How to Lose a Bride in One Night

Nor was the situation seemly. Mrs. Kirkpatrick must have decided he did not care about propriety, as he had brought the girl into his house in the first place. Or she merely thought there was no risk of anything inappropriate transpiring between him and a bedridden female. He would have agreed with the latter except that tonight she had looked beyond fetching in that absurdly prim nightgown, her big brown eyes glowing in the dark at him.

Her trust in him was utter and complete and baffling. She looked at him as though he were truly something good and heroic. Someone who could teach her to protect herself against everything evil in this world. Even as he tried to warn her that he might very well be the thing she most needed protection from.

He stared at the adjoining door as if he could see through the rich, polished wood, straining for a sound of her on the other side. He couldn’t stomach the sound of her whimpers and cries and do nothing. He had decided to just watch her for a little while, to assure himself she was well, when she had awoken so abruptly. And then he’d talked to her. He inhaled a ragged breath. That had been a mistake.

Striding to his balcony doors, he braced his hands on the iron railing of the balcony and stared out at the night. Her presence didn’t quite aid in his goal of solitude. He had thought he would return to Town and lose himself here. Wrap himself in the comfort of memories of better days.

His plan was simple, and it did not involve people. It did not involve her.

Except that he was here now and so was she. His fingers tightened on the railing as he reminded himself that the situation was temporary. Once she was on her feet, once she regained her memory, he could wash his hands of her. If she never remembered her past, then he’d grant her some funds and settle her wherever she wished to go. He had more than enough money and no one to share it with—now or ever. He would never marry. When he died, his title would pass back to some distant Scottish relation on his mother’s side. He might as well help Anna with a fresh start. Perhaps the magnanimous gesture would clear some of the stain besmirching his black soul.

He winced at that unlikelihood. No good deed would ever be enough for that. He released a soft laugh. She thought him a hero. It was laughable. He had killed so many fathers. Brothers. Sons. He sucked in a deep breath. He simply needed to make certain he didn’t act on any of the unwelcome urges he was experiencing around her. Simple indeed.

She was a female residing beneath his roof . . . her chamber adjoining his. He told himself it was nothing more than that. Proximity was the temptation . . . and the unwitting invitation he read in her eyes. He had not spent himself on a woman since returning to England. He should pop in at the brothel he and Jamie had visited before setting sail with their regiment.

Returning to his chamber, he contemplated doing just that. The hour wasn’t too late for such diversion. Shrugging off his dressing robe, he slid back into bed, uninspired to make the effort. When it came down to it, he simply didn’t want to badly enough.

That was the reason he told himself he didn’t want to go. That reason alone.

Annalise sighed as the warm water enveloped her. Her muscles immediately eased and softened. Even the itchy ache in her leg felt better. She closed her eyes in a long blink, reveling in the sensation. Up until now she’d been bathing herself from a basin with a sponge. This was heaven.

“Nice?” Mrs. Kirkpatrick asked, her face intent as she sprinkled salts into the steaming water.

Annalise nodded, trying not to feel uncomfortable n**ed and exposed beneath her gaze. “Heavenly.”

“Just one more week.” The barest hint of a smile graced the housekeeper’s lips. “Then you’ll be on your feet.”

“I cannot wait.” Sitting up higher in the tub, she lightly stroked her leg in the water, hoping the bone there was healing as it should so that she could attempt to walk next week. Please, God, let me still walk. Her hands stilled over the thigh, hoping, praying with a fervency that burned through her soul that it would be no worse than before. That she would still be able to walk.

Tears burned her eyes as self-pity threatened to overwhelm her. No. She would not weep. Not when she didn’t even know how bad it was. Besides, she wasn’t that girl anymore—weak and given to self-pity. No matter how damaged her leg, she would learn to function.

“I’ll be back shortly.” Mrs. Kirkpatrick arranged the towel alongside the soaps, salts, and bell sitting on the small table she had dragged beside the copper tub.

Annalise looked up from her leg. “Thank you.”

“Just ring the bell if you need assistance or when you’re ready to get out.” She nodded to the bell on the table and then departed, her gray, starched skirts scratching on the air as she left. The door thudded after her.

Alone now, she stared down at her body, much slimmer than it had been before she went over the side of her honeymoon barge. The weeklong fever had robbed her of some weight. Even after she woke, her appetite did not quite return in full. She could detect her hip bones now. Her waist appeared smaller, dipping before swelling out into her hips. She splayed a hand over her belly, noting how it didn’t quite push against her palm any longer.

Careful not to bend her leg, Annalise dipped her head back into the warm water. Reaching for the soap, she made quick work washing the long strands into a deep lather until her scalp tingled. With a sigh, she arched her neck and rinsed the hair clean.

Leaning back in the tub, she used the sponge to wash her body, scrubbing her skin until it glistened pink. Finished, she wrung out the sponge and leaned back to relax in the tub again. Naturally, her thoughts drifted to him.

He’d stayed away since his late night visit to her chamber. The nightmares hadn’t stopped. They still haunted her, but he did not show again when she woke with a cry on her lips. That bothered her most of all. The possibility that he had ceased to care.

She heard the occasional sound coming from his room, so she knew he hadn’t taken up residence elsewhere. He simply chose to ignore her. As he had since the beginning. As though she was something contagious, a disease he must keep his distance from.

Initially, the realization hurt. She wondered if she had done or said something, but then she dismissed that notion. He’d rescued her, offered to help her, brought her here to his home and then proceeded to ignore her. Her thoughts of him grew less charitable with each passing day. Wretch.

If she didn’t need him so much, if she had anywhere to go, she’d leave. And perhaps that was what he wanted. He’d certainly tried to scare her off . . . warning her that he was a killer. As if that would deter her. She needed a man like him, and she knew him to be honorable—even if he seemed to think otherwise.

She eyed the table beside her where the bell sat. The water was losing its heat. She supposed she should ring for Mrs. Kirkpatrick. She extended her arm, stretching as far she could and bumping the jar of salts, knocking it over against the bell. The bell toppled off the table with a clang, rolling a bit before stopping. Well out of her reach.

Her arm dropped over the tub’s edge as she eyed the distant bell with malice. “Splendid.” Now she would have to wait until the housekeeper remembered her.

Falling back in the tub, she relaxed in the water that was growing chillier by the moment. Minutes ticked by. Thinking the housekeeper might be nearby, she called out, “Hello! Mrs. Kirkpatrick! Hello?”

No response met her cry. She waited, hoping to hear the woman’s firm tread. Nothing. After a few more moments she called out for her again.

Suddenly the door to the adjoining room swung open.

She gasped softly. He was dressed for the day in trousers and a jacket, his cravat askew as if tossed by the wind. Even his tanned cheeks looked wind-blown. Or perhaps his color was high from simply opening the door and finding her n**ed in the tub. Although she doubted it. He was not the sort of man to react with embarrassment when coming face-to-face with a n**ed woman.

Her skin tingled and her belly fluttered as she considered precisely what sort of man he was and what he might typically do when confronted with a n**ed female.

He didn’t move from where he stood, and she knew he could likely see no more than her bare shoulders from his vantage . . . perhaps the top swells of her br**sts. She also knew she should be mortified. The old Annalise would duck beneath the waterline as much as she could. She’d probably even demand that he leave the chamber in loud, screeching tones.

But not now. This Annalise—Anna—held herself still even as the heat crawled up her neck to her cheeks.

Most of her waking moments had been spent thinking about him. His hands, so strong and masculine. The handsome face, chiseled and tan from the sun. The dark blue eyes that stared at her with intensity. Even when she could read nothing of his thoughts, the eyes were always looking, probing, evaluating her in a way that made her feel noticed. Seen. Perhaps for the first time in her life. She wasn’t poor crippled Annalise when he looked at her.

Across the room his eyes looked dark as a night ocean, black and fathomless deep. Her chest almost ached looking at him, so darkly handsome. Nothing like Bloodsworth’s elegant beauty. She had thought the duke an angel the first time she spotted him. Considering the man she thought to be an angel tried to murder her, perhaps she would be safer with a man who looked more like he resided in Hades.

“Are you . . . hurt?” His deep voice echoed throughout the cavernous room.

“I’m fine. I was reaching for the bell.”

His gaze flickered to the fallen bell and then shot back to her in an instant, almost like he couldn’t look away.

“I’ll fetch her for you.” He started to turn.

“No.” Her quick response tumbled from her lips before she could consider. “You can likely assist me with much more ease than Mrs. Kirkpatrick. She has been complaining of her back lately.” A slight exaggeration perhaps. The woman had mentioned it only once when Annalise caught sight of her rubbing the base of her spine.

He hesitated.

She pulled the towel from the table and draped it over her, not caring that doing so brought the fabric into the water with her. Soaking wet, it afforded some shield to her body. It clung like a second skin to her curves, covering her br**sts and stopping at her knees.

“If you please, could you lift me out to the bed?”

He hesitated for a moment.

She arched a brow. “If you are not up to it, perhaps you could call the groom . . .”

His features tightened, lips compressing. She resisted a smile as he moved across the room with hard strides, his boots thudding on the wood with precision.

He stopped beside the tub, and she felt his gaze everywhere. She glanced down at herself. The towel wasn’t only a second skin, but it was practically translucent. The dark outline of her ni**les was clearly visible, not to mention the shadow of hair at the juncture of her thighs.

Her hand swished lightly in the water beside her hip. A distant part of herself, that echo of the girl she once was, reeled with the shock of what was happening—what she was inviting to happen. She knew. She wasn’t some dim girl who could not appreciate her actions or what they might lead to. She understood, and she welcomed it. What was she saving herself for? Certainly not a murderous husband. The reminder of him served to sting. That she could have been so trustworthy, so naive, made her angry.

Maybe she wanted this. Wanted him just because this was so apart from Richard and who she used to be. Owen was a world away from that.

Leaning down, he slid his arms beneath her in the water and lifted her high against his chest. Water rushed back down into the tub in a heavy downpour.

She looped an arm around his neck. Her other hand held the wet fabric of the towel to her chest. The clammy material sticking to her flesh wasn’t the most comfortable sensation, but she ignored it, concentrating on him instead. Not a difficult task.

This close, she could see the darker line of blue, almost black, rimming his irises. “Sorry. I’m getting you wet.”