Page 11

“I’ll have to raise you a couple of inches, Miss Thackerly, else you could choke.”

The mattress dipped as Robyn leaned in.

He slipped a firm arm beneath her back and lifted her carefully, supporting her weight with a strength that unsettled her.

Fire streaked through her shoulder, sharp and relentless.

Her eyes flew open, and she tightened her fingers on the counterpane, forcing back an agonized gasp.

“Easy,” Robyn murmured, his voice low and steady. “I have you.”

The scent of grass, musk, and gunpowder clung to him, as did a faint trace of sandalwood. A distracting combination—earthy and dangerously enticing.

And something she had absolutely no business noticing.

He touched the glass’s cool rim to her lips, then tilted it slightly, allowing a few drops of sweet water to trickle onto her parched tongue.

Blessed relief.

The ache in her throat eased, but her thirst still demanded more.

She had heard that losing a great deal of blood made a person thirsty.

Georgine swallowed greedily, angling forward for another sip of the slightly odd tasting water.

Robyn cruelly pulled the glass away before she could drink more.

“I think that is enough for now,” he said. “I’ll give you more in a few minutes, but I do not want you taking in too much too soon. It could make you nauseous.”

Frustration rippled through Georgine.

She wanted more.

She gazed longingly at the glass, itching to seize it and drain every drop.

“I am not a child.” She scowled, leveling him with a blistering glare.

His lips twitched before he brought them under control and arranged his features into a benign expression. “No, indeed.”

Insufferable man.

The glass met the nightstand with a soft clink before he lowered her back onto the pillows, adjusting them with careful, if slightly clumsy, hands.

With a slight flutter, she raised her eyelids.

Robyn Fitzlloyd loomed close, too close.

Golden candlelight carved sharp shadows along his firm, beard-stubbled jaw, the proud arch of his hawkish brows, and the sharp focus in his deep brown eyes. Dark blond hair tumbled over his forehead in unruly waves, evidence of his habit of raking his fingers through it.

Grass stains marred his waistcoat, and a streak of dirt smudged his sleeve.

He had risked his life today too.

Fighting to keep her eyelids open, she swallowed against the lingering dryness in her throat. “You haven’t changed your attire since the garden debacle?”

“And leave you to awaken unattended?” He quirked an eyebrow, his usual humor back in place. “You wound me, Miss Thackerly. I thought we were friends.”

“Friends?” She pointed an arch gaze at him. “That is quite a stretch.”