillie?” he asked conspiratorially, as though that had been the sought-after outcome.
“He,” she repeated.
He rolled his eyes at the correction. “Did he die?”
“No.” Bending down until her gaze met his, she reiterated, “Remember, you’re to tell no one about him.”
He shook his head forcefully. “I like ’aving—having—secrets.”
“This one you keep forever.”
“Right-o.”
Satisfied by his response, she stalked up the outer stairs, irrationally irritated because she was changing her routine for a stranger. She shouldn’t have turned the nurse away but would look like a cabbage head now if she sent word
to Graves to send Alice Turner back. Shoving open her door, she strode over the threshold and was in the process of slamming the sturdy wood shut when she stopped, considered. He hadn’t asked for her help, had done nothing to deserve her wrath. By the morrow, he should be well enough to leave. She’d borrow her brother Mick’s fancy well-sprung coach, as it would provide a comfortable ride without much bouncing around, smooth enough that it could rock a newborn babe to sleep. So the gent required only a few more hours of her time, and then he’d be on his way and her life would return to normal.
She closed the door with a quiet snick. Strange how different her apartment felt, as though the stranger’s presence had seeped into every aspect of it, every corner. It made her uneasy, mostly because she realized how absent of company and comfort her life was. She’d been so hell-bent on making a success of her tavern she hadn’t made room for much else. Even time spent with her family had dwindled in recent years. She saw her brothers when they stopped by for a pint. Every couple of weeks she checked in on her mum. She’d usually see her sister, Fancy, then—if she was about. If she wasn’t, she didn’t go out of her way to try to find her. Fancy was only seven and ten. Not only did the years separate them, but so did the fact that they were very different people, destined for different lives. Mick—determined Fancy would marry well, an aristocrat if he had his way—had paid her tuition to a posh school where she’d learned refinement and the art of being a genteel lady and managing a household. While no one expected Gillie to marry, even if she’d been willing to hand over her tavern. No gent was going to marry a woman who refused to be viewed as property, not that any man had ever eyed her as though he might be considering making her his helpmate. She appealed to men as little as they appealed to her. If she were to have a man in her life at all, she had to accept the relationship would lead only to a tumble, nothing as respectable as marriage.
When a Duke Loves a Woman Page 4