Sabine had avoided men, all men, even those who appeared too old or too drunk or too stupid to be a threat to her. Sir Dryden had spoiled men for her in that way, and she had no real hope of recovery, even after all this time. Today, on theDreadnought, a sailor grateful for her visit had opened his arms for a brotherly embrace and she had recoiled.
She’d never been overtly open to uninvited closeness, even before Sir Dryden, but after she escaped his particularly sadistic reign of terror, she found herself entirely unable to indulge anything more than the quickest of handshakes with a male. The notion of being handed down from the saddle, sitting crushed together in a crowded carriage—or, God forbid, dancing—was entirely out of the question. The very thought lodged a sharp knot of dread in her throat.
All things being equal, she had not missed it—not like she missed her mother or her bedroom at Park Lodge or working on her father’s papers. She employed a ready selection of dismissive looks and curt withdrawals that kept most reasonable men at bay, and all things being equal, they hadn’t really been that difficult to avoid.
Until a staggering, swearing man, only half in control of his motions, draped himself across her and forced her to drag him twenty yards. She should have been terrified, sick with anxiety. She was not.
Once she got over the initial touch—hot male body through cotton and silk; straining muscle; heavy breath; raspy, stubbled cheek—she found she was not so much afraid of touching him as she was afraid of dropping him.
They broached the bedroom door after ten minutes of effort, and his weight seemed to increase; his footfalls dragged longer. His strength was waning.
Oh no, you do not,she thought, and she said, “You mustn’t stop now, Stoker. We’ve nearly made it.” She stooped to get a better grip. It was impossible not to feel the muscles of his body constrict and stretch with every movement. He had been laid low by the knife wound, but he’d not succumb, even to the infection. This, she felt sure, was due entirely to his preexisting fitness. “You can make it three yards.”
“I’m too heavy, and I’m less able to walk than when we began.”
“You are not so heavy,” she countered, but she thought,You are so incredibly heavy.
“I’ve damaged you.”
“Stop,” Sabine breathed. “I am not a piece of china in a shop, and I know my own endurance, thank you very much. Keep walking.”
“Leave and allow me the dignity to crawl to the bed on my own.”
“You and I will make it to the bed together if I have to drag you by your hair. Go, Stoker.Walk on.” Biting her lip, Sabine squeezed him tightly and they staggered to the bed.
“Let me go,” he rasped when they were in reach.
“You will fall on your wound. We must pivot.”
“Let me go.”
“I will lower you down,” she insisted.
“You’ll be crushed.”
“I’ve already been crushed a half dozen times. At least now I will be pinned against the mattress rather than plaster wall.”
Before he could broach another argument, Sabine took a deep breath, bent at the knees, and pivoted, pitching both of them in the direction of the bed. She felt her feet leave the floor, felt the mattress take her hip, and—flop, she found herself pressed beneath him in the center of the bed. His weight was like a dead horse. She could hear his sawing breath and feel his chest heaving up and down.
Sabine remembered to draw her own breath and she wiggled her fingers and toes. She waited for some distress or alarm, but she felt only weariness—and gratefulness. They’d made it. She’d said they would, and they had. She turned her head and breathed in, willing her heart to slow, giving him time. Bridget stood beside the bed and looked up at her. Sabine smiled down, and the dog sat attentively and studied her mistress squashed beneath their new houseguest. She cocked her head, opening one bug-wing ear to a potential command.
After a long moment Sabine said softly, “Stoker, you’re alright.”
Her face was flush with his neck. She could see a faint pulse throbbing above his collar. She had the strange, unfamiliar urge to press her lips to it. Just a swipe. The work of a moment. To test the temperature of his skin and feel the texture against her lips. To breath him in.
She ignored the impulse and looked again at the dog. “You’re alright,” she repeated.
“Can you move?” he asked.
“I’m not the one clinging to life. Of course I can move.”
Then why haven’t I?Sabine wondered. The soft mattress was, indeed, a great relief. The sheets were clean and cool. The living, breathing weight of Jon Stoker felt... not anything like she had expected.
“Are you crushed?”
She shook her head, and her lips grazed the skin of his neck. Stoker stopped breathing for half a beat and she sucked in a little breath.
“I told you we would manage,” she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. She looked again at the dog. “Is this not preferable to the study?”
