To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(48)

“Taking care of you.”

The words were soft, but his face wasn’t. She studied him lazily, too tired somehow to get up. He’d left off his wig, and the hair on his shorn head was barely longer than the stubble on his chin. It lay sleek and flat against his head. She wanted to touch it, to see if his hair was soft or prickly. The three birds flew about his right eye, all of them similar but all slightly different. And his midnight eyes watched her back, his brows knit as if with concern.

“Why do you need to take care of me?” she whispered.

“You were hurt,” he said, “and it was my fault.”

“How?”

“There were three assassins outside of Jeremy Oates’s town house.”

She remembered now—the man with the walleye and the other two smaller men, loitering. “Why? Why were they there?”

“To kill me,” he said grimly.

She reached up a hand and traced one of the bird tattoos near his eye. “Why is someone trying to kill you? Do you know?”

He closed his eyes at her touch. “No, I don’t know. Vale thinks it’s someone from our past.”

“I don’t understand.” Her hand dropped.

“I don’t either.” He opened his eyes, which were blazing black. “All I know is that it’s my fault that you’re hurt.”

She frowned, still confused. “But why is that your fault?”

“I failed to protect you,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows bemusedly. “Is that your job? To protect me?”

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

And he bent his head very slowly toward her. She watched him nearing, the birds getting ever closer, and she thought, He’s going to kiss me.

And then he was.

His lips were far softer than she would’ve thought—and they moved over hers gently but firmly. He’d kissed her once before, but that time it’d been so swift she’d hardly had time to assimilate the sensations. This time she could. His bristly cheeks scratched hers, but she didn’t mind. She was caught up in the sensation of his mouth, the smell of his neck—warm and masculine—and the sound of his breathing coming faster as he kissed her. He ran his tongue lazily over her lips, and she was so enchanted that she parted them, letting him in. He surged into her mouth, tasting of man, and she moaned, softly, just a little, but it was enough for him to pull back.

“I’m hurting you,” he said, scowling.

“No,” she replied, but it was already too late.

He rolled off the bed, taking with him all his glorious warmth and his magical mouth.

Beatrice pouted.

“I’ll send for your maid,” he said as he pulled on his boots. “Would you like anything? Tea? Some broth?”

“I’d like some tea,” she replied. She squinted at the window, but the curtains were pulled. “What time is it?”

“Almost night,” he said. “You’ve slept all day.”

“Did I?” How strange to remember morning and then nothing at all until after dark. The thought jogged her brain. “You were hurt!”

He turned to look at her. “What?”

“Your arm. I saw one of the men cut your arm.”

“This?” He pushed back the sleeve of his coat to reveal a torn and rust-stained shirt.

“Yes, that!” She was struggling to sit up now. “Why haven’t you had it seen to?”

He pressed her gently back down. “Because it isn’t of any concern.”

“Maybe not for you—”

“Hush.” His gaze was quite fierce. “You’ve had a stressful day, and your wound must ache. Rest now and I’ll come and see you when you’re properly attired.”

He strode from the room masterfully.

Properly attired? Beatrice frowned and only then realized that she hadn’t a stitch of clothing on under the covers.

Oh, my.

IT WAS AFTER ten by the time Reynaud got to Vale’s house and started banging on the door. Too early for Vale to have returned if he was out at a social event, too late for him to be receiving if he was spending a rare evening at home. Reynaud banged anyway. Vale was his only ally as far as he could see, and at the moment he needed an ally.

The door opened to reveal the face of a disapproving butler, whose expression modified only a little when he saw it was a gentleman knocking.

“Sir?”

Reynaud shouldered past the man. Damned if he’d stand on the step like a beggar. “Is the viscount home?”

The butler’s brows lowered. “Lord and Lady Vale are not receiving this evening. Perhaps if you—”

“I’m not coming back tomorrow,” Reynaud interrupted. “Either you go rouse him from wherever he is, or I’ll get him myself.”

The butler drew himself up and sniffed. “If you’ll wait in the sitting room, my lord.”

Reynaud stalked into the indicated room and spent the next ten minutes pacing from one end to the other. He was just about to give it up and go find Vale himself when the door opened.

Vale strolled in, yawning and wrapping a banyan about his middle. “Much as I’m glad that you’ve returned from the dead, old man, I really must insist that I reserve my evenings at home for my wife.”