Filmy curtains fluttered at her balcony window, and her throat constricted as she realized those doors were open.
Her hands pressed down on the mattress on either side of her. If she could have walked, she would have risen, crossed the room and closed the doors. But she was trapped on the bed. Alone with her fear, that thing she loathed so much.
A small sound scratched the air. Her gaze swung around the room, searching for the source.
The pulse in her throat thumped impossibly harder, faster, as the latch to the bedchamber door slowly turned. It swung inward and Owen stood there, light flooding into the room behind him from the corridor. A relieved breath gusted out of her lips, replaced with a different kind of anxiety at the sight of him wearing only a dressing robe, open down the chest. Her mouth dried.
“Anna?”
She nodded for a moment before answering. “Yes.”
“Are you well? I heard you call out.”
Her hands twisted the silken sheets. “Did I disturb you? I’m sorry.”
Annoyance flickered back to life inside her. He’d been avoiding her since they arrived. Now he cared to show himself?
“You needn’t apologize. Nightmares aren’t exactly something we can control.”
Her breath eased from her lips. “You speak from experience?” She didn’t know precisely where the question came from. She supposed from the desire that welled up inside her to know more about him. This earl that wasn’t an earl. At least not like any earl she had ever met. What manner of earl kept the fact that he was an earl to himself? He was not like any of the noblemen her father had thrust upon her. He was deadly with a knife and rescued girls and consorted with Gypsies and eschewed Society and brought strangers into his home. He mystified her.
She wished the room were more well-lit so she might view him better. She craved a glimpse of him. Just to prove that he was as attractive as memory served. He’d been keeping his distance, leaving her to the care of Mrs. Kirkpatrick. Much as he had when they stayed with Mirela and her kinsmen.
She supposed she had not wanted for anything in his neglect. With a staff of Mrs. Kirkpatrick, a cook, two maids, and two grooms, she was well attended. Mrs. Kirkpatrick had left a bell beside her should she ever need assistance. She rarely did.
Finally seeing him again filled her with a strange sense of hunger. She did not want him to go and leave her alone with her nightmares all over again. Desperate to keep him from leaving, she asked what had been weighing on her mind for weeks: “Where did you learn to fight like you did? With those two men?”
Silence met her question. She moistened her lips, wondering if it would always be this way. Would she have to pull speech from him like tugging a heavy bucket from a well?
Just when she was convinced he would ignore her, he replied. “I fought in India.”
She inhaled a ragged breath to have this much from him. Finally. Some bit of himself.
Annalise recalled what the papers said about the rebellion, the horrible brutality the rebels inflicted on Europeans living in India and the equally brutal backlash against them.
“It was . . . difficult,” he continued. “You had to do certain things to survive.”
“Of course,” she murmured in understanding. “It was war.”
“No,” he said, cutting her off quickly. “Certain things were expected, demanded, that went beyond war.”
An awkward silence stretched between them before she once again filled it, hoping she did not sound terribly inane. “I’m certain you only did as you were commanded.”
He laughed, and the sound was ugly and harsh. “Yes. I did as I was commanded. I was very good, exemplary even, at following commands.”
She flattened her palms over the counterpane covering her thighs, knowing that complimenting him yet again on this was not the thing to do. Her leg tingled beneath her splint, desperate for a good scratch. She ignored it.
“I am excellent at killing.” There was nothing in his voice as he uttered this, and yet she knew he was disgusted with himself.
He rose in one swift move, and she knew that it was with the same grace, the same quick stealth, that he attacked and took lives. She should be appalled, having just fled one killer to find herself in the company of another. And yet compassion swelled inside her chest because she knew this man was so much more, so much better, than the killer he described himself to be. He was heroic. Nothing demanded him to help her and yet he had. Everything he had done underscored that he valued life.
At her silence, he continued. “I’ve shocked you.”
She lifted one shoulder. “Not so much.”
“Horrified, then?”
“No.”
His head angled to the side. “No?”
“No.”
“You’re a most peculiar female, Anna.”
She smiled. “I cannot argue with that assessment.”
“Aren’t you the least bit concerned that you’re currently residing beneath the roof of a seasoned killer?” His boots thudded across the floor as he moved toward her.
Her heart hammered faster at the knowledge that he wasn’t leaving her. In fact, he was coming closer. He stopped at the foot of the bed. She stared at the lean shape of him, her gaze skimming the narrow waist, the peak of tantalizing, male flesh at his throat, the broad shoulders. Her face heated. The fleeting reminder came that she was still a virgin. Married but a virgin. Never even been kissed. Well, she refused to count those two pecks on the morning of her nuptials. And just as that fleeting idea crossed her mind the next thought came that she should like him to kiss her. She would like to taste his lips and the skin at his throat that always looked so warm and inviting.
Even when he was being taciturn and distant that skin looked somehow warm and male and delicious. Her belly quivered with a sensation she had never experienced.
“I could do anything to you,” he added, his deep voice hard and vaguely disapproving.
And while she should be concerned, even afraid, at the somewhat threatening comment, a frisson of excitement raced down her spine. I could do anything to you. . .
He was no Bloodsworth. He caused her no fear or unease.
The sudden image of him straddling her on this bed without the robe, just his bare body atop hers, leaning over her, his mouth coming toward her, seized her. Her palms prickled and tingled with the urge to touch—to feel him. To live and experience the lovemaking she had been denied on her wedding night.
A wicked thought entered her head. Stuck in this bed for weeks, he could make her time here very diverting.
Her cheeks went from warm to scalding. Apparently all her previous modesty had drowned in the river. Not a terrible thing, she acknowledged.
“I suppose I should be afraid.” She took her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment. “If I didn’t know that you’re an honorable man.”
He pulled back as if she had struck him. “You’re a fool. I’m no hero, Anna.”
Annoyance flared hotly in her chest. “Then why did you promise to help me?” she demanded sharply.
“I don’t know. I’ve asked myself that question countless times since I’ve brought you here.”
He had been thinking about her? Even though he distanced himself. Warm pleasure suffused her. “It’s because I need help. And there is no one better than a man of your talents to teach me. Do you not agree, Mr. Crawford?”
At this, he held silent, but she could almost hear the wheels in his head spinning.
She took a quick breath. “Forgive me. I don’t suppose I should call you that anymore. Should I, my lord?”
He walked around the bed, his movements slow and languid, a direct contradiction to her increasingly speeding heart. He stopped inches from where her left hand rested on the side of the bed. Her pinky finger twitched in reaction.
“Perhaps we should be
gin with your first lesson now?”
Her breath caught. Even though she knew he was referring to help train her in self-protection, a chill shivered across her skin. As dark as the room was, she felt his stare, the hot crawl of his gaze over her. She wore a prim nightgown buttoned to the throat, but she imagined he could see her through it. Shaking.
Only not with fear.
He leaned down, his palm landing beside her on the bed. Annalise glanced at that hand. Bigger than her own. The back of it lightly sprinkled with golden hairs. She resisted the urge to stroke the blunt-nailed, square-tipped fingers.
She looked back up. His face had moved in closer, and she resisted the urge to shrink back. Her chest tightened, the air trapped inside her lungs as his face stopped mere inches from her own.
“Yes?” she whispered hoarsely.
“Never let a man near you when he tells you he’s especially good at killing.”
Then he was gone, moving across the room. Her gaze followed him, her heart beating hard in her chest, his warning echoing inside her head.
“Too late,” she murmured. She had let him near her, and she wouldn’t pull away now even if she could.
She had let him near her, and the hope was already there, growing and spreading in her blood, that he would come closer again.
Chapter Ten
Owen didn’t stop walking until he reached his room, a chamber that adjoined Anna’s. He supposed Mrs. Kirkpatrick put him here because it was the second largest room in the house, but he couldn’t help regretting the proximity to her. He could hear every sound, every thump through the walls. Every time she cried out from one of her many nightmares, he tensed.
Nor was the situation seemly. Mrs. Kirkpatrick must have decided he did not care about propriety, as he had brought the girl into his house in the first place. Or she merely thought there was no risk of anything inappropriate transpiring between him and a bedridden female. He would have agreed with the latter except that tonight she had looked beyond fetching in that absurdly prim nightgown, her big brown eyes glowing in the dark at him.
Her trust in him was utter and complete and baffling. She looked at him as though he were truly something good and heroic. Someone who could teach her to protect herself against everything evil in this world. Even as he tried to warn her that he might very well be the thing she most needed protection from.
He stared at the adjoining door as if he could see through the rich, polished wood, straining for a sound of her on the other side. He couldn’t stomach the sound of her whimpers and cries and do nothing. He had decided to just watch her for a little while, to assure himself she was well, when she had awoken so abruptly. And then he’d talked to her. He inhaled a ragged breath. That had been a mistake.
Striding to his balcony doors, he braced his hands on the iron railing of the balcony and stared out at the night. Her presence didn’t quite aid in his goal of solitude. He had thought he would return to Town and lose himself here. Wrap himself in the comfort of memories of better days.
His plan was simple, and it did not involve people. It did not involve her.
Except that he was here now and so was she. His fingers tightened on the railing as he reminded himself that the situation was temporary. Once she was on her feet, once she regained her memory, he could wash his hands of her. If she never remembered her past, then he’d grant her some funds and settle her wherever she wished to go. He had more than enough money and no one to share it with—now or ever. He would never marry. When he died, his title would pass back to some distant Scottish relation on his mother’s side. He might as well help Anna with a fresh start. Perhaps the magnanimous gesture would clear some of the stain besmirching his black soul.
He winced at that unlikelihood. No good deed would ever be enough for that. He released a soft laugh. She thought him a hero. It was laughable. He had killed so many fathers. Brothers. Sons. He sucked in a deep breath. He simply needed to make certain he didn’t act on any of the unwelcome urges he was experiencing around her. Simple indeed.
She was a female residing beneath his roof . . . her chamber adjoining his. He told himself it was nothing more than that. Proximity was the temptation . . . and the unwitting invitation he read in her eyes. He had not spent himself on a woman since returning to England. He should pop in at the brothel he and Jamie had visited before setting sail with their regiment.
Returning to his chamber, he contemplated doing just that. The hour wasn’t too late for such diversion. Shrugging off his dressing robe, he slid back into bed, uninspired to make the effort. When it came down to it, he simply didn’t want to badly enough.
That was the reason he told himself he didn’t want to go. That reason alone.
Annalise sighed as the warm water enveloped her. Her muscles immediately eased and softened. Even the itchy ache in her leg felt better. She closed her eyes in a long blink, reveling in the sensation. Up until now she’d been bathing herself from a basin with a sponge. This was heaven.
“Nice?” Mrs. Kirkpatrick asked, her face intent as she sprinkled salts into the steaming water.
Annalise nodded, trying not to feel uncomfortable naked and exposed beneath her gaze. “Heavenly.”
“Just one more week.” The barest hint of a smile graced the housekeeper’s lips. “Then you’ll be on your feet.”
“I cannot wait.” Sitting up higher in the tub, she lightly stroked her leg in the water, hoping the bone there was healing as it should so that she could attempt to walk next week. Please, God, let me still walk. Her hands stilled over the thigh, hoping, praying with a fervency that burned through her soul that it would be no worse than before. That she would still be able to walk.
Tears burned her eyes as self-pity threatened to overwhelm her. No. She would not weep. Not when she didn’t even know how bad it was. Besides, she wasn’t that girl anymore—weak and given to self-pity. No matter how damaged her leg, she would learn to function.
“I’ll be back shortly.” Mrs. Kirkpatrick arranged the towel alongside the soaps, salts, and bell sitting on the small table she had dragged beside the copper tub.
Annalise looked up from her leg. “Thank you.”
“Just ring the bell if you need assistance or when you’re ready to get out.” She nodded to the bell on the table and then departed, her gray, starched skirts scratching on the air as she left. The door thudded after her.
Alone now, she stared down at her body, much slimmer than it had been before she went over the side of her honeymoon barge. The weeklong fever had robbed her of some weight. Even after she woke, her appetite did not quite return in full. She could detect her hip bones now. Her waist appeared smaller, dipping before swelling out into her hips. She splayed a hand over her belly, noting how it didn’t quite push against her palm any longer.
Careful not to bend her leg, Annalise dipped her head back into the warm water. Reaching for the soap, she made quick work washing the long strands into a deep lather until her scalp tingled. With a sigh, she arched her neck and rinsed the hair clean.
Leaning back in the tub, she used the sponge to wash her body, scrubbing her skin until it glistened pink. Finished, she wrung out the sponge and leaned back to relax in the tub again. Naturally, her thoughts drifted to him.
He’d stayed away since his late night visit to her chamber. The nightmares hadn’t stopped. They still haunted her, but he did not show again when she woke with a cry on her lips. That bothered her most of all. The possibility that he had ceased to care.
She heard the occasional sound coming from his room, so she knew he hadn’t taken up residence elsewhere. He simply chose to ignore her. As he had since the beginning. As though she was something contagious, a disease he must keep his distance from.
Initially, the realization hurt. She wondered if she had done or said something, but then she dismissed that notion. He’d rescued her, offered to help her
, brought her here to his home and then proceeded to ignore her. Her thoughts of him grew less charitable with each passing day. Wretch.
If she didn’t need him so much, if she had anywhere to go, she’d leave. And perhaps that was what he wanted. He’d certainly tried to scare her off . . . warning her that he was a killer. As if that would deter her. She needed a man like him, and she knew him to be honorable—even if he seemed to think otherwise.
She eyed the table beside her where the bell sat. The water was losing its heat. She supposed she should ring for Mrs. Kirkpatrick. She extended her arm, stretching as far she could and bumping the jar of salts, knocking it over against the bell. The bell toppled off the table with a clang, rolling a bit before stopping. Well out of her reach.
Her arm dropped over the tub’s edge as she eyed the distant bell with malice. “Splendid.” Now she would have to wait until the housekeeper remembered her.
Falling back in the tub, she relaxed in the water that was growing chillier by the moment. Minutes ticked by. Thinking the housekeeper might be nearby, she called out, “Hello! Mrs. Kirkpatrick! Hello?”
No response met her cry. She waited, hoping to hear the woman’s firm tread. Nothing. After a few more moments she called out for her again.
Suddenly the door to the adjoining room swung open.
She gasped softly. He was dressed for the day in trousers and a jacket, his cravat askew as if tossed by the wind. Even his tanned cheeks looked wind-blown. Or perhaps his color was high from simply opening the door and finding her naked in the tub. Although she doubted it. He was not the sort of man to react with embarrassment when coming face-to-face with a naked woman.
Her skin tingled and her belly fluttered as she considered precisely what sort of man he was and what he might typically do when confronted with a naked female.
How to Lose a Bride in One Night Page 8
