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She felt his arms warm and hard behind her back and beneath her knees. If anyone saw him carrying her—and then she saw her bodice, and realized that the scraps left revealed a dangerous amount of cleavage. With a gasp she grabbed the fabric and tugged.

“Where are you taking me?” she whispered.

“To my bedchamber, where we won’t be disturbed.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but then it dawned on her that his arms were around her, and he wasn’t using the crutch. It was tucked beneath his arm, rubbing against her legs with each stride.

He wasn’t even limping.

She glared at him in suspicion, knowing he couldn’t have healed in just three days. But then he was shouldering a door open, and they were in his bedchamber. Philip was not there.

He put her down on his bed, and she scrambled back to her feet, holding her bodice closed.

Sir John arched a brow at her. “For someone who just swooned, you’re remarkably agile.”

“I did not swoon!”

“Your eyes were closed and you didn’t respond to your name.” He put his hand on her shoulder and said, “I was quite concerned.”

The warmth and sympathy in his eyes were touching her too deeply. She felt scattered and helpless, and hated feeling at the mercy of men. She had kicked her assailant—she would have gotten away on her own. But Sir John had once again risked himself to help her.

“I do thank you for your assistance,” she forced herself to say. “I was not paying attention to where I was going.”

“I know. I was following you.”

“Again!” she cried, her anger stirring back to life.

“I felt the need. You were distraught when you left me, and I worried about what you’d do. But I don’t need thanks for my rescue efforts, only your silence.”

“My silence?” she asked, beginning to frown.

And then he tossed the crutch onto the bed and started to pace.

Without a limp, just as he’d walked through the corridors.

Unease was a dark heaviness in her belly. “You lied about your broken leg?”

“I had to. I had to make sure that Bannaster—and now Milburn—could not force me to leave.”

She found herself more intrigued than frightened. It was crazy to still feel so trusting of him. “If you want me to be silent about your false injury, you have to tell me why. It was obvious you were beaten.”

He gave her a wry grin. “I had my own men do it.”

She frowned in disbelief, but he held up a hand.

“I hope, when you hear the whole story—and when you explain it all to your mistress—you will both accept what I’ve done, knowing it has been for the right reasons.”

“And what have you done?” she demanded.

“My name is not John Gravesend. It’s John Russell, and I’ve come to rescue Lady Elizabeth, my betrothed.”

Elizabeth didn’t remember sitting down on the bed, but she found herself there, feeling stunned and overwhelmed. Her mind only seemed capable of considering the silliest part of this—that this man was nothing like the boy she remembered, who was short and round and under his mother’s rule. And hadn’t his hair been lighter?

“I…don’t know whether I can believe you,” she finally whispered, staring at the body of a strong—and strong-willed—man. “You are nothing like…my lady described.”

“She saw me when I was thirteen,” he answered. “As I told you this afternoon—and most of it was the truth—my father despaired of me.”

So he had come to her…at last? She had thought she was helping herself, and instead she was being rescued—by her own betrothed.