His big limbs were heavy, but very warm.
She felt marginally better.
In a few moments, she fell asleep.
Dain’s first conscious sensations were of a small, soft bottom nestled against his groin and a deliciously rounded breast under his hand. In the instant it took him to mentally connect the agreeable parts with the female they belonged to, a host of other recollections flooded in, and his mood of sleepy amorousness swept away on a tide of self-loathing.
He’d brawled in an innyard like a common yokel while his wife looked on. He had consumed enough wine to float an East Indiaman and, instead of considerately passing out in the bar parlor, he’d let his oafish friends haul him up to the bridal chamber. As though it hadn’t been enough for his new bride to see him filthy and rank with sweat, he must also display himself in all his drink-sodden grossness. Even then, he hadn’t shown the courtesy of collapsing on the floor, well away from her. He’d dropped his great wine- and smoke-reeking elephant’s body onto the bed, and let his dainty lady wife haul off his boots.
His face burned.
He rolled away and stared at the ceiling.
At least he hadn’t violated her. He’d drunk a good deal more than even he was accustomed to, in order to make sure of that. It was a miracle he’d made it up the stairs.
He could have done without that miracle. He could have done without a few other things, such as remembering anything at all. He wished the rest of him were as paralyzed as his left arm.
Satan’s blacksmith was using his head as an anvil again. Lucifer’s chief cook was mixing a foul brew in his mouth. At some point during Dain’s pitifully few hours of sleep, the Prince of Darkness had apparently ordered a herd of raging rhinoceroses to stampede over his body.
Beside him, the source of Dain’s troubles stirred.
Cautiously he hauled himself up, grimacing as thousands of vicious needles jabbed his left arm and burned and pricked his hand.
He got out of bed, every bone, muscle, and organ viciously protesting, and staggered to the washstand.
He heard a rustle of movement from the bed. Then came a sleep-clogged feminine voice. “Do you want any help, Dain?”
Whatever conscience Lord Dain possessed had sunk into a fatal decline and expired sometime about his tenth birthday. At the sound of his wife’s voice offering assistance, it rose, like Lazarus, from the dead. It fastened its gnarled fingers upon his heart and let out a shriek that should have shattered the window, the water jug, and the small washstand mirror into which Dain was gazing.
Yes, he answered silently. He wanted help. He wanted help being born over again and coming out right this time.
“I daresay you’ve the very devil of a head,” she said after a long, silent moment. “Bridget will be up and about by now. I’ll send her down to mix a remedy for you. And we’ll order you a light breakfast, shall we?”
While she spoke, there was more rustling. Without looking, he was aware of her leaving the bed. When she approached to get her dressing gown from a chair, he turned his gaze to the window. Hazy sunlight dappled the sill and floor. He guessed it was past six o’clock. Monday. Twelfth of May. The day after his wedding.
It was also his birthday, he recollected with an unpleasant jolt of surprise. His thirty-third birthday. And he’d wakened in the same condition with which he’d greeted the last twenty, and in which he’d greet the next twenty, he thought bleakly.
“There’s no cure,” he muttered.
She had started toward the door. She paused and turned. “Would you care to place a small wager on that?”
“You’re only looking for an excuse to poison me.” He lifted the pitcher and clumsily splashed water into the basin.
“If you are not afraid to try it, I promise close to full recovery by the time we set out,” she said. “If you are not feeling worlds better by then, you may claim a forfeit of your own choosing. If you are better, you will thank me by stopping at Stonehenge, and letting me explore—without having to listen to sarcastic remarks and complaints about delays.”
His glance strayed to her, then quickly away. But not quickly enough. Her tangled black hair hung loose about her shoulders, and the faint flush of sleep yet clung to her cheeks, a wash of pearly pink on creamy white porcelain. Never had she appeared more fragile. Though tousled, her face unwashed, her slim body sagging with fatigue, she had never, either, appeared more beautiful.
Here were Beauty and the Beast with a vengeance, Dain thought as he met his reflection in the mirror.
“If I’m not better,” he said, “I shall use your lap as a pillow all the way to Devon.”
She laughed and left the room.
At half past seven o’clock in the morning, two miles past Amesbury, Dain was leaning against a monolithic stone on a rise overlooking the Salisbury Plain. Below and beyond spread an undulating blanket of green with a few rectangular patches of bright yellow rape fields. A small number of houses dotted the landscape, along with the occasional lonely herd of sheep or cattle, all looking as though some giant hand had idly strewn them. Here and there, the same careless hand had stuck a cluster of trees against the horizon or thrust it into the cleavage between the gently swelling slopes.
Dain grimaced at his choice of metaphors: blankets and cleavage and big, clumsy hands. He wished he hadn’t swallowed the mugful of odoriferous liquid Jessica had given him. The instant he’d begun to feel better, the itch had started again.
He hadn’t had a woman in weeks…months.
