But not unaware. He’d destroyed something, by letting her see what she did to him. Of speaking so frankly about all the other women he’d had. Every so often she managed to doze a little and he’d pull her closer. But then she’d jerk awake and stiffen within his hold.
‘Shhh,’ he murmured, stroking her hair. ‘You’re perfectly safe. I promise.’
But every time he said it, that promise was harder to keep.
* * *
He wasn’t sure which of them was the most relieved when it finally started to grow light and she had a valid excuse to get out of bed.
With her purity still intact.
He had precious little to give any woman, but at least he wouldn’t rob her of that.
‘I promised Castor I would take him out for a gallop early,’ she said, self-consciously flicking her hair over her shoulder. ‘Before it gets too hot.’
‘And you always keep your promises,’ he replied gruffly. That was the kind of woman she was. A woman who should never have got so close to a scoundrel like him.
His vision blurred slightly as he watched her leave, knowing it might be the last time he ever saw her.
He’d made his decision during the night. He wasn’t going to be here when she came back.
The moment the door closed behind her, he got out of bed, rang for G
aston and gritted his teeth to do what had to be done.
Major Flint was right. She shouldn’t be here with him like this. Every minute her danger grew greater. He was a rake. A rogue. Thus far, he hadn’t done her any real damage. People might talk, but Lord Randall was well able to quash any malicious gossip.
But as his physical strength grew, so did his desire for her. He wasn’t going to be able to resist her for much longer.
Even worse, she probably wouldn’t even resist him, beyond the merest moment’s hesitation, either. She was growing increasingly curious about the way her body was starting to respond to his. And the way she’d kissed him two days ago had rung alarm bells in his head. She’d sort of dared herself to see how far she could go. And she was lonely. Susceptible to talk of love.
He grimaced. Love. What right had he to talk of love? What did he even know of that emotion? The only thing he knew for sure was that if he let go, if he seduced Sarah, stole her innocence, then whatever it was she felt for him would curdle. Turn to dislike. Resentment.
He couldn’t bear that. Were a few minutes of pleasure worth a lifetime of regret?
He groaned, and clutched the edge of the washbasin as doubt and longing assailed him.
He had to get out of here.
Before the increasing attraction raging between them incinerated the flimsy code of honour by which he lived.
And he dishonoured them both.
* * *
He made it as far as the park.
And then realised he should have formulated some sort of plan. He’d left all his things in Sarah’s room, thinking he could send for them later. But send for them and have them delivered where? Tourists were starting to flock back to Brussels, which meant that his former lodgings were probably occupied by someone else. He supposed he ought to go there and take a look.
Or perhaps he should report to Major Flint, first. Flint had clearly been left in charge of caring for the wounded. So he could get the company surgeon to look him over and pass him fit for duty. If he would be fit for duty by the time Flint finished with him.
They could still give him some sort of light work to do. There was always a mountain of paperwork involved in running a battalion. He could sit at a desk and wield a pen, couldn’t he?
Anything, to take his mind off Sarah. To keep him busy and away from her.
Yes, he would report to Flint.
But instead of making his way straight up the Rue de Ruysbrock, misery kept him wandering aimlessly through the Park. He wasn’t the only one. Other soldiers loitered in the shady walks, some on crutches, some with arms in slings, and some, like him, with their head swathed in bandages.