That note found the vulnerable slot between his plates of armor, wriggled in deep and sank in teeth. Her voice was the sweetest venom. It was in his blood, his heart, pumping all through his body before he could muster any defense. All sorts of impulses swelled in response: affinity, desire, protectiveness. An intense, sudden hunger for her approval.
Naturally, a well-bred lady of accomplishment would not look at a man like him. Nor should she. He’d formed no plans or expectations. But simply to know he could feel such things was a source of true wonder. He’d been numb for so long.
She’d struck the last chord, and the music eased into a full, vibrating silence. He would not have noticed a powder blast in the lane.
Then she’d risen from the pianoforte to take her seat. He saw the mark at her temple, and the truth detonated.
Good Lord. It was her. Katie.
Waifish, sweet-faced Katie, all grown up. Now it all made sense. There was a reason he felt a strong sense of recognition—because he did know her. He felt protective toward her because she’d once been in his keeping. And that hunger for her approval . . . it too had its roots in a time long past, when she’d looked up to him with something akin to worship in her eyes.
All these impulses inside him . . . they were echoes of something he’d lost long ago. Some memory of the humanity that had long since been beaten, starved, and flogged out of him.
She didn’t know him, of course. She couldn’t have remembered—she’d been too young, and now they were too different. They’d started in the same low trough of their youth but climbed opposites sides of the valley. Now there was a chasm between them, and even if she shaded her brow and peered hard, she’d probably never recognize him across it. But what mattered was that she had survived. She’d forged a new life well apart from that squalid misery they once shared. And he’d vowed to himself then and there—no matter how alluring he found her, he would never do anything to jeopardize her happiness.
A year of mostly successful avoidance. And then he made the idiot mistake of letting her hold his dog. A lurcher pup bred too well for his own good, cornering the first snake he happened to meet.
Badger lay curled at the foot of the bed. Thorne glowered at the sleeping ball of fur. This is all your fault, I hope you know.
“You’re awake.” Soft footfalls crossed to the bedside. A cool hand pressed to his brow. “I’m here.”
“How long have I been insensible?”
“Since yesterday afternoon. It’s a few hours yet before dawn, I think.” She stroked the hair back from his brow. “Thank God your fever’s broken. And the swelling’s much improved.”
He let his head fall to one side and surveyed his condition. Most of his body was draped with a clean white linen sheet, save for his injured right arm, which lay atop the bedclothes. The tourniquet was gone. A fragrant plaster covered his wound, held in place with strips of flannel. His entire arm had been washed clean, and the swelling had abated. The discoloration remained, however—red streaks and purple-black bruises covered his skin. It looked as though his arm had been caught in a clothespress.
He’d lived through worse. His arm scarcely hurt anymore. Instead, it felt numb. He flexed his muscles, attempting to make a fist. His fingers gave a feeble twitch.
Then he tried once more to draw up his legs. Nothing. That worried him.
“Drink this.”
She brought a cup of tea to his lips. He bent his head and sipped. The infusion had an herbal, faintly familiar taste. He thought he recalled her spooning it through his cracked lips sometime during the night.
“You stayed by me,” he said. “All night.”
She nodded. “I could not have done otherwise.”
“I’m in your debt.”
“I’ll think of ways you can repay me.” She gave him a wry, cryptic smile.
He glanced down at his uncooperative limbs and hesitated. “I . . . I can’t move. I can’t move my body below the neck.”
She didn’t show quite the concern or dismay he might have expected. “Oh, I know you can’t.”
He frowned with confusion.
She reached for the edge of the linen and lifted it, so he might peer beneath. Several lengths of bedsheet and neckcloth were tied about his torso and left arm, lashing him to the bed.
Bindings. Now that he understood they were there, he could feel similar restraints on his legs. All the knots were well out of reach.
“Why would you do that?”
“At first, because you were thrashing so much.”
Damn it. If he’d lashed out at her while he was insensible, he’d never forgive himself.
“Did I—” The words stuck. He cleared his throat with a harsh, desperate cough. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
Thank God.
“But you were delirious, and I worried you’d do yourself more harm. So I bound you. And then I left the bindings on because”—she replaced the linen sheet, brought a chair to the bedside and fixed him with a challenging look—”you have some explaining to do.”
His heart began to pound. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you? When you fell ill yesterday, you did a great deal of talking. About you and me.”