On the third day, Lottie was reading of Laidronette’s woes when Dr. Whitaker wearily opened his eyes.
The bedchamber was still cave-like, the shutters shut and the heavy drapes drawn to keep out the frosty January winds. A fire roared in the hearth, casting the room in red-gold shadows. Candles flickered on the bedside tables.
Dr. Whitaker blinked slowly, as if the weight of the laudanum was impossibly heavy, but he was determined to fight it. She pressed a hand to his brow and was relieved to note that his small fever had abated almost entirely. This was good news. Assuming he would be hungry, Lottie sent the maid from the room to fetch a supper tray.
Dr. Whitaker turned toward the movement of the maid leaving, his eyes at half-mast.
He had been like this each time he stirred—awake but . . . not. As if the animal within him held sway and Dr. Whitaker himself were still asleep.
“Betty has gone to fetch some food, Dr. Whitaker,” Lottie said, knowing that he likely was not quite aware enough to reply but feeling the need to be informative.
She had been watching him breathe for three days, after all. They were past the point of polite greetings and inquiries after the weather.
She met his bleary gaze. As she had done repeatedly over the past several days, Lottie found her eyes tracing his features.
His face was lean planes, almost too sharp for typical handsomeness. His brown hair, normally ruthlessly straight, was more tattered-scarecrow at the moment than elegant-gentleman-about-town.
He had a small scar near his left temple. More scars crisscrossed his hands, thin white lines here and there which testified to a life of physical labor.
She had so many questions. How had he come by those scars? Why did he dislike laudanum so vehemently, as he had said to Dr. Smithson?
Lottie set aside her book and rose.
“You’ve had a long sleep, Dr. Whitaker,” she said, moving to stir the fire.
As with the maid, his gaze followed her as she crossed the room, his eyes glittering in the low light.
Fiery eyes.
Primordial eyes.
He tracked her as she poked at the coals. As she pulled the counterpane taut. As she ensured that his leg was secure in the bone box.
The weight of his unyielding gaze rattled her nerves and sent sensation skittering across her skin. As if he were the hunter and she, his quarry.
Finally, she had enough. She paused at the foot of the bed, meeting his stare with one of her own.
Something about the looming shadows and the sense that he was only partially awake emboldened her tongue.
“I see you watching me,” she said, notching her chin. “You think to scare me, peering out with your sleepy dragon eyes. It won’t work. I am made of sterner stuff, you know.”
He simply studied her in return.
Of course.
That’s what a dragon did, was it not? Prowled and waited for the best moment to strike and devour its prey.
Lottie disliked the sense of being prey.
She certainly should not be thinking about Dr. Whitaker devouring her. The thought was abruptly more alluring than alarming and that, well, truly terrified her.
She shook her head.
His mouth opened, as if he would speak, but nothing came out.
Frowning, she noted that his lips were cracked and dry. Was his throat similarly parched?
How neglectful of her. Dragon or no . . . Lottie was here to act as nurse.
