“What is it?” she asked. “Are you unwell?”
She padded across the floor and crouched at his side.
“Go away. Leave me.” He rolled onto his side, curling his knees to his stomach and pressing his skull against the cool, smooth stone.
“Are you having some sort of attack?”
“Just . . .” He flinched as a fresh burst of pain ripped from his eye socket to the back of his skull. “Just a headache.”
It wasn’t just a headache. It was a headagony. The pain ripped from the back of his skull, curving around one side of his scalp to stab him just behind the eye.
Again and again and again.
“How can I help?” she asked.
“By leaving.”
“I won’t do that. You didn’t leave me when I swooned.”
“Different,” he muttered. “Wasn’t—”
“It wasn’t kindness. I know, I know. Something about vermin. If you don’t want me, shall I fetch Duncan?”
“No.” He managed to pronounce the word with gunshot force, but it had a wicked recoil. White streaks of pain flared behind his eyelids.
She didn’t leave him. “Do you need water? Whisky? Some sort of powder?”
He gritted his teeth and gave a tight shake of his head. “Nothing works. Have to wait it out.”
“How long?”
“An hour, perhaps.”
An hour that would feel like a lifetime. A lifetime of being stabbed through the base of his skull with a spike. Repeatedly.
“I’ll stay with you,” she said.
Her hand settled on his shoulder, and the touch sent a shiver through him.
Ransom was accustomed to dealing with pain on his own. In his early life, he hadn’t been given a choice. His mother had died less than an hour after his birth. His father had showed no patience with tears he might shed over stubbed toes and scraped knees. If he hurt himself or fell ill, the old duke thought he should overcome the pain on his own. The nursemaids and house staff were forbidden to give him so much as a hug. No coddling. No small mercies. His father had insisted on it.
And his father had been right. By learning to recover on his own, Ransom had grown into a strong, independent man. Untouchable. Invincible.
Right up until the moment a short sword caught him across the face.
Her fingers brushed over his ruined brow.
“I don’t need you here,” he said.
“Of course you don’t. You’re a big, strong, manly duke, and you don’t need anyone, I know. I’m not here for you. I’m here for me. Because I need to stay.”
With a sigh, he gave in. He hadn’t the strength to argue it further.
She settled beside him and drew his head into her lap. “There, now. Be easy. Be calm.”
Her fingers drifted through his hair, tracing delicious furrows on his scalp. Each caress seemed to stroke away a bit of the pain.
Her touch was like magic—or the closest thing to a miracle a man like him could ever credit. She found the sharp edge of his pain and dulled it with gentle sweeps of her fingertips.
And her voice. That deep, sweet river of her voice, carrying him away from the pain.
It was so foreign to him, this unsolicited tenderness. Incomprehensible. And much as he craved it, it scared him like hell. With every caress he permitted, he was piling up debts he could never repay.
You don’t deserve it, came that dark, unforgiving echo. He’d heard the words so many times, they were part of him now. They lived in his blood, resounding with each hollow beat of his heart. You don’t deserve this. You never could.
Her thumb found a knot at the base of his skull and pressed. He moaned.
She immediately stilled. “Am I distressing you?”
“No. Yes.” He turned so that his head lay in the cradle of her lap, and he stretched one arm about her waist, shameless. “Just . . .”
“Yes?”
“Don’t stop.” He sucked in his breath as a fresh wave of pain nearly knocked him cold. “Don’t stop.”