He eased his cramped limbs as best he could, wincing as he flexed his hands. Damn, but that hurt. And he had to find an explanation for the injuries too. As he thought it, Celina woke, her first gentle movements stiffening into awareness as she found herself in his arms. Was she going to believe him?
Celina came out of a dream of being safe and protected. Blissful, she thought, as she dreamed of arms holding her against a large male body. Then she woke fully and found that there was a man and his arms were around her, holding her to his chest, and her hips were curved into a definitely male lap and this was not a dream. She tightened every muscle, tried to wrench free even as she opened her mouth to scream, and her voice croaked out of a throat that felt sore and bruised.
‘Let me go!’ She hit the man’s chest with a clenched fist and he released her, one arm still steadying her as she lurched upright. ‘Quinn,’ she said flatly. ‘I might have known. Can’t you take no for an answer?’
‘You had a nightmare,’ he said, his face stark. There was no amusement in it, no lust, only tension and dark shadows under his eyes. ‘The sheet was round your throat and you were choking, struggling—’ He broke off to touch her neck lightly. ‘There are marks.’
She looked down and saw her nightgown, streaked in blood. ‘Oh, my God—’
‘It is mine.’ He held up his hands, the makeshift bandages stained, too. ‘You fought me.’
He did not resist when she pushed herself away, took the few steps to the edge of the bed and sank down on it. Her hands were stained, too, she saw, all around the nails. She had clawed at him. ‘A dream?’
‘You must have thought someone was trying to strangle you,’ Quinn said, sitting with his elbows on his knees, his bandaged hands held away from contact with his body.
Lina put her hands to her throat. No, not strangling, hanging. She had dreamed she was in Newgate, in the condemned cell. They were leading
her out, taking off the shackles, taking her to the scaffold, pushing her off into space to jerk and dangle…
‘Celina!’ He launched himself at her, caught her by the shoulders and held her as the room spun sickeningly.
‘I’m sorry, I am all right.’ He let her go, the absence of his strength a wrench. ‘Yes, I remember. Did I call out?’ She must have screamed if Quinn had heard her from his own room.
‘I was coming back from a ride. I found I was not sleepy,’ he said without emphasis, but she felt herself colouring. ‘I heard noises from your room and thought someone was attacking you. But you were entangled in the sheet, clawing at your throat. I tried to free you. You—’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘You came round and then fainted. I tried to put you back to bed, but you clung on, so we ended up on the couch instead. I did not think you would want to wake in bed with me.’
In the fog of the fading nightmare she remembered another dream. It had slid into the first in the weird way dreams had: a man. Was it Tolhurst? Only this time he was holding her, kissing her, his weight was on her and she could not get free. And yet it was not all unpleasant. There was something sweet, something she could not quite grasp as the wisps of memory faded.
‘Your hands,’ Lina said, her voice rasping sore in her throat. ‘Let me see.’
‘No. it is all right.’
‘It is not all right. I hurt you and you were trying to help me. And just now I leapt to conclusions, I assumed the worst.’ Doggedly she got to her feet, walked to the washstand and poured from the jug into the wide basin. ‘Cold water will be best. Come and put your hands in it, soak off those bandages.’ When Quinn made no move to join her, she turned and looked at him. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ He got to his feet and came across. ‘And do not make me into some sort of scrupulous gentleman just because you passed the night safely in my arms. I prefer my women conscious.’
‘Are you trying to shock me?’ Lina asked, finding she could smile. ‘Because after yesterday evening… Oh, my goodness, look at your hands! Quinn, I am so sorry. That is going to scar—and whatever will you say caused it? People will assume—’
‘That I was attempting to ravish a woman?’ He stared down into the water, picking the makeshift bandages loose. ‘I went for a ride last night, found a fox in a snare, tried to free it and was savaged for my pains. Will that do?’
‘Yes,’ Lina agreed, rummaging in a drawer. ‘That will be convincing. I have some salve and lint here. If you can dry your hands, I will dress them and then find an old soft sheet to tear up for bandages.’ She threw on a wrapper, startled to find that she had been unselfconsciously talking to Quinn dressed in nothing but a flimsy nightgown, and went along the corridor to the linen cupboard. There was a pile of laundered sheets too thin for use, kept for bandages and patching.
When she got back with the softest, Quinn was drying his hands, dabbing at the raw tracks where her nails had scored across the tendons. ‘Here. Sit down.’ She smoothed salve on the lint, then took his right hand and pressed it gently over the wounds, then repeated it for the left.
It was an accident, she told herself, but it was hard not to blame herself. It must be exquisitely sore and the scars would disfigure hands that were long and elegant, despite their strength. Lina bandaged as lightly as she could to keep the dressing in place. ‘There, you should be able to hold reins or a pen and even get gloves on if you have some large ones.’
‘And what about you?’ Quinn reached out and tipped up her chin. ‘You have some interesting marks and my imagination fails to come up with any innocent explanation for them other than the truth, which no one will believe.’
Lina moved away and picked up a hand mirror. Quinn’s touch on her chin was strangely pleasant, although, she thought with a rueful grimace, his touch anywhere would be. Her neck looked exactly as though someone had tried to strangle her. ‘I will develop a sore throat,’ she said, ‘and wrap it up in flannel. I don’t think the marks themselves will show over the top of my higher-necked gowns and once the redness fades in a few days I can safely make a recovery and remove the wrapping.’
‘Go back to bed,’ Quinn said, as he picked up the basin of water. ‘I’ll pour this away and bring the bowl back. What about your nightgown?’
‘Er…nose bleed,’ Lina improvised, digging in a drawer for a strip of flannel and a fresh nightgown. ‘We are obviously an accident-prone household. I do hope Gregor gets away safely.’
‘He’s gone,’ Quinn said, negotiating opening the door, balancing the basin and picking up his boots with the grace of a juggler. ‘I’ll knock before I come back.’
Lina changed in haste, wrapped her neck in a length of red flannel that felt immensely comforting, and scrambled back into bed. How did Quinn know Gregor had left? Did that mean the Russian knew that Quinn had been in her room? The thought was not as worrying as it might have been, she realised. Between Quinn’s propositions and her own thoroughly wanton fancies she was becoming immune to embarrassment. Or perhaps it was this strange new feeling of confidence; she had stopped worrying about things she could not change and which, set against the prospect of the scaffold, were of little importance.
The tap on the door was followed by a respectable wait before Quinn opened it to bring in the empty basin. ‘I’d best hurry and get into my own bed before Peter appears with my morning tea,’ he remarked. He paused in the doorway, his mouth twitching. ‘You need a nightcap to finish off that picture,’ he remarked. ‘You look like Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother waiting for the wolf.’