Nine

Emma watched the slow rise and fall of Dare’s chest as he slept. Breathing was good. Breathing meant he was not dead. Though whether or not he might still succumb to his injuries was unknown. She was not sure the full extent of his injuries. He could have been bleeding internally. He could become septic. The wound could fester. He was a strong man, and she hoped resilient too. Much could happen in the next few days that could turn the course of recovery. She could only hope and pray he would not die.

She still held his hand. Somehow she could not let go. She leaned her head against the back of the wooden chair and closed her eyes. Her body was sore, but she was so tired she did not even care she was sitting on a chair and not lying on a soft bed. Well, she didn’t care much.

She must have dozed, for she felt herself jerk awake. She was still holding his hand in her lap, so she reached over with her free hand and pressed it to his forehead. He was warm, but not hot or clammy. That was good.

She was about to lean back when his hand she was gently holding suddenly grasped her wrist and pulled her toward him so that she fell over him on the bed. She gasped in surprise to suddenly find herself practically on top of him.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Dare demanded as he struggled to get up. His eyes were barely open and he appeared to linger somewhere between wake and sleep. She had given him a hearty dose of the laudanum, and she feared he was much under the influence of the potent medication.

“It is me, Emma. Do not move about so.” Finding herself already half on top of him, she pressed herself onto him farther to try to prevent him from moving. She feared he would rip out the stitches or do himself serious harm.

“Let me go,” he growled, thrashing about, his eyes glazed and unfocused. He tried to roll her over but cried out in pain.

Though it was terribly unladylike, she straddled him to gain better leverage and pressed down on his shoulders with all her strength, trying to keep him still.

“Do not move or you will rip the stitches!” She tried to hold him down, her heart pounding in her chest. Though weak, he was still stronger than she was and Emma feared he would try to stand. “Please stay still!” Her face was very close to his. The top sheet had pulled down in the struggle and she was lying on top of his bare chest. He was breathing hard. So was she.

“Dare, please listen to me. You are safe now. I am trying to help you.” Her breath was hitched from the exertion of trying to keep him still and the strange sensations that coursed through her from lying so intimately on a man.

He blinked, focusing on her for the first time. He stopped struggling and stared at her. His gaze traveled down to her natural assets, a sizable portion of which had spilled out of her bodice and was pressed against his bare chest. The moments stretched on, and had he not been injured, she might have feared he was gawking at her, but she knew he was only injured and thinking slowly.

“You are not one of the men who attacked me,” he finally said, addressing her breasts.

“No, indeed,” she replied, grateful he had been returned to sanity. “I am here to help.”

“Help,” he said slowly. “Help is good.”

Something in the way he spoke flushed heat through her. She was suddenly aware that she was sprawled in a most suggestive fashion over a man who was staring down her bodice. She should have been horrified. Instead…she was intrigued.

“If you promise not to rip out your stitches, I will move away now.”

“And if I don’t promise?” He turned his dark eyes to hers.

Her cheeks went warm. “I should move.” She sat up and peeled herself off him. There simply was no way to do so with any dignity. She finally managed to return to a standing position and turned away for a moment to straighten herself. She wished to withdraw, but given that they were in the same room, she was forced to make adjustments to her person in his presence.

She turned back to him with a bright smile born of embarrassment and something warmer she could not readily name. “I had best check your stitches to see what damage you have done to yourself.”

“Apologize. Not myself today.” His eyelids grew heavy.

“Of course not. You have been shot.”

“No excuse,” he murmured.

“I do not mean to be disagreeable, but I think it is a better excuse than most I have heard.” Emma pulled down the blankets a bit farther and checked her handiwork. “There now. I do not see any torn stitches. Could you roll over just a tad so I can check the back?”

Dare locked his eyes on hers before slowly rolling to his side. She was acutely aware of his body.

“Thank you,” she said briskly before helping him roll back and covering him with the blankets. “Everything is looking well, despite your best efforts to make me do this stitching twice. I hope you can return to your family soon.” Emma spoke quickly, but the thought lingered in her mind. Surely this man must have some family.

She busied herself in straightening the sheets. “Have you a wife we should notify?” She had not considered the possibility that he was a married man. Suddenly, she was deeply interested in his reply.

“No wife.”

Not married. Somehow this made her quite happy. “Is there anyone I should contact for you?”

“Should let my sister know I am well,” he said, his eyes half-open.

“I can do so. How should I direct the letter?”

“Not sure. Been traveling.” Dare shook his head and as his eyes closed. “The rogues may return. I should stay awake. Keep watch.”

“Sleep now,” said Emma as the man drifted unwillingly back to sleep. She took a deep breath and tried to calm her own scampering heart. Even injured and unconscious, the man before her had a commanding presence. Emma settled herself on the hard, wooden chair. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Dare opened his eyes, confused about where he was. His thoughts seemed to crawl slowly though his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, trying to clear his head. He was in a plain room, dimly lit by a small tin lantern.

Vaguely, the events of the past day dragged themselves across his mind. The lady who had helped him to the inn and then tended his wound was asleep on a wooden chair, her head fallen to one side. Golden ringlets, messy and all the more beautiful for it, fell across her face as she slept. He had thought her a pretty thing before, but in the flickering candlelight, she was nothing short of perfection. She had a smooth complexion and a small rosebud mouth, and in repose, she had the face of an angel.

Perhaps he had died and gone to heaven. His thoughts came slowly, as if trying to pull threads of coherence from a great tangle of wool. He tried to speak, but the words only came out in a low rumble. He cleared his throat to try again and the lady woke up with a start.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, looking at him in surprise as if she also needed to get her bearings. It had been that kind of day. Her wide-eyed response only enhanced her beauty. She had large, blue eyes and plump, rosy cheeks. She blinked at him and smiled. Something within him melted.

Now it all made sense. He was dead and being tended by an angel. She had no wings, but truly, with radiance like that, she needed none. He was a little disappointed to be dead, but at least it was not without its benefits. She leaned forward and he could not help but notice her natural endowments. He had not expected angels to have so many curves, but he wasn’t complaining.

He tried to sit up, but the pain shot through him and he lay back down. He thought he would not be in so much pain in heaven. Perhaps this was hell, and she was there to tempt him into madness. Oh well. At least she was there.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, blinking impossibly long lashes at him.

“Am I dead?” he croaked.

One side of her mouth twitched up. “Not yet. But you have certainly tried to put an end to your existence today. Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“I got shot.”

“That much I know.”

“Thank you for helping me.” Dare tried again to sit up. He should not be lying on his back in the presence of a lady.

“Please do not move. I want to give the stitches time to set a bit.”

He lay still, though his movement brought the reminder that he was practically naked. The only clothes he had left were his short pants, which barely covered his manhood. He had always been nervous around women, and now he was lying next to one who had seen, well, probably everything. He wondered if he had passed inspection.

He wished to ask if she was pleased with what she had seen, but of course that was entirely out of the question. Instead, he realized he knew nothing about her, which bore remedying immediately. “Forgive me, I believe you told me your name, but in all the confusion…”

“Yes, it has been a trying night. I am Miss Emma St. James. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Miss. She was a miss. This was suddenly extremely important to him. “Where were you going, Miss St. James? And why were you traveling with none but a maid?”

“I was on my way to Portsmouth. Unfortunately, our coach took a curve in the road too fast and we overturned. The driver had indulged in too much liquor, I fear, and ran off with our horses after the accident.”

“What?” Dare tried to sit up again and was settled back by her hand on his chest. Her bare hand on his bare chest. She was saying something about stitches or some other meaningless thing, with her hand still on his chest. He lay back down and she smiled at him. For that reward, he would do much. “I will kill the man for you.” It would be a gift from him to her.

Her smile vanished and she snatched her hand away. “Oh, no, please do not. I am sure he is a perfectly nice man but was rendered short of reason by an excess of drink.”

Dare was torn. He felt certain killing the man was the right answer, but her smile had gone away, which was not good. “As you wish,” he conceded, thinking of many things short of death that would be instructive to the lad.

The smile returned and he was happy again. Her hand, however, remained demurely in her lap. A hand that was cold. A closer inspection of his current situation brought an injustice to light.

“You are sitting in a chair on a cold night while I am in the bed,” he accused.

“You were cold from your ordeal. You needed—”

“I am sufficiently warm, but you are not. You must take a turn in the bed. I will sit up.”

Emma shook her head firmly. “You have been shot and need to recover. I am fine. Truly.”

He frowned at her. He was not accustomed to having people disregard his commands. On board ship, one word, one gesture of his hand, and all the men jumped to comply. His sister, of course, had her own mind and would do what she thought right, but even she would see the logic of warming herself. “You will at least take the blanket, or I will sit up and put it around you myself.”

“No, you’ll pain yourself and rip your stitches.”

“True, but I cannot call myself a gentleman if I do not.”

Her eyes met his. She seemed to be sizing him up, judging if he meant what he said. Sighing, he began to raise himself to his elbows only to be rewarded with her hand on his chest again, gently pushing him back down. Truly, if she wished to discourage the behavior, she should not touch him, for it only enticed him to do it more. Pain be damned.

“If I remove the blanket, you will grow cold,” said Emma logically. “I cannot allow that to happen. I worked very carefully on you and I’d hate to have all my efforts go to naught.”

Dare took a breath and blew it out again. She was arguing with him. Nicely. Intelligently. But she definitely had a mind of her own and she was not afraid to speak it. The thought was comforting, for the ladies he met in London had a circuitous manner of speaking, which Dare found baffling. If Emma was one who spoke her mind, he should be all right.

“Join me.” It was the only logical answer.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”

“You need to warm yourself and rest, or you will catch cold, and then who will I have to tend me?”

A smile slowly graced her face. “I see you are using logic against me.”

“As you did against me.”

“I am tired, I confess, but I simply could not.”

“Miss St. James—”

“Do call me Emma. We have gone through much, and besides, we are pretending to be married, so it won’t do to let anyone hear you call me that.”

“Well, as your pretend husband, I demand you take your rightful place beside me. I assure you I can barely roll over, let alone molest you.”

“Well…”

“We have already broken almost every social convention. Remaining in that chair cannot improve your situation. Will only harm your health.”

“Oh, have it your way.” She threw up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “You do seem to be determined in your opinions.” She walked around the bed with a yawn. She put her hands to her hair and paused. “The pins.”

“Remove them. Hate to be stabbed after I’ve already been shot.”

She giggled. “Yes, I suppose that would be terribly unkind.” She pulled out one after another of the pins.

Had he been a true gentleman, he would not have looked, but he could not turn away as her thick, blond hair fell down like a cascade of gold. How he longed to touch her hair. Of course, he had not the right and, at the moment, not even the ability.

She pulled back the covers and lay beside him. Her mere presence made his heart pound. She gave a little, contented sigh as she sank into the mattress.

He expected to feel wildly uncomfortable with some strange female sharing his bed. Instead, he felt oddly content, as if he had been missing her presence for years and she was finally where she should be.

“Good night, Emma.” His eyelids grew heavy once more.

“Good night, Dare.”