“Must have been delirious.” He eyed the cup in her hand. “I’ll take some more of that tea, if you will.”
“Not just yet.” She balanced the pewter mug between her hands and twisted it back and forth. “You seemed to think we knew each other.”
“We do know each other.”
“In the past,” she said. “As children.”
A knot formed in his throat. He struggled harder against his bindings. “You must be confused. I don’t recall saying any such thing.”
“I thought that might be the case.” She set the mug aside and reached for a sheet of paper. “Fortunately, I wrote it all down.”
Damn it.
She smoothed flat the creases in the paper.
He strove to look bored.
She made her voice comically deep and gruff. In an imitation of him, he supposed. “ ‘You’ve done so well for yourself, Katie. If she could see you, she’d be so proud.’ ” She lowered the paper. “Who were you speaking of? Who would be proud?”
He shook his head. “You need to release me from these bindings so I can see you home. You’re overtired. You’re imagining things.”
She waved the paper at him. “I’m not imagining this!”
At her loud protest, the pup came awake.
“There was something about how you’d worried I might place you, remember you,” she went on. “You also mentioned that you could see down my bodice, and you told me I smelled like paradise.”
“Miss Taylor—”
“So now we’re back to ‘Miss Taylor.’ What happened to ‘Katie’?” She peered at him. “That’s another odd thing, you know. My name is Katherine. My friends call me Kate. No one calls me Katie. At least, no one has since I was a very small child.”
“Release me.” He mustered his voice of command. “I’ll see you home. It’s not proper for you to be here with me. Most certainly not alone, at this hour.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you give me some answers.”
“Then you’ll be here a very long time.”
She could keep him here a month, and his resolve wouldn’t crumble. He’d endured much harsher prisons, with much less comely captors. He could hold out for years.
“How does your arm feel?” she asked, changing the subject.
“How does it feel? It feels like wood.”
“I did some more reading while you were asleep. You can expect it to be numb for a few days, at least.” Her skirts rustled as she swept to the other side of the bed. She produced a vial of oil and pulled out the stopper. Tilting the bottle, she poured a shilling-sized pool of liquid into her palm. “This will help with the stiffness, the book said. It’s only plain oil from your cooking stores. I’ll fetch something aromatic from Summerfield later.”
She set aside the vial and rubbed her hands together, spreading the oil over both palms. Then she laid her hands to his bare skin and began to massage his deadened flesh. Her deft fingers kneaded him, chasing away the stiffness in his forearm.
Unfortunately, the stiffness wasn’t leaving his body altogether. No, it was merely relocating—to his groin. Beneath the bedsheet a familiar heaviness gathered and swelled.
He groaned. “Stop that.”
“Is it too painful?”
No. It feels too good.
“Will it help if I sing to you?” she asked coyly. “The way you begged me to sing to you last night?” She hummed a lilting melody, then sang the words that he already knew. “ ‘See the garden of blossoms so fair . . .’ ”
He sighed and closed his eyes. God, he hated that song.
“ ‘Roses in bloom,’ ” she sweetly sang on, “ ‘orchids so rare.’ ”
“Stop,” he growled at her. “Enough.”
Her massaging hands swept down the length of his arm, all the way to the bandage at his wrist. She turned his arm palm side up and simply laid her fingers across his hand.
“I’ve been staring at you all night. Searching what few memories I have from my earliest years. The more I look at you, the more I feel like there’s a puzzle I should be solving. But the pieces just won’t come together in my mind. And if you won’t volunteer any information . . .”
He sucked in his breath.
“ . . . then I have no choice but to bring out my most ruthless means of extorting it.”
“You’re threatening me with ruthlessness,” he scoffed.
“Don’t you think I have it in me?”
She caught the hemmed edge of the bedsheet and whisked it all the way down to his waist. His bare chest was exposed to the firelight. Every mark, every tattoo, every ridge of scar tissue. He burned with the sensation of exposure. She didn’t appear shocked, however. Only curious, in a markedly sensual way. No doubt she’d had a good view of him earlier. He hated that tending his physical infirmity had robbed her of yet more innocence.
But the way she unconsciously wet her lips as she regarded him . . .