Page 61 of A Deal with the Devil

She sniffed. “That does speak well to your character. If people keep trying to poke you with sharp weapons, you might consider improving your personal manner.”

He shrugged. Blood pooled and dripped on the floor.

“Stop that—I just had it stanched.” She pressed harder. “You really should see a proper doctor. I mostly have salve for bruises.”

He nudged the cloth aside for a moment. “It won’t need stitching. It didn’t cut me deep.”

She lathered up her soap, plain and not at all scented with roses or sandalwood or whatever he was used to. He winced when it came into contact with his wound. “Does it sting?” she asked.

“A bit.”

“You probably should try harder not to get stabbed, then.”

“Probably.”

The water rinsed away, pink and soapy. She swallowed.

“Why aren’t we sitting over there?” Devil asked, gesturing to the reading room with the embroidered cushions and the oil lamps. It was marginally more spacious, but she imagined he’d pointed it out only to distract her. As she had no wish to become any queasier, she let him.

She did not see a long career as a nursemaid in her future.

“That is the ladies’ reading room,” Kitty explained.

“And the men?”

“The men have access to every other reading room in London. Every other physical corner of every other building from here to Inverness. They don’t need my sliver of a reading room.”

Devil nodded. “I suppose that’s true enough.”

The fact that he considered the matter without being defensive, and then actually agreed, made her fall a little bit in love with him.

Just a little. Not enough to worry about. Like a small cold, easily remedied with rest and lemon tea.

“When I’m allowed in Parliament, then they may attend my reading room,” she said, scrubbing his wound harder. The blood barely bothered her now—hers was boiling too hot.

“A radical,” he said.

“Merely rational,” she corrected him.

He did not look offended or insulted or condescending. Only interested.

It made her too aware of his nearness, the ridges of his chest, the hair tapering under the waistband of his breeches. Too drawn to the curious, understanding man under the shiveringly cold indifference of Devil.

She wrapped a clean, dry cloth around his wound, tying it tightly. “You’ll need to make a honey dressing.” She did not tell him she did not have honey. It was an exorbitant luxury at the moment.

Her fingertips brushed his arm. The muscles and tendons rippled under her touch. If he turned his head even a little, his mouth would brush against hers.

She stepped back. Mostly because devouring an injured man in her back room was probably not the right thing to do.

But he was not having it. He snaked his arm around her waist and tugged her forward—not just between his knees, but turning her so he could perch her on his lap. “What are you doing? Your arm!”

“My arm is fine,” he murmured against her throat. “Thanks to you. You took care of me.” His teeth scraped lightly over her skin, and she shivered. “Let me take care of you.”

“This isn’t a wager. There are no reciprocal terms.”

He bit gently on the spot where her neck met her shoulder. Heat tingled through her core. He was entirely too good at that. “We already agreed one has nothing to do with the other,” he said, firmly, with more than a hint of command. “This pull between us exists on its own.”

It was a lovely fantasy. She was willing to let it be true for a little while longer. Reality would always find them. She didn’t have to draw a map. She squirmed, feeling him harden against her hip.