Page 50 of Deposed

Chapter 17

Blake was already out of bed and halfway to the door by the time I awoke within Nurse Priya’s nest of pillows. Up ahead, and through the curtains of the four-poster bed, someone outside the room turned the door handle. Before the door swung more than two feet open, Blake jammed one side of his body against it, causing whoever stood behind the door to huff with indignation.

“Master Blake.” A man’s clipped tones cut through the fog in my mind. He spoke with the haughtiness I’d only ever heard from people who worked in high-class establishments but acted like they could condescend to people who didn’t meet their standards. A tray protruded through the gap in the door. “I was informed you were back in residence, and—”

“Breakfast? I’ll take that, thank you.” Blocking the door with his foot, Blake wrapped his hands around the tray and pulled it out of the man’s hands.

“Will the young lady require something to eat?” asked the man, who I assumed was a palace servant.

“There’s plenty here for two. Thank you.” Blake said the last two words with the tone most used to tell others to fuck off.

I rubbed my fingers over my brow, and the entire left side of my face throbbed. Everything returned in a painful rush. Waking up in agony. Mr. Carbuncle’s attacks. That harrowing chase through the darkened balconies. A fog lifted from my mind, taking with it the effects of last night’s morphine and codeine, bringing forth a collision of aches and pains. A groan slipped from my lips.

Blake flung his weight against the door and turned a lock. “Emilia!”

I reached for the pill bottles on the side table, but the movement felt like a giant fist slamming into my ribs. I flinched. Through the side of my mouth that wasn’t swollen, I asked, “Painkillers, please?”

Blake set down the tray on a side table with a clink of china and silverware, rushed to my side, and handed me a glass of orange juice. He disappeared behind the curtain of the four-poster again and returned with one of the prescription bottles. With hands that shook, Blake unscrewed the bottle, placed a pill between my lips, and brought the glass to the good side of my mouth.

Cold, sweet liquid trickled on my tongue, drenching my dry mouth. It gathered in the back of my throat, dislodging the tablet from where it had stuck, allowing me to gulp the mixture down.

A breath of relief escaped my lungs. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take long to work. “Thanks.”

“Are you hungry?” he murmured.

“Not really,” I slouched back into my nest of pillows. “But I suppose I’d better eat something so the painkiller doesn’t hurt my stomach.”

Blake turned in the direction of the side table, where he had left the breakfast tray. “There’s porridge… And scrambled eggs. Those are soft, aren’t they?”

I reached out, ignored the pain radiating through my ribs, and placed my fingertips on his forearm. “Thank you.”

“What for?” He turned around, chocolate-brown eyes wide. His messy, black hair flopped over his face, framing his beautiful, high cheek-boned features to perfection.

“For taking care of me.”

I thought Blake would smile and say something flirty, but he just stared back with dark, haunted eyes and nodded. He walked back to the tray with his broad shoulders slumped and his head hung low.

Sadness, tinged with a little guilt, washed over me. I dipped my chin to my tightening chest and let out a weary breath. Blake should be feeling proud, not disturbed. He had warned me not to go, then followed me all the way to London and rescued me from a terrible fate, yet he acted like he’d put the bruises on my face and body.

Moments later, he returned with the whole tray and placed it over my lap. Its tall, splayed legs meant that the base of the tray hovered several inches over my body, giving me enough space to turn if I needed it. Whoever had prepared his breakfast had laden it with more than a single person could eat. A bowl of fruit salad, porridge, a full English breakfast, and a rack of toast sat on that tray, along with a small pot of tea, a cup and saucer, a milk jug, butter, marmalade, silverware and condiments.

“Help yourself to anything,” he stepped away and wrapped his arms around his bare chest.

“Sit with me,” I said.

Blake pulled up a velvet cocktail chair and brought it to my bedside. While I picked at the porridge, he worked his way through every other dish on that tray. As he ate, he stole nervous glances, looking like he wanted to say something. Each time I met his gaze, he would turn back to his food without speaking. There was only so much I could keep down with a stomach that felt like it had been caved in with a battering ram, and when I declared myself finished, Blake left the tray outside and shut the door.

Enough time had passed that the painkiller melted away the bulk of the pain, taking with it a layer of tension. I let my gaze wander around. It reminded me of one of those hotel rooms made up to look like a palace, except this was the real thing. Heavy, champagne-colored silk curtains hung from the four-poster, giving me a glimpse of alabaster walls and the cream carpet I had seen the previous night. Most of the furniture were carved ornamental pieces with gilded bronze handles and ornaments.

The only thing that looked vaguely out of place was a black-and-white photo on the wall, depicting a dark-haired, high cheek-boned woman who could easily have been a model. She stood next to a pale, nondescript man with a curled mustache.

“Are those your parents?” I asked.

Blake returned to the bedside chair and gave me a wan smile. His gaze lingered over the swollen side of my face, which made my fingers twitch to explore the damage. I didn’t in case it brought the pain back.

“Yes,” he replied. “That’s my mother and father on their wedding day.”

I eyed her ivory dress with its 1980’s shoulder pads and a plunging neckline that dipped down to her sternum. “She’s not wearing a wedding dress.”