“On the contrary,” he countered swiftly, “you have done everything wrong. But you shall still have your bath, madam. You will have it in my chamber, as the bath is already laid out there, and I have no wish to cause extra duties in this household on account of you.”
Perhaps he was being harsher than necessary. He did not give a good goddamn. The truth of the matter was—and he could acknowledge this in spite of his infernal weakness for the woman—she was wrong. Her cause was wrong. Everything about her was so very, horribly wrong.
Except for her lips.
He cursed himself for that rogue thought and turned his attention to the matter at hand, namely, getting Miss Palliser safely across the hall and bathing her, all whilst he kept her wrists bound. The best way, he deemed, was to free one wrist, bind them together, then free the other, leading her to the bath in that fashion.
He joined her on the bed and her eyes went wide.
He smiled at her without mirth, finding odd humor in the impossible situation. “You have no need to fear me. I have no wish to force myself upon any female, let alone a traitorous Jezebel such as yourself.”
“I am no traitor.”
“You are an enemy of the Crown,” he snapped, withdrawing his blade and slicing at the bonds on her wounded arm first. “And my prisoner. And most definitely a traitor.”
She hissed as the blood surged back into her hand, and he knew it would be painful. He examined her wound, moving her arm with care, pleased with its progress. She was healing nicely now, and that fact, coupled with her moments of lucidity, had told him she would soon return to the world of the living. He had bound her accordingly, and he was grateful for his decision now. Perhaps some pain would encourage her to reveal her associates to him.
Pain along with the need to save her own hide.
“Where am I?” she asked.
“What is your name?” he returned, slicing the other rope, then hastily binding her wrists together before her.
She paled, crying out as he jostled her with more force than necessary. But, true to form, she remained stubborn. “Jane Palliser.”
“Here is how this shall go, prisoner.” He stood from the bed once more, gazing harshly down at her, unable to keep himself from noticing the dark circles of her nipples beneath her chemise. “You must give me information before I shall give you any. You may begin with your name. Until you offer me a truthful response, I will not reveal a damned thing to you. Don’t, for a moment, think you can lie to me. I have my best men digging into your past.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I want my bath.”
Obstinate woman.
He took in her struggles to sit upright with her hands bound and the pallor of her skin. Perhaps he ought to assist her in her walk to his chamber, but he was not going to. Let the banshee suffer. Perhaps it would render her more amenable to making some revelations.
“Stand,” he ordered. “You will walk to your bath, or you will have none.”
Slowly, she moved her legs, sliding her feet gingerly to the floor, as if the effort required every bit of strength she possessed. And perhaps it did. Having been spoon-fed nothing more than broth by himself and Annie during her bouts of lucidity, and given water as she could swallow it, she was likely weak. Her small frame, hugged by her chemise, was noticeably less curvaceous.
He watched, impassive, as she attempted to stand and fell back to the bed on her rump. “Try again. If you cannot stand and cannot walk, you cannot go to your bath.”
“Water,” she said. “I need water.”
“Demanding for a prisoner, aren’t you?” He cocked his head at her, allowing all the anger and disdain building inside him to show. “If you cannot ask with manners, you shall not have it.”
“Please,” she gritted.
The gentleman within him—or what remained of it—knew he ought to feel at least a modicum of guilt at being so rigid and unfeeling toward a woman who had just been ill for so many days. But the agent for the Crown, who had dedicated half his life to service, refused to bend.
She is a Fenian, he reminded himself forcefully.
And not only a Fenian, but a woman who abducted his nephew and held a pistol to his head. That the pistol was empty was a matter of curiosity and not a reason to soften toward her in any way.
He fetched her the water, careful not to turn his back to her in case she was perpetuating an elaborate act, and returned to her side, holding the cup to her lips. She drank greedily, gulping. He watched her throat work, noting how creamy and pale it was in spite of himself.
“Enough,” he snapped with more rancor than necessary, withdrawing the cup. “Any more and you shall be sick. You will stand now and walk to your bath, or you will forfeit the privilege.”
Wordlessly, she stood on limbs as unsteady as a newborn foal. There was her daring, in full evidence. Silent and proud, she painstakingly walked toward him. Until her knees gave out, and her legs buckled beneath her, sending her to the floor.
With a muttered curse, he went to her, not thinking twice about scooping her into his arms. She bit her lip and closed her eyes as he held her, her body trembling.
