The Wolf's Pursuit (London Fairy Tales #3)(36)

"Already does," he grumbled, as the first remnants of alcohol washed over his wound. He clenched his teeth. He would not scream, not in front of Gwen. Distraction. He needed a distraction.

He felt the sweat pour down his neck as she began to pour more whiskey. All the while Hunter focused on nothing but her eyes.

And then she looked at him.

A moment is what the storybooks would call it. Time did indeed seem to stand still, but it could have been his inability to think straight. All he knew in that moment was that it was probable he was developing perhaps a small attachment to the woman.

Not an "Allow me to begin naming our future children" type of attraction; more of one that perhaps a fellow feels deep in his soul when he sees a type of loneliness in someone else's eyes and realizes he could be the one to take it away.

"Sleep with me," he blurted.

Gwen's mouth dropped open. Carefully, she placed the glass on the floor and used her dress to press against the wound.

Hunter's breath came in short gasps. "Blast, woman! Must you be so rough?"

Gwen turned a brilliant shade of crimson. "I bet you say those sweet words to all the ladies."

Too shocked that the minx hadn't backed away or slapped him, but fired back with her own innuendo, Hunter promptly passed out.





Chapter Fifteen





Wolf—

Better to be compared to a sheep than become a wolf's prey. Apologies, but the minute I saw the picture I quickly threw it into the fire. It frightened me, you see. I was under the impression it was a self-portrait and you know how I feel about you being anywhere in my bedroom, real or not.

—Red





Gwen tapped Hunter's shoulder.

Had she killed him?

She pushed him a bit.

He moaned.

Should she retrieve the smelling salts? Did men need smelling salts? She whispered into his ear, "Hunter, are you able to hear me?"

Motionless. She snapped out of her panic and ran to the sideboard and poured some more whiskey into the glass. When the rim was near spilling over, she brought it over to Hunter and threw it in his face.

"What the—" Hunter jerked out of his state. Whiskey droplets fell from his chin. He blinked, once, twice, and then shook his head. "Am I not foxed enough that you felt the need for me to bathe in whiskey?"

"I thought you died."

"So you were burying me in my sin, is that it?"

Gwen swallowed. "I-I didn't know what else to do."

"Yes, well, apparently whiskey is the answer to everything, or so good Englishmen say. Now help me up. I must somehow make it up the stairs and into my room, where I can properly bandage myself without passing out again."

"You mean fainting?"

"Men do not faint." Hunter struggled to get to his feet. "We merely close our eyes for a spell."

"You were unconscious."

"I was dreaming of a beautiful woman…"

Gwen rolled her eyes and helped him up.

"…she was wearing red. And she confessed her love to me not once, not twice, but thrice!"

"Interesting."

"My story?" Hunter held tightly onto her as she led him down the hall and slowly up the stairs.

"No." Blast, but the man was heavy. "The fact that alcohol could so easily be soaked in through the skin that you would start to hallucinate."

"Hmmph," Hunter grumbled, as they made their way up to the second level and slowly stumbled down the hall.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Hunter winced as Gwen used her free hand to push the door open. Once they were inside, Gwen gently laid him onto the bed, not because she wanted to but because she figured if she went about it more aggressively he would get the wrong sort of idea.

Even though the idea of being alone with him in his room was causing her treacherous body to heat. No self-respecting woman should be alone with a man, especially not one whose reputation hung in the balance.

Hunter groaned and pointed toward a small dresser. "Inside the first drawer are enough supplies to pack the wound. If you would be so kind."

He lay back across the bed.

Gwen briskly walked to the dresser and pulled open the first drawer, then she really wished she wouldn't have.

"How many knives do you possess?" Knives of every sort littered the inside of the first drawer. Did the man actually use them with his victims or have a strange fascination?

"Under the knives," Hunter said, ignoring her question. "Look under the knives."

She lifted the board where the knives lay. It clicked open and then pulled back, as if it was on some sort of mechanical device. "Fascinating."

"Yes, perhaps we can discuss my many treasures before I bleed to death. Once I've closed my eyes, you may touch as many knives as you want, including mine."

Gwen felt herself blush but ignored him. Was everything a joke to this man? Every blasted little thing? She quickly grabbed the bandages and marched over to him. He leaned up on his elbows. Sweat still marked his brow. With a curse, Hunter got to a sitting position and attempted pulling off his jacket. But once he raised his arms, he cursed a blue streak and paused. "A little help, please."

The sooner she helped him, the sooner she could go home. Gwen licked her lips and began tugging at the jacket. She tried, she really tried to keep her eyes framed onto his jacket as she helped him tug out of it. But the minute she removed it, she was faced with his shirtsleeves.