She closed the door on his stunned expression, then quickly turned to face the person lying on the large four-poster bed.
Claybourne flicked the sheet over his hips, but not before she caught sight of an incredible expanse of bare leg, firm thigh, and rounded buttock. He wasn’t wearing a nightshirt. Apparently he wasn’t wearing anything at all.
“What are you doing here?” he ground out, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I sent…a missive.”
“You’re in pain.”
“I am well aware of that.”
“Did you get conked last night?”
“Don’t be absurd. Just go.”
She remembered how her father had suffered terrible head pains, and then one night—
“You should send for your physician—Dr. Graves.”
“He’s already been here. It’s only my head. I’ll be fine by tomorrow. Just leave me to it.”
“You say that as though you’ve encountered this before.”
She took a step nearer. It didn’t smell like a sickroom, didn’t smell like her father’s room. It carried the strong, tart fragrance of male. For some strange reason, the scent appealed to her, more than the fragrance of flowers in a garden.
“You weren’t wounded last night?” she asked again.
“No.” He was breathing heavily, laboriously.
She placed the lamp on the bedside table, removed her cloak, and draped it over a nearby chair. She sat on the edge of the bed.
“This isn’t prop—” he began.
“Shh! Since when do you care about what’s proper? Just lie still.”
Leaning forward, she placed her hands on either side of his head and, with her fingers, began to gently massage his temples. His brow was deeply furrowed, his jaw clenched.
She could see the pain etched in the silver of his eyes as he held her gaze.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Catherine.”
“No one knows I’m here. I took precautions and was very careful. Even the man who’s been following me wasn’t about.”
“What?” He shot up in bed, groaned, grabbed his head, and fell back down.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered, breathing with short, quick gasps.
“Is swearing thrice more effective than swearing once?” she asked.
He chuckled low in his throat. “Hardly. But it brings me some satisfaction. Now, tell me…about this man who’s following you.”
“Only if you’ll close your eyes and allow me to do what I can to ease your pain. My father suffered horrendous headaches. Applying pressure at his temples helped.”
She was near enough to see that Claybourne was no stranger to hurt—his body bore the evidence with small scars here and there on what was otherwise an immensely attractive chest. She hated the thought of him enduring any sort of discomfort. What had he ever done to deserve such a harsh life? That even now, when he had almost everything, he still suffered.
“Close your eyes,” she ordered.
To her immense surprise, he complied without arguing.
“Shouldn’t—”
