Luke awoke with a start, a weight pressing down on his chest. The dream was bringing back the headache that he’d been fighting all day, ever since leaving Marcus Langdon’s.
But it wasn’t Langdon he kept thinking about. It was being in the alley—the knives, the clubs, the viciousness of the attack. Luke kept seeing Catherine, as he had last night, out of the corner of his eye, defending him, raising her arm to take the blow meant for him.
He usually had his coachman take a circuitous route home, because on more than one occasion they’d been set upon. But ever since he’d begun his association with Catherine, he’d become reckless. He wanted to get her home as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to spend any more time than necessary in the coach inhaling her sweet fragrance, carrying on conversations, coming to know her, to see her as more than the spoiled daughter of a duke.
He’d avoided the aristocracy because he didn’t want to see the similarities. He didn’t want to see them as people he could respect. Through Catherine, he was beginning to understand that they had fears, dreams, hopes, and burdens. They had troubles like everyone else and they faced them head on—like everyone else.
If he saw them as they truly were, the actions he’d taken to become one of them would shame him more than they already did. He’d been brought up to take what wasn’t rightfully his in order to survive. If he declared that he wasn’t the Earl of Claybourne, would they forgive him his sins? Or would he find himself dancing in the wind?
When he’d rather dance with Catherine.
He jerked out of the lethargic place where he’d been drifting. Why was he thinking of Catherine, dreaming of Catherine…why was her scent so strong?
Opening his eyes, he looked at the weight upon his chest.
Catherine. What is she doing—
Then he remembered: her arrival, rubbing his temples, and sending him into a deep slumber. Had he ever slept that soundly?
Until his dream. When he tried to recall it, his head began to pound unmercifully, so he let it go. The headaches weren’t nearly as frequent in London, but when he was at his country residence, they were an almost daily occurrence. Something in the air there was disagreeable to him. He was almost certain of it.
He turned his head slightly and saw Catherine’s bandaged hand, marred with blood, resting on his pillow where it had no doubt fallen after she’d succumbed to sleep.
It had hurt her to rub his temples, and he should chastise her for it.
But it had felt so comforting not to be alone with his pain. He could think of a thousand reasons why she shouldn’t be here. The worst of which was that she tempted him as he’d not been tempted in a good long while.
It was because he’d been so long without a woman. He told himself that. He wanted to believe that—as much as the old gent had wanted to believe that Luke was truly his grandson, Luke wanted to believe that what he was beginning to feel for Catherine was just lust, was just his bodily needs, that she called to his desires of the flesh and nothing more.
Because a man couldn’t love two women. And his heart was Frannie’s. It had always belonged to her. And Catherine was just…brave, strong, determined. Irritating.
Even as he thought about how annoying she was, how she’d never bend to a man’s will, he took several loosened strands of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, stroking gently and imagining setting it all free and feeling the silkiness cascading over his chest.
How he’d like to bury his face in it. How he’d like to feel more than the silkiness of her hair. How he’d like to feel the velvetiness of her flesh. How he’d like to plunge himself deep inside her, be surrounded by her heat, her scent, her softness.
The groan of desire came unbidden.
Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled at him, innocent to the torment raging through his body.
“How’s your head?” she asked, as though waking up in a man’s bedchamber was as natural as sipping tea at breakfast.
“Much better.”
“Good.”
She eased up, and he realized with alarm that the tent in the middle of his bed was going to make it impossible for her to miss his reaction to having her so near. Any other unmarried woman might not know what it meant, but hadn’t she told Jack that she fantasized about men? And if she fantasized, then she knew…
Reaching up, he cupped her cheek to prevent her from turning her face in a direction that would no doubt cause embarrassment for them both. “Give me a moment.”
She furrowed her brow.
“To make certain the headache’s not going to return.”
She skimmed her fingers over the hair at his temple. “It shouldn’t, at least not for a while I shouldn’t think.”
That wasn’t helping at all. If anything it was making the tent rise higher.
“How did you know what to do?” he asked, searching for a distraction, for anything to keep her occupied and to give himself a chance to regain control of his rebellious manhood.
