But it was morning, light shining through the edges of the window dressings, and the bustle of the street below telling him it was past time to rise. His stomach growled, as if in competition with the din of the voices of the men and women and the clattering of drays passing in the street. Hunger was a good sign. It meant his broken body was healing.
Too bad his mind continued to be utter rot.
He threw back the bedclothes and rose, shucking the nightshirt the glowering fellow named Randall had helped him to don the evening before. Removing the shirt required great care and patience, for his injured arm remained difficult to move. Now that he was at last feeling like a man instead of an invalid, however, it was worth the risk. He had been longing to wear the shirt and trousers which were neatly folded and awaiting him across the room.
When Caro had brought him the clothing a few days ago, he had not yet been strong enough to don them. But each day, he regained more of his ability. And when he had risen this morning, he had decided it was at last time to make an effort.
He may not recall a single, damned detail about who he was or why he had found himself nearly dead behind a gaming hell called The Sinner’s Palace, but today, he was going to wear some cursed rigging as if he were an ordinary chap.
He winced as he struggled to remove his wounded arm from the sleeve of the nightshirt, then cried out as the stitches pulled. But he was determined. Biting his lip hard, he pulled his arm free, then slid the entire garment over his head.
The door to the chamber flew open and Caro stepped over the threshold, bearing a tray.
He froze, and the one portion of his anatomy which seemed to have remained unaffected by the injuries he had endured went rigid. Forgetting himself, he attempted to clamp his hands over his cockstand, and howled in pain as the stitches in his arm pulled once more.
Wide, hazel eyes were upon him. Uponthatparticular part of him.
“Oh bloody hell,” she said, nearly sending the tray’s contents to the floor. “Forgive me. I had no notion you were bare-arsed.”
The heavy door had already closed on its own momentum at her back.
They were alone.
Damnation, she was beautiful. Through the haze of pain, through the agony of fire burning in his arm, he recognized it. The shock of his hasty movement had made his cock soften, but it did not remain so for long.
It never did in this woman’s presence. Miss Caro Sutton was an angel. He was convinced of it.
“Apologies, Caro,” he managed, standing there awkwardly, trying not to admire the flush creeping over her or the glistening strands of auburn in her chestnut hair.
“It is I who should be sorry,” she said, her husky voice falling around him like a warm caress. “I ought to have knocked. In my haste to bring you some sustenance, I assumed you would be abed and…dressed.”
“I was about to be,” he said wryly, nodding toward the stack of clothing.
The place where the bullet had passed through his flesh still throbbed, but the woman before him had a way of soothing even the greatest of pains. Ever since he had arisen to her lovely, concerned face hovering over him, he had found himself strangely comforted by her presence.
Indeed, over the course of the time she had spent nursing him back to health, he had become hopelessly taken with her. At least, he thought that was what this strange warmth was in his chest, this need he had for her, which burst forth, uncontrollable and overwhelming.
The devil of it was, without his memory, there was nothing he could do with the feelings churning inside him. He could already be wed to another. He could be anyone.Hell, he still did not know what he looked like. For all he knew, he was bracket-faced, and a goddess like Caro would never look twice at him were she not nursing him back to health.
“I am not accustomed to you being able to move about with such freedom,” she said, averting her gaze as she placed the tray upon a table. “I am well pleased to see you out of bed.”
Greedily, he watched her every movement, admiring the way her gown clung to her bosom, the swell of her hips, the creaminess of her skin. He should probably return to the bed and cover himself, but he did not want to move, lest she flee.
Over the last few days, as he had become increasingly coherent, his mind clearing and his body regaining strength, she had been more skittish than usual. On edge, it seemed to him, as if there were some burden weighing upon her.
“Have you told your siblings I am here?” he asked her, wondering if the secrecy surrounding his presence was what had her so prickly or if it was merely him.
Over the course of the time she had spent tending to him, she had revealed they were staying in her family’s gaming hell, The Sinner’s Palace. Although her family’s guards had helped her to bring him here to her rooms, they were loyal to her and had kept her secret. Her very protective siblings would not have been pleased to know their sister had brought a stranger into their midst. One she was hiding in her private room, in herbed. He still had not discovered where she was sleeping.
Now that he was well enough to hoist himself out of bed, he had to address the question. It was deuced unfair for Caro to be deprived of her own chamber because of him, a stranger she had rescued from death. He owed her a debt of tremendous magnitude.
“I will tell them soon,” she said, moving so that her back was to him as she fussed with the items on the tray. “I was waiting until you were well enough. I’ll not have an injured man forced to endure an inquisition.”
She spoke well for a woman who lived in a gaming hell.
Or at least, he thought she did. There were some things which seemed to make sense in his foggy mind. The notion of this soft-spoken, gentle, intelligent woman in the East End was not one of them.
“You will tell them today,” he said. “I’ll not keep you from your rooms any longer. I am well enough to go.”
