Addicted to the Duke (Imperfect Lords #1)(52)

She stood rooted to the spot, her feet melding with the wood of the floor. In the dawn’s light she drank in his naked torso, worshipping his form, following the trail of light curls down to where the sheet lay rumpled over his groin.

She’d just had the most magical experience of her life and it had meant nothing to him. No, it had meant worse than nothing. He hadn’t even thought of her at all.

Tears pricked her eyelids. She angrily swiped her hand over her eyes. No, she couldn’t cry; she’d brought this on herself. She’d let herself believe, once again, that there was more to his feelings than there really was. He had never declared any kind of feelings for her; she’d merely let her own love, desire, needs, and wants cloud her judgment.

She stood with her head bowed as the gathering dawn began chasing away the night. Her head dropped to her chest and tears slid down her face, then on down her neck and over her naked breasts. She let them fall. They were her penance, silent reminders of her stupidity.

Thank God he had not woken and seen her in his bed. She would not be able to live down the embarrassment. What would he have thought of her wanton ways?

She hurriedly dressed, not once looking at the bed. Jacob would be here soon to check on His Grace. If Alex had the strength to make love to her he no longer needed a nursemaid, as he’d called her.

Thank God for that. She could never sit in this cabin again without remembering the most beautiful and, unfortunately, the most soul-destroying night of her life.

Wiping the tears off her face, she composed herself as best she could before slipping from his cabin. She met no one as she made her way to the sanctuary of her bunk.

She lay upon the covers and berated herself. Consequences. There were going to be consequences to her actions. She thought she’d learned about consequences from her past mistakes. Her capture by Murad taught her never to put herself in a position of risk again, but it would seem, where Alex was concerned, she’d forgotten her resolve. She wished she’d never come on this trip, and she cursed her father for putting her in this position.

—

Alex’s brain thumped against the inside of his skull as if an ax-wielding Norseman had taken up residence in his head. He gingerly lifted an eyelid; damn it was bright this morning. He shut his eyes and lay still on the pillow. For some reason the wound in his side was throbbing so much he thought he’d gone ten rounds in the boxing ring.

He knew he’d been restless during the night. He sensed the sheet scrunched up at the end of the bunk, leaving him naked, was testimony to that.

His mouth felt like a rag was stuffed in it. Drink, he needed a drink.

Laudanum. He assumed Hestia had given him more in his wine last night. He didn’t really need it any longer, but the dreams were hard to give up.

Then he remembered his dream.

A slow smile formed on his lips as he reflected on last night’s dream of Hestia. It had been so real, so intense, and so erotic—more so than usual. The dream fed his five senses. He felt her, tasted her, heard her cries of pleasure, and saw every inch of her porcelain skin. He even thought he could smell her still on his sheets; her orange-blossom fragrance seemed to surround him like an early morning fog. If all his dreams were this potent, he’d want to sleep all day and all night.

How could he be upset at her continuing to feed him the opium when his dreams had been so fulfilling? He’d disgraced himself like an eager schoolboy. He couldn’t even bring himself to be embarrassed at Hestia’s likely view of his dream. His body heated just thinking about what her reaction might have been. Would she have been embarrassed, or did it make her body burn with desire?

He’d need the sheets changed and his stitches checked.

Risking a stab of pain from the light, he opened his eyes and rose to his elbows to look down the bed. He’d lost weight, and in a fit of pique he noticed he’d also lost a bit of muscle tone.

As he perused his body a splash of red caught his eye. Had he opened his wound? God, he hoped not. They were behind schedule as it was.

He rolled onto his good side and looked at his bandages. No sign of blood. He unwound the bandages only to see that the stitches were all intact. In fact, the wound had almost completely healed. The stitches were ready to be taken out, so he only lightly rewound the cloth.

It would not be long before he regained his strength. A few gentle exercises starting today. Hestia’s warning not to overdo it reverberated in his head. He would heed her and David’s advice, because he had to be fighting fit to face Murad.

He saw spots of red again. If not his wound, where had the blood come from?

Slowly through a haze of memory a thought began to form, a thought so horrifying he closed his eyes on a curse.

No—it could not be.

A terrible cold crept up his spine like impending doom. The past two weeks, Hestia normally waited for him to wake before leaving. He missed her cheery disposition. Where was she?

His eyes flashed open and his blood sparked in his veins. Christ, it couldn’t have been real, but her perfume and the scent of sex clung to the sheets and to him.

It had been real. It wasn’t a dream. He’d made love to her.

Oh dear God, he’d taken her virginity. It was the blood of her innocence on his sheets. And he had not been particularly gentle as he recalled.

She had been heaven in his arms. He swallowed and stilled. Why had she not stopped him?

Unless…He fought down bile. Unless he had taken her against her will? God, please no. I can’t have hurt her. For one moment, blackness threatened as dizziness hit.