Lady Sophia's Lover (Bow Street Runners #2)(29)

As the ache in his shoulder subsided to a continuous pain, Ross accepted Sophia’s help in undressing. He did as much as possible by himself, but the effort soon exhausted him. By the time she had settled a white linen nightshirt over his head and helped to guide his injured arm through the sleeve, he was sore and depleted. “Thank you,” he muttered, settling back against the pillows with a grunt of pain.

Sophia straightened the covers and brought them to his midriff. Her gaze searched his, her eyes dark with concern and some other, unfathomable emotion. “Sir Grant is waiting just outside the door. Will you see him now, or shall I tell him to return later?”

“I’ll see him.” A sigh escaped Ross. He did not want to talk with Morgan or anyone else. He wanted silence, peace, and Sophia’s gentle presence beside him.

Instinctively she began to reach for him, then hesitated. Not for the first time, Ross sensed her inner struggle, a conflict between intimacy and repulsion, as if she were determined to deny herself something she wanted badly. She extended her hand to stroke his forehead and smooth back his hair with cool fingertips. “Don’t talk with him for long,” she murmured. “You need to rest. I will return soon with a supper tray.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She ignored his words as she left, and Ross grinned ruefully at the sure knowledge that she was not going to desist until he ate something.

Sir Grant Morgan entered the bedroom, ducking his head beneath the doorframe. His gaze flickered over Ross, lingering at the bulky shape of the wound dressing at his shoulder. “How are you?” he asked quietly, lowering himself to the bedside chair.

“Never better,” Ross said. “The injury is trifling. I’ll be back at work by tomorrow, or the next day at the latest.”

For some reason Morgan laughed gruffly. “Damn you, Cannon. I’d like to know what you would say to me, had I taken the foolish risk that you did this evening.”

“If I hadn’t joined in the pursuit, Butler would have gotten away.”

“Oh, yes,” Morgan said sardonically. “Sayer said you were a hell of an impressive sight. According to him, you climbed up to the roof like a damned cat and followed Butler right over to the next building. A five-foot jump between parapets, with certain death awaiting if you lost your footing. And after Butler fired, no one knew you’d been hit, because you kept going until you caught him. Sayer claims you’re a bloody hero.” Morgan’s tone made it clear that he did not agree with the assessment.

“I did not fall,” Ross pointed out, “and all has ended well. Let it rest at that.”

“Let it rest?” Although Morgan was still controlling his temper fairly well, his face was covered with a betraying flush. “What right have you to risk your life in such a manner? Do you know what would become of Bow Street if you had died tonight? I need not remind you of all the people who would be only too happy to use your demise as an excuse to dismantle the runners and turn the whole of London over to private thief-takers and crime lords such as Nick Gentry.”

“You wouldn’t let that happen.”

“I couldn’t stop it,” Morgan countered. “I haven’t your skills, your knowledge, or your political influence—not yet, at any rate. Your death would jeopardize everything we’ve worked for—and that you should risk so much because of a woman, for God’s sake—”

“What did you say?” Ross demanded. “You think I went on that rooftop because of a woman?”

“Because of Miss Sydney.” Morgan’s unwavering green eyes focused on him. “You’ve changed since she’s come here, and tonight is a prime example of that. Although I won’t pretend to understand what you’re thinking—”

“Thank you,” Ross muttered darkly.

“—it is clear that you are struggling with some problem. My guess is that it stems from your interest in Miss Sydney.” The hard planes of Morgan’s face relaxed as he viewed Ross with a perceptive gaze. “If you want her, take her,” he said quietly. “God knows she would have you. That fact is obvious to everyone.”

Ross brooded and made no reply. He was not the most self-aware of men, preferring to examine other people’s motives and emotions in lieu of his own. To his uncomfortable surprise, Ross realized that Morgan was correct. He had indeed acted recklessly, out of frustration and yearning and perhaps even a strain of guilt. It seemed so long ago that his wife had died, and the pain he had carried for five years had faded. Lately there had been days at a time when he didn’t even think about her, yet he had sincerely loved Eleanor. However, the memories had become distant and pale ever since Sophia had entered his life. Ross could not remember if he had felt this passionately about his wife. Surely it was indecent to compare them, but he couldn’t help it. Eleanor, so willowy, pale, fragile… and Sophia, with her golden beauty and feminine vitality.

He turned an expressionless face to Grant Morgan. “My interest in Miss Sydney is my own concern,” he said flatly. “And as for my somewhat precipitous actions this evening, from now on I will try to limit my activities to those of a more cerebral nature.”

“And leave the thief-taking to the runners—as I have learned to do,” Morgan said sternly.

“Yes. However, I wish to correct you on one point—I am not irreplaceable. The time is not long in coming when you will easily be able to fill my shoes.”