Her eyes fluttered open.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the faint glimmer of a single candle on the nightstand. At some point she’d heard someone mention that this was the duke’s chamber—Harry’s. Her eyes focused, and as her senses returned, she became aware of the weight on her hand—a warm, smooth weight. Someone was holding her hand.
Turning her head, Melanie’s heart skipped a beat.
Harry was seated in a chair beside her bed—no, it was his bed—his head resting on the bedclothes near her hand, his dark hair unruly, falling across his forehead. One of his hands enveloped hers, his grip firm even in sleep.
Was this a dream?
The sight of him, bent over and vulnerable, had emotion squeezing her chest. This man, who was feared by half of London, had stayed at her side.
Her fingers twitched, and his grip tightened reflexively, almost immediately. Even in sleep, he refused to let her go.
She let her eyes wander over his face, so very precious in the flickering light. The sharp planes of his cheekbones and jaw seemed gentler now, and the tension in his brow was gone. He looked younger like this.
And yet, even now, he didn’t seem fully at ease. There was a tightness around his eyes and mouth, as if worry followed him into his dreams.
Her heart twisted for him. He’d been there for her, unwavering in his determination to save her, and now…
He was here. He had come back to her, to watch over her while she recovered, while she slept.
Slowly, carefully, she shifted her fingers so she could stroke his hand with her thumb, but that small movement was apparently enough to wake him.
Harry jerked, his dark lashes fluttering open. For a moment, he seemed disoriented, his silver eyes darting to her face, widening when they met hers.
“You’re awake,” he murmured, sitting up.
She squeezed his hand. “You’re here.” It was little more than a whisper.
“Where else would I be?” he asked, oh, so gently.
“Catching villains? Tracking Northwoods down?” She barely recognized the raspy sound of her own voice.
His grip on her hand tightened briefly as he sat up straighter, but then, rather than reply, he turned away. When he faced her again, he had a glass of water in one hand. “Drink.” He lifted it to her lips. “Your throat’s going to be sore for a while. From the smoke.”
The water helped, though she still felt a little as though she’d swallowed sand. But he’d gone suspiciously quiet.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Harry just shook his head. “Not now, later. Once you’ve recovered.”
But she hated being in the dark. Pushing herself up, she watched him closely. “Tell me,” she insisted.
He stared at her, a thoughtful, tender look in his eyes, and then, with a dip of his chin, exhaled.
“You were right about Northwoods starting the fire at the hunting lodge, but…” He shook his head. “He did so much more.”
Melanie tried to sit up, but he pressed a hand to her shoulder, gently coaxing her to stay put. “I’ll tell you everything,” he murmured. “As long as you stay calm.”
“Harry…” Her voice came out raspy, and she winced, swallowing against the dryness in her throat. He quickly helped her take another sip of the honeyed water.
When she’d recovered enough to speak again, she searched his face. “What happened? Is everyone all right? Did you—” She broke off, seeing his brows shoot up.
“Is this you being calm?” he asked.
Melanie rolled her lips together in a silent promise and waited.
“Everyone’s safe,” he assured her. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”
