She paused, swallowing at the thought. She did not know this man. She knew of him—knew that he would without hesitation fling himself into a filthy hole to save her son, knew he was kind to silly dogs and quarrelsome old women, knew he could, with a single, certain look, make her insides heat and melt—but she did not know him.
She straightened, concentrating as she wetted the cloth again, watching her fingers wring brown water out. “How did you lose your voice, Caliban?”
When she turned back to him, his face was closed, his eyes shuttered.
“Please,” she whispered. She had to find out something—some small thing about him.
Maybe he understood her plea. Or perhaps he was so tired he could no longer fight her.
“It was a… beating,” he said, his voice croaking. He cleared his throat, but it sounded the same when next he spoke. “He… a man stood… on my neck.” He touched his hand to his Adam’s apple.
She stared. He was big and brave and she knew he could move swiftly. How could he have been bested in a fight? Unless…
“How many were there?” she whispered.
His eyes flicked to hers, sardonic acknowledgement in them. “Three.”
Even so… “Were you drunk or asleep?”
He shook his head. “I was…”
He looked away from her as if ashamed. Her eyes narrowed. What had happened to put that look on Caliban’s face?
He cleared his throat and tried again. “I… was… chained.”
Chained. She blinked. The only persons she knew who might be chained were prisoners.
Suddenly she felt much better. A man might be imprisoned for many things—debt chief among them. Edwin had spent an uncomfortable month in Fleet Prison several years back.
She bent to wipe his chin, the cloth catching at stubble. “And you couldn’t speak after?”
“No.” He frowned. “I could… not…” He inhaled sharply as if in frustration. “I… was knocked out… they… the three of them…” He swallowed, grimacing, and she realized with sudden comprehension that there might be more to the story.
A big, powerful man chained, made helpless. She’d seen boys poke at a chained bear—a beast they’d run screaming from were it free to do as it would. Little boys—and weak men—fancied themselves brave in the face of such helplessness. It made them giddy with false power. And they were apt to wield that power in terrible and cruel ways.
Had such a thing been done to her Caliban?
The thought made her light-headed with rage. No one had the right to bolster his own feeble manhood by tearing down Caliban’s.
She took a deep breath, knowing that pity was the last thing he’d want. “I see,” she said, her voice level.
He shook his head, his mouth twisting. “It was… months… ago.”
And his simple bravery, his quiet pride, finally broke her. She let the cloth slip from her fingers and bent down to kiss him.
His reaction was immediate and decided. He wrapped his strong arms around her waist and pulled her into his lap, forcing her to straddle his legs. He cradled the back of her head in the spread of his fingers, angled his head for a better fit, and opened his mouth over hers.
And, oh, the man knew how to kiss.
His tongue licked into her mouth, tasting of wine and want, sure and in no hurry. He explored her thoroughly, sliding against her own tongue, taunting before withdrawing. He caught her bottom lip between his teeth, worrying gently, and chuckled low in his throat when she moaned and arched into him. Her skirts were caught between their bodies and naturally he still wore his breeches, but she could feel a hardness there—big and powerful. Her breasts ached against her bodice and she suddenly wished all their clothes vanished—that she could discover him for who he was.
She must’ve gone a little mad then, for she found her fingers threaded in his still dusty hair, tugging at it, demanding something that she couldn’t articulate.
It was he who had to break from her, and only then, as she was glaring at him for the interruption, did she hear Maude humph behind her.
“Far be it from me to interrupt, hinney, when you’re a-wallowin’ in the mud with a man, but I’ve supper to put on.”
“BUT WHY ARE we going to Harte’s Folly?” Lady Phoebe asked late the next morning, wrinkling her nose, presumably at the stink of the Thames, although for all Trevillion knew it was at his continued presence in her life. “I understand the theater and garden are quite burned to the ground.”