She hoped his hint of asperity indicated returning strength. For all her wish to have him gone, right now he wasn’
t fit to negotiate the tree. “Rest awhile. But you have to go.”
“Soon.” With visible discomfort, Ranelaw stretched out and gingerly settled his head on her pillow. He looked big and dangerous against her white sheets.
How odd to have a man in her bed. An alien presence in this eternally feminine domain. But there was no shifting him and she knew for all his bravado, he wasn’t pretending weakness. She’d knocked him unconscious, for heaven’s sake. She was lucky she hadn’t killed him.
Antonia didn’t want him dead. She just wanted him out of her life. Although she hadn’t spent such an interesting evening in years. She frowned and struggled against the impulse to smooth the thick golden hair from Ranelaw’s forehead. He wasn’t a helpless child. Anything but. “You need a doctor.”
His eyes closed and he looked remarkably at home, damn him. “Unless you intend to summon one, the sawbones must wait.”
Frowning, she drew the blankets up around his chest. He didn’t stir as she extinguished the lamp, leaving the fire to light the room. She shut the window, took another blanket, and curled up in the padded chair near the grate, determined to watch over him.
Distant thunder disturbed Ranelaw’s restless dreams. He blinked into gold-tinged darkness and wondered where he was.
He was accustomed to waking in unfamiliar rooms, but rarely alone and never in a bed that smelled fresh and clean. He turned his head, only to close his eyes as a legion of demons clashed cymbals inside his skull.
He remembered.
He’d climbed a cherry tree then kissed that termagant Antonia Smith. And she’d walloped him with a poker.
Huzzah, Antonia.
The fearsome dragon was asleep in an armchair beside the fire. Carefully, partly because of his pounding head and partly because he didn’t want to wake her and her defenses, he rose. He fought back a wave of dizziness.
The redoubtable Antonia didn’t look like a fearsome dragon right now. She looked young and heart-wrenchingly beautiful.
He edged nearer and only then realized what was different. Somehow through all the chaos, she’d kept those disfiguring spectacles in place, but she’d removed them before sleeping. Her exertions had loosened her lovely hair. The plaits sagged and loose tendrils of silver formed a firelit halo. One long strand trailed over her shoulder toward her lush breasts. His hand curled as if it still cupped that breast, stroked the budded nipple.
Who would imagine that under her spinster armor, such spectacular curves lurked? He was delighted she hadn’t fastened her dress. She’d been too terrified she’d murdered him to notice, he guessed. He’d heard her fear when she’d begged him to live. Manipulative bastard he was, he’d pretended unconsciousness long after returning to alertness.
Her breasts sloped above that ugly corset. If he was responsible for dressing her, he’d burn every garment she owned. He’d deck her in black lace. Or scarlet. Something to set off her skin’s creamy purity.
He reached out to grab the mantel. He wasn’t as sure on his feet as he’d prefer and his head ached like the very devil. His gaze didn’t shift from the sleeping woman who had proven such an unexpectedly luscious armful.
Why did such a gorgeous creature hide her bounteous attractions? Why did a filly like her settle for such a restricted existence?
His temperamental mother had employed a string of companions, none of whom lasted more than a few months. To Ranelaw, the life had always seemed a thankless one. At someone’s beck and call. A tiny wage in return for a modicum of respectability and a roof over one’s head. He guessed the Demarests treated Miss Smith with more consideration than his foolish, flighty mother had ever treated her companions. But in essence, there was little difference between Miss Smith and those faceless women.
Surely Antonia had a choice in the matter. Thousands of men would gladly trade their fortunes for a wife so lovely. She’d have her own house, her own life, children, a husband to warm her chaste bed.
Except she’d shocked him, he who claimed to be unshockable. Antonia Smith didn’t kiss like a virgin. She kissed like a woman who thrived upon a man’s touch. He’d meant to coax her inch by inch into revealing her delights. But after the slightest hesitation, she’d responded with a fervor that had nearly blown his head off.
Absently he scooped the spectacles from the side table where she’d left them. He twirled them idly, then lifted them, wondering how shortsighted she was.
The lenses were plain tinted glass with no magnification.
Well, well.
Miss Smith became more intriguing by the moment.
After tonight’s revelations, he wanted her more than ever. She wouldn’t fight him if he seized her now. Or she might fight at first, but she’d yield soon enough.
So why was he standing mooning after her like damned Romeo instead of demonstrating how explosive sex would be? It made no sense.
It also made no sense that he found pleasure in merely looking at her. Even asleep, her face was full of character and a vivid, womanly beauty.
Why had no other man seen what he had? Her disguise was rudimentary. Hair scraped up under that cap, glasses, the unflattering wardrobe.