Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(46)

Logan smiled, smoothing the silken hair on the pillow. For a moment he allowed himself to think of the things he would teach her, the pleasures they would share, until the heat of arousal began to fill him. Grimacing wryly, he stood up from the bed. Too soon for such thoughts. There would be time enough when they had both recuperated. Then he would indulge Madeline's every fantasy…and more than a few of his own.

Seven

Madeline awakened and lay still for a few minutes, slowly recollecting all that had happened. She began to rise from bed and winced at the ache of her muscles. The worst of it was in her back and shoulders. Cautiously she stretched, gasping as the pain brought smarting tears to her eyes.

A housemaid knocked at the door and entered with a bucket of coal to refresh the grate. “Miss Ridley,” she said, seeming gratified to find Madeline awake. “Mrs. Beecham says we should all thank you for what you done for the master.”

“How is he?”

“Oh, very well, miss! Sleeping most o' the time. When 'e's awake, 'e rings for someone every few minutes, wanting food, liquor, books, an' such, but Mrs. Beecham said not to bring anything like that.”

Madeline smiled, reflecting that it wasn't in Logan's nature to be a good sickroom patient. She wanted to go to him at once. Self-consciously she put her hands to her unwashed hair.

“We'll pour a bath for you in the dressing room,” the maid said. “And I'll bring a breakfast tray. Mrs. Beecham said you were to have anything you wanted.” She went to the armoire and opened it to reveal some garments. “These came for you last evening.”

The new gowns…Mrs. Florence must have sent them from Somerset Street as soon as they were delivered. Murmuring her thanks, Madeline approached the armoire and lifted out the yellow corded silk, grimacing at the ache in her shoulder. Noticing her expression, the maid quickly deduced the reason. “I'll 'urry with the bath, miss. May'ap the warm water will ease your pains a bit.”

Two maids helped Madeline to bathe and wash her long hair, rinsing it with violet-scented water until it gleamed. They wrapped her in warmed towels and brushed her hair before the fire, brought a tray of ham, souffl´e, and fruit, and pressed every last wrinkle from her gown.

They arranged her hair in a neat braided coil on top of her head, letting a few waving strands fall on either side of her face, and helped her to dress. The yellow gown was cut with a simplicity that suited her, giving her an appearance that was neither too young nor too sophisticated. She enjoyed the rustle of the scalloped hem around her feet, and the crisp fabric that flowed down to a cuffed wrist. As the maids exclaimed admiringly, Madeline felt a blush rising from the scooped neckline.

“Quite lovely,” Mrs. Beecham said, coming into the room with an approving smile. “Are you feeling better this morning, Miss Ridley?”

“Yes, thank you. About Mr. Scott—”

“He's been asking about you every five minutes,” the housekeeper replied. “In fact, I've come to tell you that he requires your presence immediately.”

Madeline smiled. “It sounds as if he's nearly back to his old self.”

“It won't be long,” the housekeeper agreed.

Madeline followed Mrs. Beecham to the suite's main bedroom. As they approached, there was a stream of clearly audible complaints.

“…I don't want any more broth,” Logan said, lecturing a hapless servant who had brought him a tray from the kitchen. “I want meat, bread, coffee—how the hell am I supposed to live on paste and broth? And if you bring me anything else with milk in it, I'm going to—”

He stopped abruptly as his gaze fell on Madeline. “Maddy,” he said, his voice still raspy.

Like her, he had bathed recently. His hair was still damp, his face gleaming from a precise shave. He was dressed in white flannels that had been buttoned up to the neck, but the memory of what was beneath them, every inch of smooth skin and hard muscle, was forever imprinted in her mind. Now, seeing him fully alert and commanding, it already seemed impossible that she had seen and touched him so intimately.

Discreetly Mrs. Beecham and the servant departed, leaving them alone together.

“You're not a very accommodating patient,” Madeline said, coming to the bedside.

“I'm going mad,” he said. “I want you to find out from Bennett what the hell is going on at my theater, and bring me something to do—”

“You're supposed to rest,” she replied, enjoying his enforced helplessness as well as the signs of his returning temper. “I'm certain the doctor must have told you not to strain yourself.”

“It's a strain to sit here and be treated like a bloody invalid.”

Smiling, Madeline leaned over until their noses were nearly touching. She stared directly into his eyes, her own gleaming with challenge. “You are an invalid, Mr. Scott.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, and time seemed to stop for a moment. “I won't be for long,” he said softly.

There was something new between them, a flow of awareness and intimacy that made Madeline breathless. “For now you must stay in bed.”

He glanced at the valley of her cle**age, the curves of her br**sts barely contained in yellow silk. When his gaze returned to her face, blue flame danced in his eyes. “Make me.”