“No,” he said swiftly, interrupting her. “I’ll stay. Leave us, please.”
The maid looked uncertain for a moment, but when Reynaud stared at her, she bobbed a curtsy and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Reynaud unsheathed his knife and laid it on the bedside table. He took off his wig and set it on a chair. Then he pulled off his boots and climbed into the bed. Carefully, tenderly, he gathered Beatrice to him, her uninjured side against him as he lay.
He brushed the hair from her face, feeling helpless. All his strength, all his determination, mattered not a whit here. It was up to Beatrice and what strength she had.
“Wake up, sweetheart,” he whispered into her hair. “God, please wake up.”
THERE WAS SOMETHING warm against her side. Big and warm and, oh! so very nice to lie next to. Beatrice shifted a little, intending to burrow her nose into the warmth, but something cut into her side. “Ouch.”
“Don’t move.”
Her eyes flew open at the deep voice, and for a moment she simply stared up at black eyes framed in thick black eyelashes. He did have such pretty eyelashes; it almost made her jealous. Why a man should have…
Her mind ground to a halt over the thought and then carefully retraced her steps. A man…
Beatrice blinked up at Lord Hope. “What are you doing in my bed?”
“Taking care of you.”
The words were soft, but his face wasn’t. She studied him lazily, too tired somehow to get up. He’d left off his wig, and the hair on his shorn head was barely longer than the stubble on his chin. It lay sleek and flat against his head. She wanted to touch it, to see if his hair was soft or prickly. The three birds flew about his right eye, all of them similar but all slightly different. And his midnight eyes watched her back, his brows knit as if with concern.
“Why do you need to take care of me?” she whispered.
“You were hurt,” he said, “and it was my fault.”
“How?”
“There were three assassins outside of Jeremy Oates’s town house.”
She remembered now—the man with the walleye and the other two smaller men, loitering. “Why? Why were they there?”
“To kill me,” he said grimly.
She reached up a hand and traced one of the bird tattoos near his eye. “Why is someone trying to kill you? Do you know?”
He closed his eyes at her touch. “No, I don’t know. Vale thinks it’s someone from our past.”
“I don’t understand.” Her hand dropped.
“I don’t either.” He opened his eyes, which were blazing black. “All I know is that it’s my fault that you’re hurt.”
She frowned, still confused. “But why is that your fault?”
“I failed to protect you,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows bemusedly. “Is that your job? To protect me?”
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
And he bent his head very slowly toward her. She watched him nearing, the birds getting ever closer, and she thought, He’s going to kiss me.
And then he was.
His lips were far softer than she would’ve thought—and they moved over hers gently but firmly. He’d kissed her once before, but that time it’d been so swift she’d hardly had time to assimilate the sensations. This time she could. His bristly cheeks scratched hers, but she didn’t mind. She was caught up in the sensation of his mouth, the smell of his neck—warm and masculine—and the sound of his breathing coming faster as he kissed her. He ran his tongue lazily over her lips, and she was so enchanted that she parted them, letting him in. He surged into her mouth, tasting of man, and she moaned, softly, just a little, but it was enough for him to pull back.
“I’m hurting you,” he said, scowling.