Eliza took a breath, reaching back into memory, to a time when the world was simpler. When being sick meant warm broths and cool cloths and nursery tales of heroes and magic.
“Once upon a time,” she began, “in a land far across the sea, there lived a brave knight with dark auburn hair and emerald eyes who had lost his way…”
And so, she told him a story, a rambling tale of enchanted forests and helpful animals and a knight who learned that sometimes the thing you’re searching for has been beside you all along. She kept voice low and soothing, falling into the rhythms her nursemaid had used, letting the words flow like water.
Morgan’s breathing gradually evened out. His grip on her hand loosened, though he didn’t let go entirely. His face relaxed into sleep, the lines of tension smoothing away.
“…and the knight returned home,” Eliza continued softly, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her anymore, “having learnedthat courage isn’t the absence of fear, but the willingness to continue despite it. And he lived, if not happily, then at least contentedly, ever after.”
She stood then, smoothing her skirts, and allowed herself one last look at him. In sleep, with his dark hair mussed and his expression unguarded, he looked younger, almost innocent. Not at all the rakish duke he had the reputation of being.
Before she could stop herself, she reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. Her fingers lingered for just a moment against his skin, warm and alive.
“Goodnight, Morgan,” she whispered.
Then she turned and slipped quietly from the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Morgan woke to sunlight stabbing directly into his skull.
He groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes, and immediately regretted it as the movement sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through his stomach. His head was pounding like someone had taken up residence inside his skull with a hammer and anvil. His mouth tasted like he’d been chewing on old leather.
And he had absolutely no idea how he’d gotten into bed.
Fragments of memory drifted through the fog… White’s, Ambrose’s concerned face, far too much brandy. A hackney cab. The front door of his townhouse.
And then…
Ellie?
Morgan forced his eyes open, squinting against the offensive brightness. He was in his room, still wearing his shirt and trousers but minus his coat, waistcoat, and boots. Someone had positioned him on his side, surrounded him with pillows.
Someone had… taken care of him.
His gaze drifted to the bedside table. The carafe of water. The plate with one remaining piece of toast. And beside the bed…
A chair. Positioned close to the bed, as though someone had been sitting there. Keeping watch.
The memories came flooding back in a mortifying rush.
You’re so pretty.
You smell like lavender and books.
You’re a beautiful secret pirate.
“Oh God,” he groaned.
He sat up too quickly, instantly regretted it, and barely made it to the bucket before his stomach emptied itself. When the world finally stopped heaving, he slumped back against the pillows, feeling utterly wretched.
He’d been completely drunk. Out of his mind. And Ellie had helped him undress. Brought him water. Stayed with him. The chair was proof enough of that, as was her sweet, lingering scent. It was not a dream.
A smile tugged at his lips despite the pounding in his head and the misery in his stomach… yet, he’d been so pathetic. Utterly, completely pathetic. And he’d probably said things…he definitely remembered sayingsomethingabout Cecilia, though the exact words were lost in the brandy-soaked haze of his memory. Had he made inappropriate comments? Declared something mortifying and impossible?
He had no idea.
Which was, somehow, even worse than knowing.
Morgan buried his face in his hands, groaning.
