The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(8)

Holcomb pretended not to notice. “Though your eye remains red, it’s reactive to light and movement. Can you see as well as before?”

The truth was, he had no idea.

“I … think I can see fine.”

“All things considered, Miss Weatherstoke is correct. Your continuing recovery is nothing less than miraculous. To be honest, I didn’t expect you to survive.”

“You see?” she encouraged. “A miracle, not a monster. In order to be considered a monster, you must first do something monstrous.”

He had.

The revelation hit his gut like a swallowed stone.

The evidence was in his violent, visceral reaction to everyone and everything.

Except her.

Scrambling around the aching emptiness in his brain for the barest hint of a past, he found nothing. He remembered nothing. Not his name. His age. His origin. Not even his own hair or eye color.

Yet certain powerful, primal information gave him a terrifying glimpse into his nature.

He knew things a monster would know. Noticed what a monster would notice.

He could kill. With that decorative letter opener, the pillow beneath his head, the pitcher of water broken into lethal shards. He could and would open an artery, or throat if necessary. He knew exactly how much damage he could inflict. How much time it would take. Where to exert the most force or pressure.

Pain was not only his oppressor, keeping him useless upon this bed. It was his tool.

His friend.

The only friend he could remember.

How was it he knew nothing, but could ascertain that?

The doctor’s touch repulsed him, in every confusing and conceivable way. A strong man with cold eyes. Someone who wielded more power than he did.

For now.

This he could not abide. Why? Why?

He leveled a cautionary stare at the doctor as Holcomb measured the pulse at his throat.

Holcomb regarded him strangely, in turn, before standing. “I—think I’ll go tell the earl the news.” He paused in the doorway. “My Lady, would you like to accompany me?”

“I’ll stay and make certain our patient keeps down a few sips of soup.”

“Are you certain you should be alone with—”

“We’ll be fine, Dr. Holcomb, thank you ever so much.” Even her dismissal sounded like a compliment.

The doctor’s eyes narrowed dubiously. “As you say.”

Then they were alone.

Could she hear his heart pounding? Could she see how quickly his chest rose and fell? Did she feel anything but pity when she looked at him?

She released his hand, and reached for the bowl of soup at his bedside.

Bereft, he brought his empty hand back over his heart, which ached more than it beat.

“Hungry?” she asked brightly.

Unable to find words again, he shook his head. He couldn’t think of eating. Not in front of her. She was a lady, refinement evident in her every graceful gesture. What if he did something embarrassing?

“It’s very good.” She lifted the spoon. “I’ve been feeding you every day while you’ve been here. This is a favorite of yours.”

It was? He eyed the brown liquid dubiously, wondering just what floated beneath the surface.

“If I have some first, would that help?” She lifted a healthy spoonful of what appeared to be broth and soggy vegetables to her plump pink lips.

The inside of his own mouth dried as he alertly watched her savor the bite of stew. His hand dropped from his chest to cover his lap.

“Mmmmmm,” she moaned with overwrought appreciation. “It’s extra delicious today.”

Disturbed by his body’s reaction to her, he crossed his legs and covered the moan of pain the movement caused him.

“You must have some nourishment in order to heal.” Her eyes became pools of concern. “Is there nothing that could entice you to eat? What would it take?”

“Your name…” The words escaped before he’d properly formed the thought.

She blinked rapidly, the bowl in her hand threatening to spill when she trembled. She turned peach rather than pink when she blushed. He stored that away for future reference.

“Lorelai. My name is Lady Lorelai Weatherstoke.”

Lorelai. He couldn’t bring himself to repeat it. The name was too lovely. Too lyrical. He needed to practice first. To test it by himself before addressing her.

“Are you a man of your word?” she asked.

His heart stalled. “What do you mean?” Was he a man of his word? He had an ominous feeling that he was not.

“You said you would eat.”

“Oh … yes.” That he could do. In fact, he realized then and there that he would never break a promise to Lorelai. He’d keep his word to her, or die trying.

She dipped the spoon, crafted a bite, and lifted it to his lips.

As he took it, she unconsciously mimed the action of eating, opening her mouth and then closing it to mirror him. Swallowing when he did as if to teach him how.

She transfixed him so utterly, he didn’t even taste the food until the second bite.

She’d been telling the truth. It was very good. The soup consisted of dark, briny meat, sweet carrots, and was thickened with potatoes, herbs, and a luxurious taste he couldn’t identify. Something told him he wasn’t used to decent food.