The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(13)

*

A week later, Lorelai peeked around the door, and found his dark lashes fanned against his pale cheek, trembling with a dream.

A good dream this time, she hoped.

She trembled, too, but not from any of the emotions evoked on the night of which neither of them had spoken.

Today, only excitement quivered through her.

They’d become careful friends while gentle rains had kept everyone inside over the last several days, and she’d gathered that along with pain, he was also plagued by boredom. She’d check on him after the evening meal, and when she often found him awake, she’d distract him from dark moods with a hand or two of cards. écarté, upon occasion, or whist. She’d taught him cribbage and chess, at which he’d never best her. Though … there were times she wondered if he didn’t let her win. With such clever intellect glittering behind his somber, dark eyes, it seemed incongruous that he didn’t best her, even when she made what she knew to be devastating mistakes.

She had the sense he did more than tolerate her company. Perhaps he even enjoyed it. However, a distance often crept into his gaze or, conversely, an intensity would tighten his words to a clip and his motions into sharp blades of strain.

What torture it must be to rely upon the kindness of strangers.

To be a stranger, even unto yourself.

Waving a few indulgent servants in stocking feet into the room, she silently directed them to set their wares here and there, a tiptoed dance they performed to perfection. Even the contents of the boxes made little to no noise as they were carefully jostled into place.

Indulging in a giddy smile at her impending success, she gestured her thanks to her cohorts. Signals which were readily returned. Then she shut the door behind them with nary a click … and turned to the sight of two unblinking, coal-black eyes affixed on her.

Lorelai did her best not to allow her disappointment to show.

Could her patient have not stayed asleep for just a few more minutes? Then everything would have been perfect.

Her belly clenched alarmingly low, as it often did when he looked at her like that, and her hold on the burden in her hands dangerously tilted as her smile died.

Even as she berated herself for being foolish and fanciful, she always interpreted his stare as appreciative, somehow. As though she’d rescued him from something dreadful, even if it was just a nap.

She’d been silly to hope to surprise him, she supposed with a disenchanted sigh.

Other than the night—that night—it became evident that the mere sound of breath stirring the air brought his long, slumbering body to life, tensing his muscles with an ever-ready vigilance. A vigilance not generally observed in human creatures, but saved for those who slept with an ear to the ground.

Those who needed to eat, or to avoid being eaten.

This tendency of his tugged at her heart, for she’d the feeling a man developed these senses through a life lived in feral environs. One where survival was a constant battle.

She approached him as she did other wild, uncertain creatures: slowly, steadily, hand outstretched.

Bending his elbows and planting his hands flat on the mattress, he pushed himself into a sitting position with almost no difficulty, never taking his eyes away from her.

His strength had returned with alarming speed.

Today Dr. Holcomb had unwrapped his ribs.

She tried not to note that his sleep shirt had been left unbuttoned. Nor mark the flex and swell of his smooth chest as he lifted his own bulk. As with every attempt at propriety where he was concerned …

She only mostly succeeded.

The bruises on his torso had healed, as had the broken ribs beneath. And yet he never seemed to breathe easier. Not in her presence, in any case.

It occurred to her that she’d stood there staring for an inordinately rude amount of time.

He didn’t prompt her to say anything. Nor did he move to cover himself or regain modesty. Something about the way he watched her … or perhaps the way he sat, straight-backed and broad-shouldered, conveyed a certain awareness she hadn’t previously noted.

His chin dipped, black gaze dropping to his bare torso as though discovering his own topography. The sinewy swells of his chest. The deep valley between them. The neat, symmetrical bunches of muscle at his stomach. Four ripples, she counted before they disappeared beneath the blanket.

She knew there were more. She’d seen it all in the carriage.

Swallowing around a dry tongue, she wrenched her notice back to his eyes. This time, when the coals of his irises met hers, they glowed with something as dangerous as invitation. Something as genuine as admiration.

Did he want her to look at him? Did he want her to like what she saw?

Because she did. And … she did.

Clearing her throat, she hobbled forward, painfully aware of her limp. “I decided today is your birthday.” She injected as much sunshine into her voice as she could, to make up for the dreariness of the sickroom.

Two satirically arched ebony brows knit over deep-set eyes. “Why? Why today?”

She liked his voice this way. Rumbled with sleep and disuse, yet smooth with caution. His reaction encouraged her, as well. Not because it was especially reassuring, but because he’d had a reaction at all. Usually, his features remained carefully, infuriatingly impassive.

Some of her eagerness returning, she lifted the offer ing judiciously balanced in both hands. “Mostly because Cook made a cake today, and the icing is especially good.”