Someone to Watch Over Me (Bow Street Runners #1)(5)

"Yes," she said, chewing harder on her lip. But the tears kept leaking out, and the stranger swore beneath his breath.

He gathered her in the mass of bedclothes and carefully pulled her into his arms, compressing her trembling limbs. She gasped at the relief of it. He was so infinitely strong, holding her hard against him. Resting her head on his shoulder, she crushed her cheek against the linen of his shirt. Her vision was filled with details of him: the smooth tanned skin, the neat question-mark shape of his ear, the silky-rough locks of dark brown hair cropped unfashionably close to his head.

"I'm s-so cold..." she said, her mouth close to his ear.

"Well, a swim in the Thames will do that to you," he said dryly. "Especially this time of year." She felt him breathe against her forehead, a rush of heat, and she was flooded with desperate gratitude. She never wanted to leave his arms.

Her tongue felt thick as she tried to moisten her cracked lips. "Who are you?"

"Don't you remember?"

"No, I..." Thoughts and images eluded her efforts to capture them. She couldn't remember anything. There was blankness in every direction, a great confounding void.

He eased her head back, his warm fingers cupping around the back of her neck. A slight smile tipped the corners of his mouth. "Grant Morgan." "What h-happened to me?" She struggled to think past the pain and the distracting tremors. "I-I was in the water..." She remembered the salty coldness burning her eyes and throat, blocking her ears, paralyzing her thrashing limbs. She had lost the battle for air, felt her lungs exploding, felt herself descending as if invisible hands pulled her from below. "S-someone pulled me out. Was it you?"

"No. A waterman found you and sent for a Runner. I happened to be the only one available tonight." His hand moved over her back in slow strokes. "How did you end up in the river, Vivien?"

"Vivien?" she repeated in desperate confusion. "Why did you call me that?"

There was a moment of silence that terrified her. He expected her to recognize the name...Vivien...She struggled to think of some meaning or image to attach to the name. There was only blankness.

"Who is Vivien?" Her sore throat clenched until she could barely produce a sound. "What's happening to me?"

"Calm down," he said. "Don't you know your own name?"

"No...I don't know, I...can't rememberanything..." She shuddered with frightened sobs. "Oh...I'm going to be sick."

Morgan moved with remarkable quickness, snatching up a creamware bowl from the bedside table and lowering her head over it. Dry heaves racked her body. When the convulsion passed, she hung limply over his arm and shivered miserably. He lowered her onto his lap and rested her head against his hard thigh.

"Help me," she moaned.

Long fingers slid gently over the side of her face. "It's all right. Don't be afraid."

Incredibly, though it was clear that nothing was right and there was a great deal to fear, she took comfort in his voice, his touch, his presence. His hands moved tenderly over her body, soothing her shaking limbs. "Breathe," he said, his palm moving in circles on the middle of her chest, and somehow she drew in a gulp of air. Hazily she wondered if this was what it felt like when heavenly spirits visited to minister to the suffering...Yes, an angel's touch must be like this.

"My head hurts," she croaked. "I feel so strange...Have I gone mad? Where am I?"

"Rest," he said. "We'll sort everything out later. Just rest."

"Tell me your name again," she begged in a hoarse whisper.

"My name is Grant. You're in my home...and you're safe."

Somehow through her misery, she sensed his ambivalence toward her, his wish to remain remote and unfeeling. He hadn't wanted to be kind to her, but he couldn't help himself. "Grant," she repeated, catching at the warm hand on her chest, feebly pressing it against her heart. "Thank you." She felt him go very still, his thigh tautening under the weight of her head. Exhausted, she closed her eyes and went to sleep in his lap. Grant eased Vivien onto the pillows and tucked her neatly beneath the covers. He struggled to make sense of what was happening. He had helped women in trouble too many times to count. By now he was no longer capable of being moved by the sight of a damsel in distress. It was better for the people he served, not to mention himself, to remain efficiently impassive and get the job done. He hadn't wept in years. Nothing could break through the protective shell that had formed around his heart.

But Vivien, in all her damaged beauty and unexpected sweetness, had affected him more than he would have believed possible. He couldn't ignore a chord of elemental pleasure at seeing her in his home...in his bed.

His palm tingled at the feel of her heartbeat, as if the rhythm of her life force were captured beneath his hand. He wanted very much to stay with her, to hold her, not out of passion but from a desire to give her the warmth and protection of his own body.

Grant scrubbed his hands roughly over his face, through his short hair, and stood with a growl. What the hell was the matter with him?

The memory of the one time he and Vivien had met, two months ago, was still fresh in his mind. He had seen Vivien at a birthday ball given by Lord Wentworth for his mistress. The ball had been attended by members of the demimonde, the halfworld of high-living prostitutes, gamblers, and dandies who were not fit for theton but considered themselves far above the working classes. Since Grant's position in society was well nigh impossible for anyone to define, he was invited to gatherings of every stratum of society, from the highest to the lowest. He associated with the morally righteous, the ethically questionable, and the overtly corrupt, belonging nowhere and everywhere.