When he’d mopped up most of the rain, he dropped the waterlogged towels on the floor and turned to the dressing table. Trying to appear avuncular and harmless, he poured her a brandy. He held it as she sipped, waiting until her hand steadied enough to keep the glass level. Then after roughly wiping the worst of the water off himself, he fed the fire until it blazed.
Slowly Sidonie came back to life from the silent creature he’d hauled upstairs. Color seeped into her face under the influence of liquor and heat. He knew he had no right, he’d promised to act the gentleman, but he couldn’t help staring. An uninvolved bystander would probably say Sidonie looked a complete wreck. Her thick hair hung in lank black rats’ tails. Under her tattered hem, her slender feet were scratched and filthy.
To Jonas she remained inexpressibly lovely.
She was always lovely to him. Despite valiant efforts to keep his emotions uninvolved, he’d become disastrously and irrevocably besotted with Sidonie Forsythe.
And it was too bloody late to do anything about it.
Too bloody, sodding, fucking late.
Chapter Twelve
Through a haze of physical misery, Sidonie watched Jonas rip a blanket from the bed. He held it out as he approached. “You need to get rid of those wet clothes.”
She wouldn’t have thought her blood had defrosted enough for blushing. But blush she did. To the roots of her sopping hair. How could she sit before him wearing hardly a stitch of clothing? She tugged uselessly at her torn dress, spilling her brandy in her clumsiness.
He rescued her glass and placed it on the side table. “It’s all right, bella.”
“I can’t—” she said brokenly. Humiliating tears flowed down her cheeks. She huddled against the chair to hide her appalling loss of control.
“I’ll turn around,” he said gently. He untangled one of her hands from her rags and drew her to her feet.
“You’re being very gentleman-like,” she said on a dark tide of suspicion, although a hiccup spoiled the admonitory effect.
Instead of proclaiming good intentions, he passed her the blanket and turned his back. “Undress and wrap that around yourself.”
In spite of her exhaustion, she couldn’t help staring at his body. He might as well be naked. The silk trousers clung to taut buttocks and outlined powerful thighs and calves. He was so strong and alive, he set the very air around him singing. She dearly wanted to hate him, if only to displace the shame coagulating in her stomach, but it was impossible. He’d carried her so gallantly out of the rain and his care now filled her with warmth that contrasted with still freezing extremities. She shivered and curled her toes under her feet, rubbing them against the thick Turkey carpet to restore circulation.
Her clothes were in such a state that after a few quick movements, they slipped to the floor. As she gathered the blanket she cast
Jonas a wary glance, but he wasn’t watching.
Then she looked past him to the mirror.
She was about to curse him for a cheat when she saw his face reflected in the glass. Chilled as she was, eager as she was to preserve what remained of modesty, the blanket drooped unheeded from icy fingers.
Jonas’s eyes were squeezed shut and he looked in excruciating pain.
Of course he must be perishing with cold. But this seemed like… more. This agony stemmed from something more momentous than mere bodily discomfort. He looked like all his dearest hopes came to dust.
The urgent need to comfort him lodged in her tight throat. She lifted her hand toward him.
She bit her lip and told herself she was absurd. Just because she felt torn to ribbons after tonight’s events didn’t mean he was equally affected. Her imagination ran away with her. Still she studied the harsh, wretched lines of his face and couldn’t help thinking that this man desperately needed succor, softness… love.
Love…
The word startled her from paralysis. Hurriedly she bundled the blanket around her shaking body. “You can turn around,” she said dully.
When he did, the mask was in place. The kind, concerned mask he’d worn since bringing her inside. “For God’s sake, sit down, Sidonie.” He sounded as deathly tired as she felt. “You look about to collapse.”
He prowled across to the washstand and dashed water into the basin with such impatience that it overflowed. As she slumped into her chair, he returned to kneel at her feet.
“What are you doing?” She remained mortifyingly aware of her nakedness beneath the insecure covering.
“You can’t go to bed like this.” He lifted her filthy right foot and began to wash it in lukewarm water. Curse him. He hid behind this gentleness. She’d caught a glimpse of his true feelings when he’d turned away. This act of playing nursemaid was false, false, false.
“Stop it, Merrick.” She tugged her foot away.