Page 42 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

He opened his eyes to slits. “Ah, never mind me. I canna be jealous—but I’m surely envious.”

He couldn’t possibly mean her and Des. Perhaps Des told him about their tryst in the glasshouse. But they’d said they wouldn’t discuss it with anyone. But if Des hadn’t said anything, it seemed impossible that Hugh could know.

“I need to check the condition of your wound.” She gently removed the poultice. By the light of her candle, she examined his injury. “There’s some improvement. The redness is going down and…” She laid her hand across his forehead. “Your fever has diminished.”

“No one could ask for better care.” He held out his hand.

She slowly slid her hand into his. He turned it over, and, his eyes locked on hers, he kissed her wrist.

She didn’t pull away, even though she ought to, for so many reasons. But surely, he felt the flutter of her pulse beneath his lips.

“In an hour,” he went on, his voice a rolling rasp, “it won’t matter.”

“Of course, it will matter,” she insisted. “I have no intention of losing my patient in the next hour, or the hour after that.”

“You won’t.” He said this with assurance.

Which was a relief. In her experience, a patient’s beliefs about their prognosis and recuperation strongly shaped how they’d recover.

“I’ll bring some food up for you.” She slid her hand from his grasp.

“Roast beef and potatoes?” he asked, brightening.

“Broth and toasted bread.”

He flopped his head back on the pillow. “I have to recover, if only so I can eat some actual food.”

“You’ll have carved roast and mountains of roasted potatoes. In due time. For now, you must follow a strict sickroom protocol when it comes to nourishment.”

“Fine, fine.” He waved his hand irritably. “But, mind, when I’m standing on my own two legs, I’ll hunt down a joint of beef and chase it with fine Scotch whisky.”

“I haven’t any Scotch whisky, but there’s a local farmer who distills his own spirits.”

“Lord protect me from English liquor.”

Shaking her head, her heart fluttering in her chest, she left the Blue Bedchamber. It made no sense that she could take vigorous pleasure with Des, while also being drawn to the calm and handsome lake that was Gideon, and beguiled by Hugh’s wicked and earthy humor.

You were supposed to desire only one person at a time. At the least, that’s what nearly every person told her. The forbidden novels she read, however, had a different approach. Yet that was fiction, not real life.

She walked to the landing, then stopped when she heard voices below.

“Is it necessary?” That was Des, sounding aggravated.

“You know what tonight is.” Cyrus, clipped and hard. “She can’t see. Or, if she does, she’ll have to be dealt with.”

Oh, God. They were talking about her.

“I don’t like your way of dealing with situations,” Des answered tightly.

She was a situation?

“Then lock her in her room,” Cyrus said flatly.

“How do I explain it to her?” Des demanded.

“You needn’t bother explaining anything. She’ll do whatever you tell her to. You were clever to fuck her into obedience.”

Horror slammed into her, her gut churning, and her hand flew to her mouth to cover her gasp.