He’d intended his tone to be light, even flippant, but his underlying thoughts crept in, and the words emerged too intent, too deep.
She glanced swiftly at him, her greeny-hazel eyes a touch wider than they had been. He was fairly certain nothing of his covetous thoughts showed in his face, yet after scanning his features, she looked down again, then after a moment’s hesitation, she bent and rummaged in the basket at her feet.
She gave an irritated huff. “I’ve left my shears in the parlor. I’ll have to fetch them.” She bundled up the linen she’d been working on, dropped it into the basket, rose, and only then met his eyes. “I won’t be long.”
Impulse prodded. Struggling up on one elbow, he waved her nearer. “Before you go, could you plump these pillows, please? It’s better for my lungs if I sit up.”
She hesitated for only a second, then briskly came to his side.
Warily, he sat up, grateful when no more coughing ensued. She steadied him with a hand on his linen-clad shoulder—and that light, impersonal touch sent heat streaking through him.
He froze, and she quickly removed her hand, pulled the pillows from behind him, shook them, then piled them high.
“There.” She lightly patted the mound.
When he hesitated, then gingerly started to lean back, as he’d hoped, she once again laid a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
He smiled and relaxed against the mounded softness and, before she could remove her hand, raised his and closed his fingers about hers. Once again, her fingers fluttered at the contact, then stilled. He turned his head, met her eyes, and smiled his most charming smile. “Thank you.” His eyes locked with hers, he raised her hand and brushed a kiss across the backs of her fingers. “You are, indeed, a ministering angel.”
Her eyes had widened; for an instant, as they searched his, her expression stated that she didn’t know how she wanted to react. Then she firmed her lips, straightened, and drew her fingers away; he released them only because he knew there was no point trying to hold on to them—not yet.
She hesitated for a second, her eyes scanning his face as if puzzled she couldn’t see past his façade, then she stepped back, reiterated, “I’ll be back shortly,” and made for the door.
Ellie stepped into the corridor and shut the door on the Hall’s best guest bedchamber. She released the knob and straightened. Standing in the dimness, she blinked—and blinked—trying to get her mind working again, to drag her wits and senses from dwelling on the feel of his fingers about hers and the even more disconcerting brush of his cool lips over what had proved to be unaccountably sensitive skin.
She realized she was brushing the backs of her fingers—where his lips had touched—with the fingers of her other hand.
Really? Anyone would imagine I’d never had my fingers kissed before.
She had, many times, yet those other instances had never resulted in her feeling flushed all over. She shouldn’t, she supposed, be surprised that he’d done such a thing; quite aside from his rambling when he’d thought he was dreaming, ever since he’d woken, whenever she’d been in his presence, she’d been aware of his attention—not just his gaze—locked on her.
While she couldn’t label him a rake, not on such short acquaintance and with no actual evidence of such a propensity, his style—clothes, manner, horses, and carriage—made him being a rake a distinct possibility.
He might think her physically perfect, and she would admit to feeling a compulsion like no other to draw nearer and explore what the strangely intense attraction flaring between them portended, but sating her burning curiosity wasn’t sufficient reason to allow him to lure her any closer.
As her aunt, Lady Camberford, had frequently warned her, succumbing to a handsome stranger’s practiced wiles rarely ended well.
Regardless of the snippets of information he’d shared, he was still very much a stranger to her, and his handsomeness should be neither here nor there.
In her mind, she saw him as she’d left him, propped against the pillows, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his hawk’s eyes fixed on her. After several seconds of dwelling on the vision, she dragged her wits away.
Clearly, she was going to have to work at holding herself to an acceptable line. She tipped her head, consulting her instincts; she felt fairly certain that he—no matter a handsome rake or not—wouldn’t step over that acceptable line, not unless she beckoned. While they were under her family’s roof, his honor—and again, she felt sure he had an abundance of that—would stand firmly in his way.
“Good.” All she had to do was adhere to proper behavior herself, and all would be well.
Reassured, she set out for the back parlor, where she last remembered using her shears.
Harry and Maggie would likely be there, whiling away the hours. They’d want to know about Cavanaugh, about anything she’d learned. A few minutes in their company, away from Cavanaugh, wouldn’t hurt.
Godfrey waited for his ministering angel to return.
How large was the house? How far away was the back parlor?
As the minutes ticked by, his fretfulness over simply lying there grew.
He realized he hadn’t coughed for some time; perhaps he was getting better.
Eventually, restlessness drove him to sit upright. Although his chest felt heavy, his breathing remained unobstructed, and no sense of giddiness assailed him.
Encouraged, he slowly swiveled until he was sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs hanging over the side. He looked at his clothes, folded and neatly piled on the dresser farther along the wall. The chair his angel had occupied sat to his right; there was no obstacle between him and his clothes—just several yards of polished board, partially covered by a rug.
He noticed the rug was, in fact, a Turkish kilim and rather fine. The thought of what else he might find in such an old house, just lying around, taken for granted by those who lived there, flitted through his brain.
He raised his head and fixed his gaze on his clothes; he would definitely feel more the thing if he got dressed.
He drew in a deeper breath, slid his feet to the floor, and slowly straightened.
The nightshirt draped about his legs, covering them to midcalf. He paused to draw in another breath and took one step.
The door opened, and he looked that way. He had an instant in which to take in Miss Hinckley’s shock at seeing him out of bed before the room swam.
His senses whirled; his head reeled. He made some garbled sound, closed his eyes, and groped behind him for the bed, but he must have turned…
Where is it?
He felt himself teetering…then small hands gripped him firmly about the waist.
“Stop.”
The word was a command, one he instinctively obeyed.
“Just stand still until it passes.”
A minute crawled by, and sure enough, the world stopped waltzing. He wondered how much of his returning steadiness had to do with the distraction she offered—her supple strength, the gripping of her fingers, the warmth of her palms striking through the fine linen, the subtle perfume that reached him as she stood so close beside him; her nearness bombarded his senses in myriad ways, dragging his awareness from everything else.
“Don’t move yet, but see if you can open your eyes.”