“Mira,” he tried to say.
But his voice was hoarse. Scarcely there. His throat was dry and sore, as if he had been sleeping a drunkard’s slumber.
“Damian!” Her soft exclamation wrapped around him like an embrace.
There was such hope in her voice, such relief.
It was almost as if she had been…worried about him.
She squeezed his fingers tighter, leaning over him and bringing with her the exotic scent he could not resist. He inhaled deeply, confusion reigning. What the hell had happened? Why did his head ache? Why was she fretting over him?
The questions were there, yet his tongue remained oddly sluggish. So, too, his mind. He was cork-brained and he didn’t know the reason.
Her fingers swept over his brow, brushing hair from his forehead with such tenderness, a strange, new ache took up residence within him. A longing he had no right to feel. One which confused him more than his current state did.
“How are you feeling, darling?” she asked, voice soothing.
“Like the devil,” he managed. “What the hell happened?”
She frowned. “Do you not recall?”
He closed his eyes, inhaling slowly. Flowers and Mira twined about him, calming. Delectable. “Whatever it was, must’ve been bad. My fucking skull hurts.”
Damnation.She was a lady. He should watch his tongue.
“Apologies,” he mumbled, raising a hand to his throbbing head, only to find it covered in cloth. “Christ. What is this?”
“A bandage.” Lush lips still downturned, she took his fingers in hers and gently guided them away from his head. “You were attacked, Damian. From what Davy told me, there was a wine merchant who arrived and he was attacked as well, just before you reached him.”
“Hugo.” Remembrance hit him now. Slowly. Surely. Why the hell did his mind feel so strange? “The boots and legs.”
Her expression grew more puzzled. “Boots and legs?”
“I saw them,” he tried to explain. “Knew something was wrong. But then someone attempted to lamb me. Feels as if he succeeded.”
“Lamb?”
“Beating,” he added. “My head is cloudy.”
“Laudanum, no doubt, combined with the blow.”
She was still frowning.
He did not like it.
With his free hand, Demon traced the vee in her forehead, trying to smooth it. “Smile, my lady. I ain’t dead yet.”
Her grip on him intensified. “Was that meant to be a sally?”
His head throbbed some more. “No? Yes?”
Whatever answer would make her smile. He wanted lightness in her face. The radiance she ordinarily shone with.
“You must not make light of your welfare, Mr. Winter,” she told him, sounding as prim as she had on the day he had first met her.
And he had gone back to being Mr. Winter, he noted.
“Have I offended you?”
