He needed to face her siblings. He did not cower and hide. He faced his demons.
At least, he instinctively felt as if he did. The hell of it was, he did not know. And the longer he remained trapped in this room, the more damning the emptiness in his mind became. After he had first arisen and his mind had been lucid enough to understand that he had lost all memories of the man he had been, he had hoped that in time, a few days, with some rest, all would return to him.
But that had not happened.
A knock sounded at the door.
Fucking finally.
“Enter,” he called, stalking across the chamber, feeling much like a cat about to pounce on a bird.
And there she was at last, with wisps of auburn curls framing her face, her hazel eyes wide as she took in the sight of him, a beast who had been too long kept in his cage.
“You’ve dressed,” she announced as the door closed at her back.
He inclined his head, itching to sweep past her and cross the threshold into whatever world awaited beyond. “Aye.”
She was bearing a tray once more, he noted, and it was laden with more pots and vials and instruments. He stepped forward and took it from her, using only his uninjured arm.
“You mustn’t,” she protested, trying to wrest the tray back from him, “you’ll hurt yourself.”
“I’m strong,” he protested, proving the truth of his words as he pulled the tray from her grasp with ease. “I’m not an invalid any longer, Caro. It’s time for me to get out of this bloody room.”
Demonstrating further veracity, he easily walked with the tray and deposited it upon the bedside table.
“I need to remove the stitches from your wound,” she said, following him.
He turned back to her, drinking her in. She was such a diminutive thing, and he had not realized it entirely until now, with his strength regained and her standing before him near enough to touch.
Touch.
Suddenly, he could not control the need to experience the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips. A wisp of a curl had fallen on her cheek. Her fresh scent hit him, lush and fragrant in stark contrast to the closed-up chamber before her arrival.
He reached out, gently tracing the curl with the tip of his forefinger first. She held still, her eyes pinned to him. So much gray, a hint of green, and golden-brown in her gaze. He did not think he had ever seen eyes so distinctive on a woman, but he supposed he would have no notion of whether or not he had.
“You are disheveled,” he observed.
She caught the plump fullness of her lower lip in her teeth and studied him for what felt like a dozen heartbeats but must have only been one. “I am certain I must look a fright. I was in my work room, attempting to perfect the unguent for your wound.”
He was clumsy at this. Had he been a charming man before the knock he’d taken to the knowledge box? A rogue who could charm ladies with ease? He somehow doubted it. Here was a slip of a woman, lovely and so much smaller than he, and yet, she intimidated him. He felt as if he were surrounded by darkness, grasping at slivers of light, but each time he reached, the light slid from his grasp.
“You could never look a fright,” he managed to say, still touching that lone curl.
It was silken, exquisite.
What would her cheek feel like? Smooth and soft, like the finest velvet? Caro could seduce a man without trying. She was wearing a pale muslin gown today that was simple enough in construction, with a modest bodice. And yet, she was so damned gorgeous, he ached just looking at her.
His cock rose in his trousers with renewed determination.
Not now, you devil.
“You are being too kind,” she said, then bit her lip once more.
Such sweet torture, watching her mouth. Wanting it beneath his. Wanting more than this tiny moment of intimacy between them, yet not knowing how to have it. Not knowing if hecouldhave it.
He cleared his throat, trying to chase some of his conflicting feelings away. “I ain’t certain I’m a kind chap. I could be a monster.”
Sweet Jesus, what if he was? For some reason, the worry had never occurred to him until now. He stared at his hand, so near to her pale cheek, so large and strong, and suddenly from the murk of his memory surged remembrance. He recalled swinging his fist, the crunch of bone, the bite in his knuckles. He knew the way it felt to hit a man, he thought.
