Chapter Twenty-Nine

Honoria was dead. She was sure of it as she became aware of a sharp, stabbing pain. She groaned. One would think the afterlife

would feel more pleasant than this.

Blinking into the eternal darkness, she felt her lashes tug against something that rested on her cheek. No, not just on her

cheek. There was something stretched over her brow, too. And her chin.

It felt like cloth. Her burial shroud?

Curious, she tried to lift her hand to investigate, but her arm was trapped at her side.

"Try not to move. It will only hurt."

"Oscar?"

"Stop moving."

She bristled at his quiet command. But the throbbing pain radiating along her skull was greater than her desire to argue with

him. At least for the moment. "Where am I?"

"You're in the king's chamber inside the abbey."

So... not dead, then. She supposed that was a relief. "King's chamber?"

"Seventeenth-century king. Popped by for a visit. Never returned."

His words were short and clipped and did nothing to ease the disquiet brewing inside her from the question she was too afraid

to ask. So she tried to answer it herself, straining through the piercing pain in her skull to remember.

It came to her in fragments: the letter, the mad dash on horseback, opening the door to find Oscar, and then...

Oh. The urn. "Are you injured?"

"No, you maddening little idiot," he growled. "What were you thinking, running toward me like that?"

"Well, there was an urn about to drop on your head, and I saw the perfect opportunity to be rid of you once and for all. I

tried to position you directly underneath it. I miscalculated. Obviously."

"Pity for you, then. You'll have a hard time ridding yourself of me now." The words were a threat, but his tone had softened

away the hard edge, revealing a trace of worry beneath it. "Close your eyes. I'm lighting a candle."

She did but frowned and felt the cloth shift against her skin with the slight movement. Then she heard the quick strike of

flint and steel before a soft golden glow penetrated her eyelids.

She carefully squinted her eyes open, and a lance of fear speared through her at seeing white cambric fuzzing around the edges

of her vision. "You're dreadfully domineering, I hope you know."

"After dealing with you, your parents, the surgeon and the widows, I believe I've earned the right," he said without looking

at her, as if he couldn't look at her.

Working one of her arms free from beneath the tightly tucked coverlet, she tentatively touched the bandages, quickly discerning

that they covered her entire head.

Hard beats of panic clogged her throat. What had happened to her?

She swallowed, not wanting to think about that quite yet. "My parents?"

"Of course your parents." He was back to being testy, his jaw set. "Naturally they were curious about the contents of the letter that would cause their daughter to flee a parlor full of gentleman callers and steal one of their horses, only to arrive hot on her heels and find her limp body in my arms after she was nearly crushed. To death. By an urn."

"I wouldn't have had to do anything of the sort if you didn't have a murderer after you. Which means that you need to leave

here. This instant. He has already left London—"

"And is en route to Dover," he interrupted archly. "Where he will likely board a ship bound for Spain. You see, I also received

a letter from someone who, I can only presume, is a bit more well-informed than your brother."

She glanced away, guilt overriding her unease for the moment. "I had to tell Truman in order to withdraw the money from my

bank in London. He's the only one who knows. And we can trust him."

"Mmm..." he grumbled, clearly not convinced.

"What did you tell my parents? About the letter, I mean."

"I stayed as close to the truth as possible and explained that Ladrón was a man who I had done business with in the past and

our parting was less than amicable. Then, I mentioned my regret in sharing this information with their daughter because I

had no idea she could be such an idiot as to think that she could or should endeavor to intervene on my behalf."

"Well, it was clearly your fault for underestimating me."

When his nostrils flared and the muscle along his jaw twitched, she supposed that now wasn't the time to throw stones. Or

urns, in this instance. The reminder brought a fresh wave of cranium-splitting pain, and she closed her eyes.

"Here. Drink some water," he said with surprising gentleness as he slid a hand beneath her nape and pressed the smooth rim

of a glass to her lips.

As the first sip touched her tongue, she realized how parched she was and drank thirstily.

"Slow now," he crooned, and her eyes fluttered open, seeking reassurance. But he did not meet her gaze. He let her take two more gulps before easing away from her. "I'll give you more in a few minutes."

She wanted more now. Or perhaps it was just that she wanted to be close to him again. Wanted the comforting warmth of his

partial embrace. Wanted him to look at her.

But he was staring down at the glass, rolling it between the cups of his hands.

She didn't want to think about the reason. "What did my parents say to that?"

"Hmm?" he murmured with an absent shrug as he set the glass on the side table. "Oh, nothing really. Your father spouted something

Shakespearean about the heart. I believe it was ‘Who could refrain, that had a heart to love, and in that heart courage to

make's love known?'"

"My father has a quote for every situation, but they're not always accurate," she said in a rush.

"That was my first thought, too. And yet, it struck me that, while I was making up reasons to stay, you were stealing a horse

to warn me about potential danger." Then, at last, he looked at her, holding her gaze with that ruthless gambler's scrutiny.

"I think it's fair to say that we are both suffering from a stronger regard for each other than we'd anticipated."

"It will surely pass." Her pulse quickened in panic. And now she wished he would look away. "Besides, I'm likely hideous underneath

these bandages."

"Fear not. You are still beautiful," he said on a sigh of indulgent exasperation.

"Then, why haven't you looked at me until now? How badly am I hurt?"

"It could have been much worse."

That wasn't an answer, and his evasion only amplified her worry. "Just tell me."

"Fine. I'll tell you," he said. "Since you decided to hurtle yourself recklessly toward me, part of the urn glanced off the crown of your head. It bled. A great deal. And every time I think about it I want to—" He shook his head, then closed his eyes. Drew in a deep breath, exhaled slowly. "The surgeon claimed the bleeding was normal for such a wound but added that you would have a sizable lump on your head for a few days. Your parents, in turn, decided it best for you to remain under my roof. Chaperoned, of course."

He gestured toward the opposite end of the room. And, for the first time, Honoria noticed the dowager's nurse recumbent on

a chaise longue, her head lolling to one side as she slept, oblivious, the faint sound of her snoring evenly rusting in and

whooshing out.

Confused, Honoria turned back to him. "Then, why is my face covered in bandages?"

"Partly because the position of your wound made it necessary to anchor them... and partly because the surgeon was afraid you would scratch yourself." He shook his head, issuing a half shrug as if the town

surgeon were a dunderhead.

But there was something Oscar wasn't telling her. She could read it in his eyes. He'd never looked at her this way before.

"Tell me the truth. No matter what it is, I can bear it. If I'm disfigured, then there's no need to coddle me."

"Very well," he said blandly. "I think you're being ridiculous. You are far more than a collection of lovely features, you

also possess exquisitely ripe breasts and taut, firm b—"

"Oscar."

The corner of his mouth twitched, clearly satisfied that he'd made her blush. He was trying to distract her. And it was only

making her worry all the more.

Seeing this, he sobered at once. "Would you like me to wake the nurse and have her remove the bandages so you can see for

yourself?"

Her throat went dry. "No. I don't think I'm ready yet."

"There is nothing to be afraid of." Leaning closer, he took her chin gently in his grasp, his gaze steady and sure. "You are the most brave, clever, daring and stubborn woman I've ever met. You've never let anything or anyone stop you from doing precisely as you please, which also means that you're determined to overcome any obstacle in your path. I admire the woman you are, as well as the woman you're destined to become. And as every day passes into years and into decades and your face wrinkles and softens with age, I will still think you are beautiful. I will always think you are beautiful."

Honoria wasn't sure what frightened her more—the idea that she would be scarred for life or the way his tender admission burrowed

directly into her heart.

Unable to deal with either at the moment, she burst into tears. And because it made her megrim all the worse, she cried some

more.

He took her hand in his own, enveloping it in his reassuring strength and warmth. "Now, what's all this blubbering about?"

"I don't know wh-why"—her breath staggered wetly—"you're being so kind to me all of a s-sudden."

He leaned close to wipe away her tears, then pressed a kiss to her lids before easing back into the chair and taking her hand

again. "Oh, Signore. I think you have the answer already, and that's what truly scares you. But at some point, you're going

to have to face it."

Reflexively, she shook her head, only to wince from the effort. "I'm tired. I don't want to think about anything. Not now."

"Then, I'll leave you to rest."

"No," she said at once, curling her fingers around his. "Don't go. Please."

His stormy irises were eclipsed in the shadows of his lashes as he studied her. Then he softly clucked his tongue. "First

you cannot wait to be rid of me. And now you want me to stay. Which shall it be, my dear?"

She knew what he was asking. The blackguard obviously had no qualms about taking advantage of her weakened state. Even so, her heart thudded so hard against her ribs that she was sure he heard it.

However, she also knew that she could feign ignorance later and that gave her the courage to say, "Stay."

And when she awoke a few hours later to the pink light of dawn filtering in through the windows, he was still there.

At some point in the night, he had fallen asleep with his head resting against her midriff, every ounce of jaded cynicism

erased from his countenance. If not for the shadowed scruff, he would have looked rather boyish with those dark lashes fanned

against the flush of sleep on his cheeks.

She brushed his hair away from his brow, a silken lock curling, clinging like a vine around her finger. And, all at once,

the heart she kept safely tucked away behind high garden walls did the one thing she never wanted it to do.

It opened the door.