Mr Trent sat forward. “Wycliff never entertains women at home.”
She smiled. “I have no intention of asking him to recite poetry or dance a jig, Mr Trent. I seek only to bring comfort. Besides, while the doctor is in attendance, I should like a private word with you and Mr Cavanagh.”
Having spent their time in a supper box, they must surely be able to vouch for the whereabouts of certain suspects.
“A private word?” Mr Trent snapped. “On what matter?”
“On the matter of attempted murder.”
Chapter Eleven
Damian inhaled the amber notes of Scarlett’s perfume. He felt the intense vibration in the air that warned him of her presence long before the cold linen brushed his cheeks and brow. The ache in his arm failed to draw his attention away from the hunger pangs growling in his stomach. Had he not been so stubborn, had they taken supper in a booth, he would not be in this predicament.
Upon hearing the patter of footsteps move away from the bed, he opened his eyes.
The room was dark but for the lit lamp on the table in the corner and the fire blazing in the hearth. A day had passed, if not more. He knew because he had awakened hours before to find the sun’s rays streaming in through the gap in the curtains. And now night was upon them again.
Everything about this moment reminded him of his time spent in her lodging-house. The difference being this room was warm, not icy cold. The poster bed was large enough to sleep four people as opposed to the small cot fit for one.
Beneath half-closed lids, he watched Scarlett as she crossed the room to sit in the chair beside the table. She picked up a book, flicked to a particular page and began reading beneath the light of the lamp. Mere seconds passed before her attention waned. Exhaling a weary sigh, she placed the book back on the table, returned to the washstand and wrung out the linen cloth.
The desire to learn more about the woman beneath the disguise led him to close his eyes and feign sleep. His heart raced in anticipation when she stepped up to the bed, though he suspected she would wipe his brow, not straddle his naked body and end three years of mindless misery.
“Where are you, Wycliff?” she whispered, pushing her fingers gently through his hair, training the unruly locks off his brow. She caressed the strands as if they were silk. “Is it peaceful there? I imagine it is.”
When she wiped the cold cloth over his bare chest, not his brow, it took every effort to maintain his steady breathing. The muscles in his abdomen clenched when she placed her palm over his heart.
“Don’t leave me here alone in this godforsaken place.” The heartfelt words breezed over him, tugging at other muscles he did not know existed.
She began to caress him, the tips of her fingers gliding softly over every muscled contour, grazing his nipples, running circles in the hair on his chest. There was an innocence to the movements that made it the most erotic experience of his life.
It crossed his mind to deliver a line—a comment that if she delved lower, she might find something solid to grip—but that would destroy the beauty, shatter the magic.
A moan left his lips, a signal he was stirring from slumber. She snatched her hand away, and the loss hit deeper than any stab with a blade or ball from a pistol.
He opened his eyes, met her concerned gaze. “Scarlett.”
She inhaled deeply at his use of her given name. The word had left his mouth before he had time to hide behind his disguise.
“In calling for Scarlett, are you referring to the actress or the widow?” She tried to sound amused, but the quiver in her voice spoke of a different emotion.
“I am referring to you.” The woman who held him spellbound, with or without her mask.
Perhaps losing consciousness had affected his brain. Perhaps the kiss at Vauxhall had messed with his mind. But he knew one thing with sparkling clarity. He had delved into the widow’s mouth and tasted his angel.
“Are you still plagued by a fever?” She placed the back of her hand on his brow. “You do feel hot.”
“Every part of me is desperate to turn your comment into a lewd joke.” And yet he did not. “Instead I shall ask you the same thing I asked the first time you played nursemaid.”
“Three days,” she blurted as if she already knew his question. “You’ve slept for three days.”
“Three days!”
Good God. The coincidence left him a little in awe.
Had the Lord granted him a reprieve?
Had the Lord given him another chance to do what he should have done three years ago? Three was the number of the Trinity, and so there had to be an element of Divine intervention.