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She chuckled. “You’re dead on your feet. You appear as though you can barely think, let alone ride a horse. I fear you’ll topple right off. That’s the only reason for my offer.”
He was exhausted. Rafe stared longingly at the mattress. It wasn’t anywhere close to as comfortable as his own back in London, but bloody hell did it look fit for a king compared to what he’d been sleeping on the past few nights. The all-too-familiar grip tightened around his lungs. Panic. He shook his head. He couldn’t. It would end up being another sleepless night. He couldn’t afford another.
Rafe turned back to her, his refusal on his lips—but it vanished at the scrutinizing stare she was sending his way. She gnawed on her plait, eyebrows pinched. His eyes locked on her mouth, and his heart froze.
She stilled, then abruptly dropped her plait. “Bad habit,” she said awkwardly. “I’ve done it for as long as I can remember.”
But the movement continued to play over again in his mind, stirring something hazy he couldn’t quite bring into focus.
The soft pad of footsteps pulled him back to the present. His neckcloth, dangling from a pair of fingers, gradually came into focus through his bleary vision.
He took it, his brows drawing together. Miss Dawson spun and put her wrists behind her back. She peeked over her shoulder at him. His throat tightened as a rush of emotion swarmed him. Somehow she’d understood. And she was willing to spend the entire night bound—and probably exceedingly uncomfortable…so he’d feel safe?
He swallowed hard. “Spin,” he said gruffly.
She did, slowly.
He held out his palm. “This way.” She provided her wrists, and he lifted his cravat. Then hesitated.
Her arms tied in front of her wouldn’t truly protect him, though. Not for something such as this. She could easily steal away while he was asleep, procure something to harm him with.
“It’s not enough,” she murmured, a statement, not a question. Her brown irises searched his. “You don’t trust me while you’re asleep.”
Another statement.
He clenched his jaw. This was getting much too close to her learning things no one was allowed to know about him.
“What if…” she started slowly. “You also tie my wrists to one of yours.”
That…that was brilliant. Should he be surprised Miss Dawson once again proved herself to be brilliant? So bloody astute?
“That will suffice.”
She threw her thumbs over her shoulder toward a wooden chest of drawers. “Neck clothes are in the top drawer.” Then she sashayed over to the side of her bed and slid beneath the covers, bold as you please.
He shook his head, a barely there huff of laughter falling from him. He snagged a neckcloth, doused the candles, and slipped into bed beside her. That made it very apparent how small her bed was. At least when holding a man his size.
“Situate me the way you want me, Duke.” Her eyes danced with mischief.
Minx.
“If I weren’t so bloody tired, that teasing would have consequences,” he murmured.
“It’s as though you think that wasn’t my aim all along.”
His lips twitched. This woman. He rolled to his side, and she mirrored him. He brought her wrist up to his left one and carefully tied her bound ones to it.
She gave it a little tug. “Nice and secure.” She winked.
She might be jesting, but something eased inside him. Comfortable mattress. Safety. A full night’s rest was ahead of him. He almost wept at the thought. He was so bloody tired.
Her eyes fluttered shut, and she wriggled around, settling into a position where her knees were tucked up slightly. His stare trailed over her long brown eyelashes, down her soft jawline, her rosy lips. His blinks grew heavy.
Those lips moved, the words slow to reach his mind. “Sleep well, Duke.”
“Sleep well, Miss Dawson.”
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