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“You took care of me. When you didn’t have to. Despite whatever it is you’re suffering…” Her thumb dusted over his jawline. “You still put me first.”
Trembling fingers brushed over her side, just above her hip.
“What are you running from, Your Grace?”
His throat bobbed, Adam’s apple glinting in the candlelight.
“Monsters.”
20
Rafe
It was taking every ounce of strength Rafe had to remain sitting, to not bolt. The panic radiated through his veins, winding and weaving its way around his lungs. Every breath was a monumental feat. It’d taken hold of him.
It was winning.
And it was coming at him from every direction. The demons that haunted him, desperate to drag him to their lair. The woman kneeling in front of him, coaxing him to spill the truth. For the first time in his life.
No one knew.
Miss Dawson stood and gently ran her fingernails over his scalp. His eyes fluttered shut. He didn’t understand how she could be so calming yet evoke the bone-chilling trepidation breeding inside him. Perhaps…perhaps because she made him want to spill his secrets.
Perhaps because she made him feel safe. And anyone who did that was dangerous.
When someone made you feel safe, they held the power to destroy you.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” she murmured. Her gentle gaze studied him. “You’ll stay?”
He fisted the bed linens, like that alone could hold him here. He would stay, even though every instinct demanded that he flee. He nodded.
She left then. Soft sounds echoed into the bedchamber. He let his eyes sink shut and focused on each one. Soft padding footsteps. Rushing water. Muffled thuds. The clank of metal. At one point, the telltale sign of a kettle steaming rang sharply through the cottage. Then she reappeared, two bowls of water in her hand, steam wafting from the surface like the apparitions that haunted him. She had a few cloths draped over her shoulder. And was still gloriously naked except for her stockings.
Her destroyed stays flashed through his mind, and he grimaced.
“None of that.”
His gaze flew to hers.
She winged a brow. “No recrimination.”
She settled the bowls on the floor at his feet, then stepped between his thighs and pushed his waistcoat from his shoulders. She gripped the hem of his shirt and lifted. “Arms up.” His arms rose instantly.
She swatted his thigh. “Lift.”
He did, studying her brisk and efficient movements as she undressed him, as she rolled down his trousers, his smalls, pulled off his boots, peeled off his stockings. Capable. He wondered if there was anything this woman couldn’t do.
Could she save me?
He swallowed against the lump forming in his throat and shoved that nonsensical thought away.
“Stand.”
Miss Dawson dipped a cloth in the steaming water, then lifted it to his hip. She pressed it gently to the skin of his hip, and he let out a hiss as an immediate burn sprang to life, then slowly receded as he grew accustomed to the heat. Those brown eyes watched him.
“Temperature all right?”
He nodded. She slid the cloth over his groin and carefully cleaned him, refreshing the cloth every so often. And the lump in his throat grew. Pressure built behind his eyes. His hands balled into fists as he did his damnedest to glare it away.
