A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(72)

As she sat on the hearth rug and hugged her knees to her chest, he toweled dry her hair and helped her into one of his own clean, dry shirts. For modesty’s sake, he draped it over her head and shoulders before reaching beneath to unbutton and remove her chemise. He tried his best to keep his cold, coarse fingers from scraping against her bare flesh. He averted his eyes from the flash of her red, turgid nipple as he switched one garment for the other. As he pulled the folds of crisp, soap-scented lawn down her midriff, he tried to ignore the way lamplight cast her slight, nubile form in silhouette.

He couldn’t, not entirely. What a beast he was.

He would rather let her tend to such things herself, but she seemed incapable at the moment.

Once he laid a fire, she stared dully into it, mute and shivering. He wondered if it was the shock of remembering the Hothouse, and the squalid conditions there. Perhaps her mother’s loss had suddenly become real to her, and she was suffering the pangs of grief.

In any event, he didn’t want to rush her or press her to talk. He just relished the chance to take care of her, here and now—where this was his right, his responsibility, and no one else’s. He was happy for her to stare into the fire. When she came back to herself, those hazel eyes would no doubt turn on him and fill with loathing. It might be the last time she looked at him, ever again.

“Here,” he said, crouching beside her and offering her a steaming mug of tea, well-doctored with sugar and brandy. “Drink this. It will help you get warm.”

He put it in her hands, wrapping her fingers around it. She held it, but only stared blankly at the contents.

“I c-can’t seem to stop shivering.”

He reached for another blanket.

“No.” Her head turned, and her eyes focused on his face. “I want you, Samuel. I want you to hold me. Pl-Please.”

Those words—just the words alone—found some aching chasm in his soul and filled it. But damn it, he was trying to be honorable. If he took her in his arms, he wasn’t sure he could keep his thoughts protective.

“I should tend to your frock,” he said. “It’s almost dry, but it needs—”

“The frock can wait.” With trembling hands, she set the mug of tea on the floor. “I can’t.” Another chill racked her body. “I need you.”

Reluctantly, he sat beside her on the small, threadbare rug. He stretched one of his legs behind her, propping her up with his bent knee. His other leg sprawled toward the fire. And then he put both arms around her, and she sank into his embrace, nestling close to his chest. Her cool cheek rested against his pounding heart.

“Tight,” she whispered. “Hold me tight.”

He obeyed, flexing the muscles in his arms.

Her discomfort was his enemy. Any chills that dared rack her frame would have to rattle him, too. He had heat and strength enough for them both.

He bent his head, burying his face in her curling hair and letting his breath warm her ear and the back of her neck.

Her fingers gathered a fistful of his shirt and clung tight. They remained like that several minutes. He kept a close watch on her bottom lip. When it pinked and ceased quivering, a stupid surge of triumph rushed to his head. He had the brief, idiot notion he’d done something good for her.

Then he remembered who she was, and who he was, and precisely why they were here. And he reminded himself that this would be the end.

He pressed his face into the curve of her neck and inhaled deeply of her lemony clover scent. He’d hold her while he could.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “That’s better.”

When he lifted his head, she relaxed her grip on his shirt.

“I’ve remembered it for you,” she murmured. “The amusing story from your childhood. It’s like I told you, everyone has one. You see, there was this girl who shared your attic. A pestering little thing who tugged at your sleeves when you would have rather been running loose with the neighborhood boys. But late at night, sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, you took it on yourself to make her laugh and laugh—with games and shadow puppets and sweets nicked from the kitchens downstairs. One night, you bundled her up in every cloak and cape and muffler she had, and told her it was time to play gypsies. We were going to have a grand adventure, you said.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide in the dim firelight. “Why didn’t you tell me everything? You told me the truth of my mother, but you neglected to tell me the truth about you.” She touched his cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me that you saved my life?”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t save your life.”

“I think you did. Or something close to it. I told you, I finally remembered.”

She gazed into the fire, contemplative. “All my life, I’ve kept this shadowy recollection in my thoughts. I’m in a long, dark hallway, and I can feel pianoforte music coming up through the floor. I hear the song, that same little verse about the garden. There’s something blue flashing in the darkness, and someone says, ‘Be brave, my Katie.’ ”

A knot stuck in his throat. He couldn’t speak.

“It was you, wasn’t it? We were up in the attic, and we were escaping that place.”

He forced out a reply. “Yes.”

“You took my hand and opened the door. We hurried down the stairs, and we never went back. You delivered me to Margate.”