yelped, jerking her head around so fast she slung a shower of water out of her long wet hair. “What are you doing?” She scrunched the thick toweling closer, hastily covering as much of her as possible. “Get out of here!”
He leaned against the door frame, biting back a grin. It shone like devilment in his eyes as his gaze traveled the length of her. “Pardon the intrusion,” he said, so insincerely, she wished she had something to throw at him.
Fortunately for him, she had nothing near enough but the bar of soap on the ledge. Even that might have knocked him off his feet and she was tempted. “Get out of this room immediately!”
One shoulder shrugged. “You’ve seen me in the natural state. Turnabout’s fair, eh?” He paused while he looked his fill.
Susanna shivered. Her teeth chattered. She was not that cold at the moment. But she was furious.
He braced himself more carefully, taking his weight off his bad leg. “I was worried,” he said, sounding a bit more serious. “You seemed upset.”
“I? I seemed upset?”
“Swillin’ that whisky like you were, aye.”
Susanna reined in her anger, warned herself that cold reason was more effective and schooled her voice to a whisper. “Please. Go back to your bed. I’ll be in as soon as I’ve dressed.”
He nodded, inhaled audibly and turned on his good foot. She watched as he made his torturous way out of sight.
She stood immobile for some time trying to decide what had really prompted the Scot to endure the pain he must have experienced in coming across the suite to her. He could not have known she would be unclothed, so she didn’t think his intent was prurient. He said he had been concerned about her imbibing the spirits.
Suddenly shivering uncontrollably, Susanna hurried to don clean linens. Again, she ignored the corset. Why hamper herself with stays when she would probably be bending and stretching, repairing whatever damage he had done to himself by overextending his strength? By the time she got to him he would likely have collapsed and bled all over everything. The very thought hastened her to the point of clumsiness.
She pushed her damp curls back over her shoulders and rushed to see what must be done. After all, he was her husband and her responsibility. Father would be proud that she had borne up so well under this task. Well, for the most part, she had.
The Scot had not suffered much, she’d seen to that. But she supposed Thomas Snively was right. It was time to decrease or cease altogether dosing the patient with spirits. Surely the pain was bearable now and he could sleep naturally. It was just that she could not bear to listen to his groans and watch him thrashing about, knowing the agony slicing through him. She had almost felt it herself.
When she entered his bedchamber, she stopped short just inside the doorway. He had returned to bed and was sitting up now, his back resting against the pillows, appearing little worse for his short walk. She released a breath of relief.
Apparently before he’d left the Scot, Thomas had dressed him in that nightshirt, one of several she had ordered purchased day before yesterday when she had found none in the baggage brought from his rooms. The garment was made of soft linen with flat tucks across the upper chest. He had turned up the sleeves over his forearms and left the neck placket unbuttoned.
His smile made her uncomfortable, for she had fully expected a grimace or at least a wan expression of suffering. Before she could comment on how hale he appeared, someone knocked on the outer door.
“That must be Thomas with supper.” She went to answer it. Thomas had arrived with a large tray bearing silver salvers and tantalizing scents. “Bring it in, please,” Susanna instructed. “Put it on the chair beside his bed.”
“Shall I serve, my lady?” he asked as he strode through the sitting room.
“No, you may leave it and return in an hour or so.”
“My lord,” he said, greeting the Scot. “I’ve ordered the crutches for you. It shouldn’t be long before they arrive.”
“Thank you, Thomas. They will be most welcome.”
Susanna marveled at the strength of his voice now, considering how he had sounded not an hour ago. And she noted his way with Thomas Snively. Friendly, yet authoritative. Like Father.
For the first time, it occurred to Susanna that the Scot might not be unused to governing people. Or perhaps he was but imitating the earl’s demeanor. Or hers. Apparently, he could banish his Scots brogue at will, though he never bothered when he spoke to her. A lack of respect? A taunt?
Thomas bowed himself out and they were alone. Somehow it seemed vastly different, being secluded with him when he was not so much the invalid. In fact, he hardly appeared bothered at all by his injuries.
“I’m famished,” he admitted, his avid gaze fastened on the tray. “Have you eaten?”
“No,” she replied. She had taken very little food while tending him, worried as she was for his recovery. A slice of bread and meat here and there, the occasional piece of fruit. Mostly she had subsisted on pots of strong tea and the large complimentary box of bonbons the hotel had provided.
Only today after realizing he was well enough to quarrel had she noticed her hunger and ordered a full meal. Of course, he could not tolerate solid food as yet.
She drew up another chair to face the one holding the tray and began to uncover the dishes, setting the domed covers on the floor beside it.
He inhaled audibly. “Ach, roasted beef. And onions!”
“The soup is for you,” she told him. “Good, Thomas has put it in a cup so I shall not have to spoon it for you. Here,” she said, handing him the porcelain mug as she uncovered another dish.
“’Tis green,” he muttered and handed it back.
She stared into the cup. “Of course it is green. It is pea soup. Drink it.”
He refused to look at it again, much less take it from her. “I abhor green foods,” he announced, rolling his Rs.
Susanna stared at his haughty profile, debating whether she should take him to task over this. Or perhaps pour the soup over his head. After a beat of silence, she decided this battle was of too little consequence to engage upon. She ripped off a portion of the bread, dunked it into the beef gravy and laid it on a small plate. “If your stomach rebels, you’ve only yourself to blame.”
He wolfed it down and licked his fingers. Appalling manners, Susanna thought as she picked up a knife to slice a bite of her beef.
The little plate appeared, empty. With a growl, she plunked down the bite she had cut for herself. “There.”
“More,” he ordered. “And some carrots and onions if you please.”
Her movements jerky with impatience, she complied. “At least use a fork,” she snapped, handing him hers.
He smiled at her, a singularly captivating expression that arrested her thoughts. In awe she watched the workings of his sensual lips and strong throat as he ate. Now oblivious to her regard
