ell me, Lady Ravenscroft, is it true that someone tried to murder our brother last evening?” Lady Alexandra hadn’t even waited to begin filling her plate from the sideboard at breakfast the next morning. She’d pounced the moment she stepped over the threshold.
Someone would have to teach the earl’s sisters some manners. Clara had just been about to take a sip of her ritualistic morning coffee when the wayward duo bustled into the breakfast room, brimming with ill-contained curiosity. She replaced her cup in its saucer. “Lady Alexandra, Lady Josephine, good morning.”
In truth, it was anything but. She’d slept in a chair at Ravenscroft’s side and had only left him to the care of his manservant so that she could break her fast and inform his sisters of what had happened. Worry for him still soured her stomach, and her neck and shoulders ached from the manner in which she’d finally fallen headlong into slumber. It would seem that his sisters had already heard the news from another source. Of course they would have done.
His sisters spilled across the floor in outmoded pastel gowns, crowding her at the table. “How is Julian?” Lady Josephine demanded. “His wits aren’t addled now, are they?”
The girls before her certainly required a great deal of patience.
Lady Alexandra jostled into her sister. “Have they caught the fiend?”
“Lord Ravenscroft is as well as can be expected.” As recalcitrant as the girls were, Clara knew a moment of gratification at their genuine concern. “Your brother was indeed attacked last evening and gravely injured. At last word, the criminal responsible has not yet been apprehended. Fortunately, the doctor assures me that with some rest, the earl shall recover.”
“He has already recovered,” came the familiar drawl of Ravenscroft himself, traveling from behind the wall of concerned femininity obscuring him from Clara’s vision.
His sisters spun, Lady Josephine’s flounced bell-shaped crinolines nearly knocking Clara’s coffee to the floor. She rescued it just in time, righting it in its saucer, before her husband swept into her line of vision. He moved with the same easy grace as always. He wore gray trousers and a black jacket, a silver waistcoat atop his crisp white shirt. His bandage interrupted the inky beauty of his hair, but aside from it, he bore no other sign of the grave injury he’d sustained. He was handsome and debonair as ever.
What in heaven’s name was he about?
Her lips compressed into a disapproving frown. “My lord, you ought to remain abed as the doctor ordered.”
“My lady.” His gaze met hers, warm and intimate. He bowed. “Thank you for your tender care and concern. However, I am, as you can see, mended.”
No man could be mended that quickly after the loss of a great deal of blood. Clara had seen firsthand just how much of his life source had been spilled. Upon further inspection, he did appear a bit pale. “Dr. Redcay prescribed rest, my lord. In matters of an injury to the head he said it was of utmost import. I insist you return to your chamber. I’ll see that your breakfast is brought to you.”
“You insist?” He smiled, as if she amused him.
Perhaps she did. She supposed it wasn’t every day that someone dared to gainsay a peer of the realm. But she didn’t give a fig for ancient English custom, propriety, social rules, or even eloquence. What she did care about was his wellbeing, and if he was too foolish to realize that he ought to take better care of himself, she had no problem telling him.
“Yes.” She stood, pinning him with a meaningful glare. “I insist, my lord.”
She felt Lady Josephine and Lady Alexandra’s wide eyes upon her and turned to find them staring at her as if she’d done something scandalous. Well, wasn’t that rich, coming from those two? She stared them down as well. “If the earl won’t have a care for his person, then who will?” she demanded.
Lady Alexandra’s mouth worked, as if struggling to form words. None were forthcoming. Lady Josephine watched her from beneath raised brows. Inspect my mettle all you will, she told them with her silence. A Virginia girl did not back down from a challenge. Nor did she bat an eyelash at ordering about an earl.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Ravenscroft swaying on his feet. She rushed past his sisters and to his side, throwing her arm about his waist. His arm draped over her shoulder, as if he could steal some of her strength. She felt a tremor pass through him and knew he was not nearly as well as he pretended. Who, then, was this show of bravado for? The foolish man.
“Help me escort his lordship back to his chamber,” she ordered a footman. When he hesitated, looking from her to Ravenscroft, her patience snapped. “Be quick about it, man. We haven’t all day.”
The servant rushed forward. Excellent.
“No.” Ravenscroft halted him in his tracks. “I only require the assistance of my wife.”
He leaned against her, pressing his large, warm body into hers. She flushed at the contact and tried to rein in her thoughts. He’d been gravely wounded, after all. What was wrong with her?
Moreover, how did he think she alone could aid him back to his chamber? “But my lord, perhaps some more support would be beneficial.”
His gaze roamed over her face, hungry, or so it seemed to her. “I’m not an invalid, my lady. I require you alone.”
Stubborn man. He was an invalid, but why argue the matter? Very well. She would allow him to win this small battle, for there remained others to fight and win.
She looked back to the footman. “See to it that a proper breakfast is sent up for his lordship.” She paused, rallying to her cause. “And get me Osgood. I require an interview with him in an hour.”
It was far past time that the household possessed the proper number of servants. Well-trained servants. Servants who didn’t do unmentionable things in the library.
“Perhaps she’ll do after all,” Lady Alexandra said sotto voce to Lady Josephine.
Clara’s eyes narrowed on the two of them once more. For that matter, perhaps she’d found just the person to do something about his sisters’ sadly lacking manners. Herself. “I’ll expect tea this afternoon with you, Lady Alexandra and Lady Josephine. Do be prompt.”
With that, she began guiding Ravenscroft from the room. He followed her lead, surprisingly compliant. Perhaps too compliant. Suspicion stirred in her. Had his show of inhuman strength been for her benefit? Had he forced himself from bed in the hope that she would help him to return to it? He was a calculating man, the stranger she’d wed. She’d put nothing past him.
“Lady Ravenscroft, you’re as formidable as a general this morning.” His low voice rumbled into her ear, his hot breath fanning over her throat.
She suppressed a shiver. “I’ve discovered I need to be in this household.” Truly, the man needed a voice of reason. They’d been married for the span of a day, and already he’d been bludgeoned outside his home. His sisters were mayhem in frills and pink. His servants were insufficient and scandalous. His home was threadbare, in desperate need of a judicious eye and a deep purse. A woman’s touch. Not her touch, however. Someone else’s.
Yes, most assuredly, someone else’s.
They were all—from Ravenscroft down to the chamber maid who needed sacking—someone else’s problem. And yet here she was, somehow making them hers. Making him hers. The thought caused a pang somewhere in the vicinity of her heart. She tamped it forcefully down.
“I’m afraid we haven’t precisely provided you with the welcoming I would have preferred.” His tone was wry and strained.
That was an understatement if ever she’d heard one. Lord have mercy, none of this was what she’d envisioned. None of it was what she’d prepared for, what she’d waited for. And yet, somehow tending to him and seeing him at his weakest last night had changed something inside her forever.
Her heart had softened toward him. She could not deny it. Not enough to stray from her course forever, but perhaps enough to stray from her course for now. And there was the stark, unabridged truth. She wasn’t prepared to leave him. Not with the shadow of an assassin hanging over him. Not when he was weak and injured. Not when he needed her.
“Whatever did you do without me, my lord?” She couldn’t help but ask. They went up the grand staircase now, taking their time. The banister was in sad need of a sound polish, but Ravenscroft seemed steady enough on his feet.
“I’m sure I don’t care to recall, little dove. You’re here now, aren’t you? That’s all that matters. You cannot imagine I’ll let you go after this.”
A frisson of something indefinable skittered through her entire being, warming her before she reminded herself that their union was not meant to be. They reached the top of the stairs and made their way down the hall to his chamber.
“I’m sure I cannot imagine you having the power to keep me here against my will,” she challenged.
It wouldn’t do for him to forget that she still intended to return to Virginia, after all. Nor would it do for her to forget. One day as his countess, and already she’d faltered. He made her want to lose herself in him.
He stopped their progress, hauling her against the wall with surprising strength, given his condition. His palms flattened to the damask on either side of her face, neatly trapping her. “I’m not planning for it to be against your will, love.”
She stared up at him, wishing she could read his expression. After the blow he’d taken to the head and the blood he’d lost, he shouldn’t look so inviting, so handsome. But he appeared as beautiful as she’d ever seen him, pallor to his skin and all. Not even the bandage on his head could detract from the effect he had upon her. He was magnificent. Hers.
For now.
She swallowed. Her common sense reminded her to think of his condition, of the importance of his rest. “My lord, you should be abed.”
“Yes, my lady, I should.” He lowered his head, bringing his wicked mouth to within an inch of hers. “With you.”
A strange sensation sank through her at his words and his nearness both, starting in her belly before sinking into the very center of her. Her breasts tingled. The part of her he’d stroked when he’d put his hand up her skirt ached. This was why good women ruined themselves, she realized. This was why so many ladies had sought him. Temptation was delicious. He was delicious.
She shook her head, attempting to banish the dissolute thoughts he provoked within her. “No. You need to recover. Dr. Redcay stressed how imperative it is for you to rest and regain your strength.”
“Redcay can go to the devil.” He leaned against her, their bodies making contact from breast to chest all the way to their thighs. His legs wedged between hers, her complicit skirts billowing about him. She felt him for the first time, the hardness of him pressed straight to her center with a tip of his hips. Her dress and crinoline weren’t a sufficient barrier. “You’re all I need to recover, little dove. Just you beneath me. I can assure you I have enough strength for what we both want.” His head dipped, his mouth opening on her throat.
The rigid shape of him against her, so suggestive and foreign and wicked, heightened her every sense. To her great shame, an echo of want pulsed within her. She didn’t know how they would fit together. The vague mechanics of it had been whispered to her in finishing school. None of the girls had truly known for certain what happened between a man and a woman. She ached now with her half knowledge, needing something from him. He kissed a path to the hollow behind her ear. She tilted her head to grant him better access. His mouth played over her like velvet fire.
But she could not indulge in her newfound depravity, for she was bound and determined that their marriage would never be consummated. And he was not well. He was a man who didn’t appear to take care in his own wellbeing. Were all his days just an endless string of one debauchery after the next? Did he not realize how close he’d come to being murdered the night before?
The thought chilled her. She caught his face between her palms, stilling his mouth’s exploration. The stubble of his whiskers pricked her. His valet had not shaved him, and the rough abrasion felt good against her skin. The contact jolted her but she did her best to pretend as though she was unaffected.
“Lord Ravenscroft, someone almost killed you last night. Do you not have a care for yourself? You must rest and regain your strength so that you can discover what truly happened and prevent it from happening again. If someone wants you dead, he or she will surely try again once their lack of success becomes apparent.”
He closed his eyes, seeming to gather his strength, leaning into her even more. “It was likely a case of mistaken identity.”
It was not, and they both knew it. His attacker had meant to kill him. He’d been right outside his residence.
“I fear for you, Julian.” At last, the truth was torn from her.
His eyes opened, vivid and brilliant. “You fear for me, but in every other sentence you remind me that you will leave me, and that you want no part of this marriage, no part of me. You cannot have it both ways, little dove. You must choose.”
She stared at him, stricken by the one word she’d nearly blurted. You. But no, she wouldn’t say it. Wouldn’t give up on her dreams. Who was he to her? A stranger who’d taken advantage of her foolishness? The man who’d cozened two hundred thousand pounds out of her father?
She’d spent each day since her father had brought her to England longing for her eventual return home. So many years had passed that Virginia had become hazy and indistinct, a soft and warm memory, beating within her heart but not within her mind’s eye. Why, she could scarcely even recall most of it with proper detail. And she would not abandon her cause of helping her fellow women to gain the vote that was rightfully theirs.
“Choose, damn you,” he said again, his face so close to hers, their lips almost brushing. But he did not kiss her. “I won’t force you. I won’t have you knowing that you’d prefer to be somewhere else, in someone else’s arms. Do you understand me?”
She still held his face in her hands. She couldn’t choose. It should have been easy, a quick sentence leaving her tongue. I choose Virginia. I want to go home. But the words wouldn’t come.
“I can’t,” she forced herself to say. He wanted too much from her, and too soon. They’d been wed for one day. She was not even accustomed to the layout of his household, and already all her plans had been dismantled. He’d been attacked. The unwanted feelings she’d developed for him during their impromptu courtship added to her confusion. Her body betrayed her, even now longing for him, for the weight of his frame pressing into hers, for his body against her, claiming her.
His expression was harsh, demanding as his tone, as the man himself. “I’m telling you now, Clara. You must choose. If it’s a cold piece of ground you long for, I’ll have my man take you straight to a hotel. You can bide your time until the next passenger ship departs for Virginia.”
He shuddered against her then, swaying. She reached for his shoulders, anchoring him to her until the spell subsided. Hours before, she’d been stained in his blood. She’d watched over him, praying for him to wake. Back in her chamber that morning, she’d scrubbed her hands and face, tossed her ruined dressing gown into the dust bin. The blood was gone, but what had happened to him remained. Someone meant to do him harm. How could she sail away from him forever? What if the person who’d attempted to kill him would return, this time succeeding? How would she feel from an ocean away?
“I reckon it’s Virginia then.” A grim acceptance tempered his voice. He attempted to push away from her.
No.
She overpowered him in his weakened state, holding him to her when he would have retreated. “You,” she breathed before she could think better of it.
Because a strangeness had overtaken her from the moment she’d first stepped into his study, a feeling that he alone could unlock the secrets within her. He was a mystery to her, a man who claimed to be a jaded cynic. A man who had misled her, who had courted her, who had listened to her opinions. He wasn’t as hardened as he pretended to be. He wasn’t as careless. He had decorated her chamber, had taken in his sisters. He wanted her to be his wife when allowing her to go would be the easiest path.
“It’s you,” she said again, as much for her own benefit as for his. She closed the scant distance between them to press her lips to his in a quick and nervous gesture. There. That ought to be…wifely.
Wife. Suddenly the word held knew meaning. What had she done? She’d never intended to be his wife in truth or in deed. But the promises she’d made the day before resonated, as real as his hot flesh beneath her fingertips. Yes, he was hers now.
He kissed her again, fitting their lips together, setting his lower lip between hers. His teeth nipped her upper lip, tasting her, testing her resolve. “Thank you, little dove,” he said against her mouth, a benediction. “Thank you.”
A man could grow accustomed to such treatment.
Julian watched his wife as she directed the placement of the breakfast tray she’d ordered for him. Much as he would’ve loved to fuck her senseless, slide home inside her before she changed her mind and raced off to Virginia, for the first time in his life, he didn’t possess the stamina. Odd bouts of dizziness struck him with an unpredictability that had rendered his intrepid venture to the breakfast room ill-advised. He must have lost a great deal of blood as well, the aftereffects of which left him uncomfortably feeble.
His pride in tatters, he’d allowed her to assist him back to his chamber and into his bed. With his haphazard valet missing once more, she acted the part without bothering to ring for him. She removed his shoes, helped him with his jacket and waistcoat, and plumped pillows behind his back. She was a capable woman, his wife.
It was all rather endearing, for he hadn’t fancied her the tender sort. Fierce, foolish, and brave, yes. Determined and stubborn, also. But tender…now that was an unfamiliar side to her. A side he found he rather enjoyed. A side of her that made the strangest sensation lodge in his chest.
Indeed, the sole benefit of his unexpected brush with death was the sea change it worked upon his lovely American bride. She’d been furious with him yesterday after discovering his intentions. But her ire seemed to have faded in the face of his near-demise. She’d been hovering at his side, seeing to his comfort, checking his brow for sign of fever. Christ, she’d even taken charge of his rapscallion sisters and his sadly disreputable household.
Perhaps she didn’t dislike him quite as much as she wished she did. Perhaps she wasn’t as impervious as she pretended.
Suddenly, he wanted everyone who wasn’t Clara gone from the chamber.
“That will be all,” he informed the maid and footman dancing attendance on them. He sincerely hoped that wasn’t the maid who’d been frolicking in his library, but he kept his silence as the two took their leave, despite a strong urge to warn against their impending fornication anywhere else in his home. Ah, he would freely admit that his household badly needed a woman’s touch.
The door closed, leaving Julian and his wife decidedly alone. If only his bloody head would stop thumping and the room would cease spinning at the most inopportune moments. Clara stood a few paces from the bed, hands clasped at her waist. She couldn’t have slept much during the night. Thrice, he’d shuddered awake to find her sleeping in the chair at his side.
But looking at her now was akin to gazing upon the verdant beauty of a summer day. She was like sunshine. Necessary. Life giving. Glorious.
Jesus, where was this maudlin tripe originating from? One blow to the head was all it took, apparently, but he couldn’t look away from her. How lowering to be thus affected by such a small, fine-boned creature. He’d never imagined the like.
“Will you take your breakfast now, my lord? You do need your strength.” Courtesy steeped her tone.
Damn it, back to the impersonal and circumspect form of address. Too impersonal for his taste. With Clara, he wanted anything but. He wanted familiar. Intimate. He wanted to know every inch of her, from her golden head to her dainty toes, and everywhere in between. Especially everywhere in between.
But not now. Not yet. For the moment, all he had in his arsenal was words. “I’m your husband. You may call me by my given name.”
“Very well.” She bustled to the table where the breakfast tray lay abandoned and gripped its silver handles, notably avoiding the use of his name. “Where would you have me put this?”
He wasn’t hungry. The smell of food made his stomach queasy. “Leave it. I find I’ve lost my appetite.”
“But you must eat, for how else will you get well again? Have a care for yourself, if you please.” The drawl she took great pains to hide was more pronounced than usual.
“Darling, I haven’t had a mother in many years, and I certainly don’t require one now.”
She flushed, her lush lips flattening into a line of displeasure. “Do you ever take anything seriously, sir?”
He’d spent the last decade or so of his life taking nothing seriously. A man who’d lived as he had couldn’t afford to turn the sober eye of scrutiny to himself. And so, his years had been a swirl of decadence, drink, pleasure, and ruin.
Not any longer, however. Once, he’d thought that nothing changed. That life was an endless cycle of misery that only hedonism could diminish. Once, he’d thought he could never change. And then, a beautiful Virginia girl had walked into his study wearing the ugliest hat he’d ever seen.
The chamber stopped spinning about him. He took her in with perfect clarity, meeting her gaze. “I take you seriously, Clara.”
His words seemed to take her aback. She swallowed, biting her lower lip before releasing it. “Sometimes, I’m not certain that you do. Sometimes, I feel as if I’m your entertainment. A joke you keep to yourself.”
How little she must think of him to feel that way. Emotions were not his forte, not for some time. Feeling anything at all had become as foreign to him as that land she called home. But he didn’t wish for her to misunderstand. Julian took everything about her as seriously as he had ever taken anything in his dissolute life.
He sat up and swung his feet to the floor, mustering his strength. “You’re anything but a joke to me, little dove. If I laugh at anyone, it’s myself.”
For she made him weak. Weaker than blood loss or a blow to the head. She made him long for her. She’d captivated him and held him in her thrall from the moment she’d stepped into his dark world.
He braced his hands on the bed to leverage himself into a standing position. But she was quicker than he, flying to him and staying him with palms pressed to his shoulders. Her face hovered over his, undisguised worry hardening the soft planes.
“Please. You must rest.” Her tone was gentle, cajoling.
He could almost believe she cared. Damn it, he needed to believe she cared.
“What am I to you that you should so concern yourself with whether or not I heal?” He shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t press her for more than she’d already given, but he was a greedy bastard. He wanted to hear it from her lips. If she wanted to be his wife in every way, there would be no more barriers between them.
She startled him by caressing his jaw. Just a fleeting swipe of her fingers over his skin before she placed her hand back on his shoulder. She treated him as if he were a wild creature she didn’t dare trust to pet for longer than a moment.
“You’re my husband.”
Her dulcet admission undid him. His cock surged against his trousers at the combination of her small surrender and her touch both, his ballocks tightening. But he would not attempt to bed her now, not when he was weak and couldn’t take his time and bring her the sort of prolonged pleasure she deserved. When the time was right, he would lay siege, batter down her every defense.
“Yes I bloody well am. I’ll not let you forget it.” His voice was gruff and low with suppressed desire.
“I’m not likely to forget.” She pushed gently at his shoulders. “Now have a care for your wellbeing. You need to rest, and you need some sustenance. At least a bit.”
He allowed her to guide him back into the mound of pillows she’d arranged for him. He doubted she realized that her ministrations put the temptation of her beautiful bosom practically at eye level. The urge to press his face into the seductive swell was strong, but he rallied his self-control and refrained.
“I don’t want breakfast.” He settled for resting his hands on her waist. “Come, sit with me, won’t you?”
She eyed him warily. “I don’t think a man in your condition ought to…”
Her words trailed off, a sweet pink flush staining her high cheekbones. Damn, but she truly was an innocent. An innocent that he would happily debauch at the first possible opportunity now that she was his.
“You needn’t worry on that account,” he assured her. “When I bed you, it will be with my full strength. I merely want your company now.”
She hesitated, perhaps weighing her options. Or how much she trusted him against how black a reputation he possessed. “Won’t you eat something first, my lord? And then I shall sit with you to your heart’s content.”
If she was attempting to rout him, she would have to try harder than that. He had the determination of an entire army when sufficiently motivated. And Clara was certainly ample motivation. But he excelled at games of chance, and he knew sometimes a risk predicated a great reward.
And so he capitulated, releasing her. “What would you have me eat, love? Not the oeufs cocottes, if you please. The mere notion of eggs makes the bile rise in my throat.”
She straightened and stepped away from him with a swiftness that suggested she wasn’t as unaffected as she pretended. Her aquamarine morning skirt swished as she strode to examine the contents of the tray. “Perhaps some Bayonne ham and some bread would be more the thing, then? Would you care for tea as well?”
Some devil within him toyed with the notion of asking her to feed it to him, but he knew he didn’t dare press his luck. No one had ever waited upon him in such a manner who wasn’t a servant. The ladies of his past acquaintance would never have dreamed of taking on such a role, as it would have been beneath them. Likely, Clara’s equanimity was down to her American origins. Lesser women would have fled from the sight of a bleeding man. Lesser women would have fainted, called for a servant. Lesser women would never have shown the undeserved dedication she gave him now.
His appreciation for her grew by the second. “That will be sufficient,” he said through a throat gone suddenly thick with an emotion he didn’t care to question.
Silence descended upon the chamber as she removed the unwanted eggs, kidneys, and whatever else had been sent up, placing all on the table with care. At last, she lifted the tray and turned back to him. He studied the symmetry of her face and thought she would make a fine muse for an artist. Hers was a rare brand of beauty, the classical blended with the original. Cupid’s bow lips and blue eyes set apart by a decadent fringe of lashes, cheekbones exotic slashes. Her forehead was high, that errant eyebrow of hers a mark of endearment.
She placed the tray gently upon his lap. “Here you are, my lord.”
No, he was having none of that. His hands closed over hers on the handles of the silver tray. “Julian.”
Her gaze met his then, and he felt as if a spark settled deep into his gut. “Julian.”
He smiled, liking the way his name sounded in her drawl, wilder and more lush than it had ever sounded upon anyone else’s tongue. The dizziness was mercifully absent. Even the aching in his head had lessened. He released her again although the loss of touching her left him momentarily bereft.
But he was determined not to rush or press her. She would be worth the wait. “Sit with me, Clara?”
Her lips pressed together for a beat, and he feared she’d deny him. But then she nodded. “Of course.” She grabbed fistfuls of her skirts and hiked them up before sidling on his bed rump first.
The act was not meant to be sexual in the least, but his cock hadn’t softened since the bloody hall. Watching her scoot toward him made him even harder. She was very much in his territory now, on his bed at his side. Her musky orange scent enveloped him. As she slid her legs on the bed, he caught a glimpse of her trim, stocking-clad ankles and calves.
She attempted to settle herself with prim decorum at a safe distance from him but wound up being drawn closer by the sheer mechanics of his larger body sinking deeper into the bed. Soft, warm, delicious-smelling woman pressed to his side.
Ah, perfection.
“Forgive my lack of grace, if you please.” She glanced at him, cheeks tinged more red now than ever. The growling of her stomach punctuated her apology with comical timing.
He recalled that when he’d come upon her earlier, she’d been inundated with questions from his irrepressible sisters. She had yet to break her fast. She must be starving. And yet she’d not had a care for herself. Only for him.
Julian’s arm went around her waist, hauling her even closer. His hip brushed hers, the only barrier inhibiting him the crinoline cage that gave her skirts their fashionable shape. “You must be famished. Share breakfast with me. There’s enough here to feed a family.”
In anticipation of Clara’s arrival at his home, he’d hired the best cook he could find. The fellow was French and damned expensive, but worth the price. Along with Julian’s careful decoration of her chamber, it was the only expenditure he’d approved since signing the marriage contract that guaranteed him a tidy fortune. Using the funds hadn’t felt right. Not, at least, until Clara would reap their benefits as well.
“It is you who concerns me now, my lord.” She pressed a fork into his hand. “You need sustenance.”
The chamber swirled about him in an eerie dance just then, giving credence to her words. He was still weak. His mind still jumbled. His fingers tightened over the hilt of the fork. Yes, perhaps she was right, this persistent American wife of his, and he ought to eat after all. He’d need his strength if he was going to discover precisely who the hell it was that wanted him dead.