14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter fourteen

M oments after Hugh’s eyelids drifted closed, his breathing shallowed, and the line of his jaw softened. He had been awake one second and asleep the next. Although the loss of conversation was disappointing, Charlotte relished being in his company.

She watched the rise and fall of his chest for a few moments before wandering around the cottage tidying up. She locked the door and positioned one of the chairs in front of it. Not that furniture could keep one of Lady Chesterhill’s men from breaking down the door and entering, but perchance, in the dark, they would trip over it, giving Hugh extra time to arm himself.

What was she thinking? Hugh could barely walk. Still, the chair would provide her an extra moment or two to arm herself. She searched for a weapon, settling on a bread knife. She’d just plopped herself at the table, knife in front of her, when Hugh moaned. She jumped to attention and rushed to him.

His head thrashed from side to side. “No,” he mumbled. “No, no.”

What type of nightmare plagued a worldly man like Hugh? Sitting on the mattress beside him, she ran the back of her wrist over his sweat-covered brow. Please do not let this be a fever.

“Hugh,” she cooed, “’Tis just a nightmare. I am here. You are safe.”

In the scanty lantern light, she barely discerned his eyes opening.

“You are safe,” she whispered.

An almost imperceptible flash of white teeth indicated his smile. He clasped her hand and held it against his heart. “All the pain goes away.”

To think, her pianoforte and painting were abysmal. Unless one listened intently—and no sane person would do such a thing—her singing voice was easily mistaken for a fox in heat. She’d never had any talents outside of needlepoint, but her touch made him feel better. At least, he thought it did. Charlotte’s heart tripped over itself. She sat as still as possible until a gentle hum rippled from his lips. She extricated herself from his grasp, but only long enough to extinguish the lantern, toe off her slippers, and remove her hairpins. She’d never been able to sleep in the scalp-biting things. Crawling into bed beside Hugh, she slipped beneath the counterpane.

Charlotte wrapped her arms around his sleeping form. Holding him close, she closed her eyes and concentrated on sending him healing vibrations.

The gentle light of early morning shone through the window, dappling over Hugh’s rugged jawline. Dark hair covered his cheeks and chin. Even unshaven and bruised, he was beautiful. Using the back of her hand, she assessed his body temperature. She was no physician, but he did not seem to have a fever. Relieved, she brushed a finger over his eyebrows. Oh, how she liked them—thick, dark, and masculine.

His long lashes fluttered, and his eyes drifted open.

“Good morning,” she said.

He grinned, stretched long, and grimaced. “Good morn to you, little Firefly.” He winced as he pushed himself to sit.

“You are still hurting.” What a stupid thing to say. Of course, he was still in pain. He’d been beaten until his body was a mass of cuts and bruises. She’d let herself be carried away by the fantasy when there was no way that her touch held medicinal power. She had too much common sense to entertain the absurd notion one second longer.

“Not as much as yesterday,” he said. “You truly make me feel better. I probably need more Firefly tincture.”

Firefly tincture ? What a silly man. But she’d play along. “Where do you still hurt?”

His bottom lip stuck out in an exaggerated pout as he pointed to his swollen nose.

She turned toward him, tucked her knees beneath her, and then brushed her fingers over his nose.

Closing his eyes, he exhaled a contented sigh.

She brazenly leaned into him and grazed her lips over the bridge of his swollen nose .

“Ah, yes.” With his eyes still closed, he cradled her cheek. “See. So much better.”

“Where else?” she asked between her embarrassing titters.

He opened his eyes, caught her gaze, and tapped his cheek.

She playfully rolled her eyes, for she did not mind touching and kissing this man in the least. Being quite careful of the pressure, her fingertip trailed a swirly line over a purple bruise near his ear.

Since his guttural sound could in no way be mistaken for pain, it enthusiastically waltzed its way between her thighs.

She swallowed. “Where else?”

He tapped his lips as he stared at her with pleading puppy dog eyes. She met his gaze, but only for a moment before she dropped her focus to his mouth.

If there was the slightest chance she could ease the pain from the cut splitting his lower lip, she should. She’d be ever so gentle—as light as a feather—just a brief touch. Tilting her head to the side, she cautiously moved toward him until she softly brushed her lips over his—once, twice, three times.

“Your hair. It’s beautiful like that,” Hugh said.

Did he mean hanging loose and sleep-mussed?

“I swear to all that is holy, ‘tis goddess hair.” Threading his fingers through the strands at her nape, he tugged while pressing his lips to hers in a passionate kiss. His scruff scratched her skin, reminding her that he was delectably male.

So much for her efforts to be gentle. Even in his weakened state he was all demanding power. Therefore, she would have to be the voice of reason.

Reluctantly, she backed away. “I do not want to hurt you.”

His other hand wrapped around her lower back, crushing her torso to his. “My tongue is not injured in the least.”

Almighty heaven. She whimpered .

He growled as his mouth claimed hers in a scorching kiss. She parted her lips, making way for his uninjured , scrumptious tongue. It stroked and taunted until she met him with equal force.

She could explore his mouth forever, but she should attend to the rest of him. Breathless, she pulled away. “Where else?” she asked between her panting gasps.

He placed his hand over his heart. Did he mean he’d suffered an injury there? Or was he suggesting she had broken his heart? Because that was preposterous. She was nary capable of breaking any man’s heart.

As if seeming to understand her musing, he tapped his chest. “That blighter Leon insists on targeting my breastbone.”

Memories of Hugh’s shirt hanging open as the doctor tended to him bombarded her. Lecherous ladies were doomed to hell. Hopefully, she could handle the heat because she’d suffer whatever punishment came her way in order to see Hugh’s physique for a second time.

Exhaling, she spoke before her conscience could interfere. “I should remove your shirt so that I can attend to you properly.”

His low, raspy “mmm” stoked the fire burning in her belly.

Despite wanting to rip at the fabric, she took her time releasing each button, reveling in every inch of the reveal. His skin was tanned as if he worked in the fields shirtless and so well-defined that he must heft about bricks and tree trunks for hours a day.

She held her breath so long she became dizzy. Unless it was desire causing her off-kilter whirling sensation.

Exhaling, she placed her palm on a purple splotch on his shoulder. From there, she traced the contours of his sinew until she reached a massive bruise on his chest. His heart beat steady against her palms. Concentrating with all her might, she sent him her energy as the thump thump of his heart increased its pace.

“Is that helping?” she asked.

“Uh, huh. But I also need kisses.” One side of his mouth quirked upward, forming a charming smirk—if indeed a smirk could be charming?

“Incubus,” she teased as she lowered her head and peppered his shoulder with pecks.

“Guilty as charged.” His hand cradled her neck, guiding her to the bruise on his chest.

She attended to his torso with abandoned passion. Her hands, lips, and tongue worked together as he moaned with pleasure.

She could not help herself because, apparently, chest hair made her wild. She raked her fingernails through the course curls, following them over his flat abdominals. Down she went, all the way to his trousers, where the hair grew thick. From this vantage point, it was evident that the bulge caged in his trousers pulsed.

What a shame it would be if his masculine implements had been injured during the numerous beatings. Dare she administer Firefly tincture atop that magnetic tent? She desperately desired to see and touch more of him. In truth, every inch of his body. But was she bold enough to undo his falls?

Alas, nay. And even if she did something so wanton, she’d make an utter fool of herself since she had no idea what to do with a man’s member. She would need to consult the guide for the specifics. Sighing, she sat up.

Flushed and heavy-lidded, he gulped. “Your father will be here at any moment.”

“No,” she squeaked like an unhappy rodent .

“I am afraid so,” Hugh said. “And he cannot find us like this.”

There were some punishments she was not willing to accept. Hugh’s death being first and foremost. She planted one last kiss on his lips before leaping from bed. She slid into her slippers and hurriedly gathered her hairpins and Cook’s basket.

“I will be back this evening,” she said.

“I will be here. Waiting.” Hugh blew her a kiss as the door between them closed.