Scarlett narrowed her gaze. “Judging by your ebony hair and olive skin, I assume your mother was of Mediterranean descent.”
“My mother was Spanish. She died some time ago.” He didn’t want to dwell on sad memories and so patted the faded blanket covering the bed. “As you said, it’s late, and talking has taken what little energy I possess.”
She nodded and edged closer to the bed though she did not remove her dress. “You need rest. The fever has broken, and I imagine you’ll be fit to leave in a few days. Of course, you’re free to leave whenever you choose. When the time is right, might I deliver a message for you?”
For some reason, he felt an odd form of peace whilst in her care. As soon as Damian’s friends learnt of the attack in the alley, they would be just as eager as he to find the culprit. To exact revenge.
“How long have I been here?”
“Three days.”
Three days!
Good Lord! Undoubtedly, his friends were pacing the streets wondering what the hell had happened to him. “Then I’ll need you to pay a boy to deliver a note in the morning, to a house on Jermyn Street.”
“I shall take it myself.” She pulled back the blanket and slipped into bed.
“I’d rather you paid a boy.” After everything she’d done for him, he’d not have her wasting time traipsing the streets. “I shall reimburse you for any expense incurred.”
“We will need to sleep on our sides,” she said, changing the subject. “Do you think you might manage it?”
“I can try.” He had slept in many awkward places.
After a few minutes spent shuffling, they settled into a comfortable position. Scarlett pulled the blankets around their shoulders. Their bodies were so close her sweet breath breezed over his neck.
“Wrap your arms around me if you’re cold.” It was unlike him to be so thoughtful. It was unlike him to share a bed with a woman while both fully clothed.
“I’ll be fine. Good night, sir.”
“Damian. You may call me Damian or Wycliff, if you prefer.”
She swallowed audibly. “Good night, Wycliff.”
“Good night, Scarlett.”
They lay in silence, for how long he had no notion. When her limbs relaxed and her breathing slowed, he knew she had fallen asleep. He watched her for a while—enraptured by her innocent charm—and drifted off soon after. Numerous times in the night he woke to find a dainty hand pressed to his chest. If she was searching for his heart, she was out of luck. The organ lay buried beneath a mountain of bitterness and hatred. Still, that did not prevent him from wrapping his arm around her and drawing her close. A man would do anything to keep warm.
The morning brought an end to his time in the peaceful haven.
When he finally opened his eyes, Scarlett was up and dressed in a faded blue pelisse. No doubt wanting freedom from her obligation, she reminded him of the note he wished to send, waited patiently for him to scribble the missive and insisted on running the errand.
A man of fragile sensibilities might have taken offence at her sudden eagerness to get rid of him.
An hour after Scarlett delivered the note to Jermyn Street, Benedict Cavanagh arrived in his racing curricle to transport Damian home.
“God damn, Wycliff, you look like the devil.” Cavanagh glanced around the hovel that had been Damian’s sanctuary for the last few days. “Trent is already making enquiries. We’ll find the men who did this, mark my words.”
Damian nodded. Knowing Lawrence Trent, he would already have Lord Cockram in a stranglehold whilst dangling him over London Bridge.
“Wait for me outside.” He would not have Cavanagh witness a moment of weakness. “I would like to bid a final farewell to the woman who saved my life.”
“Of course.” From the rakish grin on Cavanagh’s face, his idea of saying farewell meant something far more licentious. “I’m sure you’re desperate to convey your gratitude.”
Left alone with Scarlett, Damian struggled to find the right words to express his appreciation.
“Well, as much as it’s been a dreadful inconvenience,” Scarlett began, for she had no difficulty speaking from the heart, “I shall miss having someone to talk to.”
For a man who professed to have no heart, he wondered why it pained him to leave her in this godforsaken place. Had he not been party to her thoughts on men who abuse their positions, he might have offered to find her better accommodation, perhaps make her his mistress. She was certainly pretty enough. But he preferred his women with a distinct lack of morals, which made this one strictly out of bounds.