It was dark when he woke for the second time, the room lit by a single candle that reeked of the acrid smell of tallow. Scarlett sat on the stool next to the bed, wiping his brow with a cold, damp cloth.
When she noticed his eyes fluttering open, she gasped. “Saints preserve us! You’re awake. Do you think you might eat some broth? You must take something to bolster your strength.” Scarlett shot to her feet. “It will only take a few minutes to heat.”
Damian tried to move his parched lips, to beg for a drink, but his tongue was so dry it stuck to the roof of his mouth. He reached out and captured her wrist hoping to convey his intention, but her sudden yelp shocked him.
Scarlett pulled her hand free and rubbed her wrist. It was then that he noticed the purple bruise. The sight stole his breath. Damn it all. Had he done that whilst thrashing about consumed by a fever?
“You are not to blame,” she said, for there was no doubt this woman could read his mind. “In my line of work, men think they own me.” Bitterness coated every syllable. “Either that or they’re determined to act the hero, desperate to drag me from the pit of despair.”
Her line of work?
Damian considered her pink lips and rouged cheeks. As a virile man with a huge appetite, his gaze had lingered more than once on the soft swell of her breasts spilling from her dress tonight. And yet he could not imagine her sprawled naked on a bed in a brothel. Judging by her shabby lodgings, Scarlett was no rich man’s mistress. From her elocution and diction, from the graceful way she walked around the room, from the books stacked on the side table, she had not been dragged up on the streets, either.
“I’m an actress.” Her smile failed to reach her captivating blue eyes, and a tidal wave of melancholy swept through the room. “Success, I have discovered, depends upon which gentleman acts as your patron. Indeed, it is not the late hours that wear me to the bone but the effort it takes to keep the lecherous hordes at bay.”
Anger flared in Damian’s chest.
Resentment festered.
The arrogance of the aristocracy sickened him. The Marquis of Blackbeck was one of those men who claimed the right to bed whomever he wished. The Marquis of Blackbeck had seduced the opera singer, Maria Alvarez, with total disregard for the bastard son he was to sire.
“You … you were not always an … actress.” Damian forced the words from his lips. “I may be knocking on death’s door, b-but I hear good breeding in your voice.”
Scarlett kept her back to him as she stirred the pot hanging over the fire. She sniffed numerous times, but he doubted it had anything to do with inhaling the pungent aroma of vegetable broth.
“No,” she said, the answer carried on a deep sigh. “I attended the Rushbridge seminary for young ladies in Bath until a tragedy forced me to return to town.”
Had he the energy or the inclination to further their acquaintance, he might have probed her for information. As it was, only one question lingered in his still woozy mind.
“Then why would an educated woman, one tired of dealing with troublesome men, rush into an alley to rescue a rogue?” Innocent ladies avoided men like him. Men whose conscience lay buried beneath a hard shell, one impossible to crack.
Cradling a bowl of broth, she returned to sit on the stool. “Because my mother taught me to help those people less fortunate.” She scooped a spoonful of the rotten-smelling liquid and forced it into his mouth. “Because I believe we reap what we sow, sir. Is the broth too hot?”
“No.” Damian swallowed the bland concoction, grateful to feel something moist against his lips. “So you hope fate will see your kindness repaid?” Was it kindness or utter foolishness to take a stranger into one’s home?
“Look around you. Hope is all I have.”
An uncomfortable silence descended.
With patience, Scarlett fed him until the spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. Exhausted from the effort it took just to swallow, he lay back on the lumpy pillow and speculated how long it would be before a man wore her down and destroyed her resolve. She was pretty, demure, would have an appealing figure had she
a little more meat on her bones. If she had any hope of escaping the drudgery, there was but one option open—take a wealthy lover, bleed him for every penny and find a quiet place in the country, somewhere to live off her ill-gotten gains.
By the time she returned from washing the pot in the room across the hall, the fire had burnt to naught but glowing embers. For a long time, she stared at the grate in dismay. The deep furrows on her brow undoubtedly stemmed from more than concern over firewood.
“It’s late,” she said as she turned to face him. She glanced at her feet before steeling herself—raising her chin and straightening her shoulders. Perhaps she wanted him to leave but didn’t know how to broach the subject. “I slept on the floor last night, but the temperature has plummeted. I don’t have enough wood to keep the fire burning all night. It is imperative we keep warm.”
As a man used to the many ploys a lady used to get him into bed, this one was rather novel. “You wish to sleep with me tonight?” A woman brimming with benevolence would not force him to sleep on the floor.
Scarlett gave a half shrug. “Unless you can think of a better option.”
Amorous thoughts flooded his head. Indeed, for the first time since being stretched on his back, his cock twitched. Even in his sorry state, he could rise to the occasion. But that was not how one repaid the woman who had breathed life back into his bones, who had dragged him back from the flaming gates of hell.
“Though I warn you, sir,” she continued, reading his thoughts once again, “dare lay a hand on me, and I shall claw at your wound like a wildcat. After I have punched you in your swollen eye and squeezed your broken fingers until the bones shatter.”
Damian arched a brow in admiration, impressed by the vehemence in her voice. “Have no fear. My mother taught me to show my host the utmost respect.”
And he would never bed a woman who wasn’t tugging at his breeches, eager for the first hard thrust.