Chapter 51

What a damned cheek. Dragging the linking door shut, Cass could barely keep her hands still for what shook them, her face set for the heat that scorched. What she wanted ... but not. Ridiculous. Was she actually vain enough to think he'd choose her?
Was that why she couldn't even pour water into the washbowl to cool her face without glancing over her shoulder? Surely not in the hope the door would open? Worse, that he'd say 'I've changed my mind?'
She stared at the gray veins threading the smoothly sculpted stand, worth ... she didn't know. Jug and basin either. How could that be, when it was what had always made her much more useful to Starkadder than the other girls?
Why hadn't she anticipated, stepping out of this room, that what she sought-the end to the liaison-would fail to be the answer to her prayers as she stepped back in?
Well it had and she'd be damned if she didn't stick to it.

***

Cass set the bowls down on the scrolled bedside cabinet, trying to be as surreptitious as possible. Except trying to be surreptitious was difficult when Devorlane Hawley lounged on top of the bed in his dressing gown. Probably naked underneath. A complaint from her would look like carping. Having carped sufficiently already why do it again? The intimacy of what she was about to do was difficult enough.
He sat up respectfully, for him, although she preferred the stare that said she was raw meat and he was starving. At least she knew where she stood with that. Respectful now? This was a new tame Hawley, she didn't recognize for a second. Trust as far as she could throw his magnificent frame either.
Still, not for nothing was she mistress of subterfuge. Especially when a return to Barwych should have been on the negotiating table along with the no more sex. A renegotiating of her staying there too.
She squeezed out the cloth.
"Is the fever-"
"It's fine." He skimmed his bored gaze over the wall opposite. "For now anyway."
"Good."
Although if that was a hint about later, he needn't bother. He put one finger, one thumb, on her and he could have his fevers and welcome, his infected leg, and his opium too, although returning to his opium might prove a tad difficult, with it fertilizing the flowerbeds.
"So let's get on with this, Miss Armstrong."
The silence, broken by the crackling log, extended. Just because they could get on with this didn't mean they would, not until he opened his dressing gown for her. Because she wasn't. How could she? Especially when she'd a good idea what would be underneath. Nothing. And everything. She squeezed the cloth out for the second time.
"Isn't that something? Progress of a sort."
"How the blasted blazes would I know when this is now and later is later? All my damn fevers come at night."
What a hint. Heavy as the drips of water into the bowl-a shilling if she was lucky, one and six the pair. At least that ability had returned and how. She squeezed the cloth again, gave a tiny cough.
"Is there something wrong with your throat?"
"No."
"Well then ..."
She kept her gaze fastened on the cloth. "Your robe, Lord Hawley, if you don't mind?"
"Oh, that."
At least he didn't grin as he tweaked the hem back. Fortunately grinning was something that was obviously beneath him.
"That is just an observation about the later by the way, Miss Armstrong. It's not an invitation."
That his thigh was now naked either?
"It is not taken as such, Lord Hawley, I am sure. No. If you could just ... sit-"
"I am that bad to sleep with, is that it? That you don't want to? Well?"
How she didn't drop the cloth, or slap him with it, she'd no idea. Perhaps because he'd turned his bored gaze on her? To fumble would massage his peacock-proud ego.
She twisted her lips. "You're not anything. I told you once, I've told you twice, I'm not actually a whore."
"And sleeping with me made you-"
As she slapped the boiling hot cloth on his thigh, she did her best to keep it businesslike.
"I'm not a nurse either. Now then, do you want to bathe your own leg?"

***

Bathe his own leg? Well, he could. And he had. But he obviously hadn't done it very well, or it wouldn't be in this damned mess.
And not just that. Maybe not right now as he did his best not to leap up in agony-why not pour a kettle of boiling water in the open wound, rub a cellar load of salt in too--but her actual touch was softer and more skilled than any woman's he'd known. He was struggling to keep himself down underneath the robe just anticipating it. Truly, damnably ridiculous, when he was going to have to suffer it. And wasn't allowed to do anything about it either. No drugs, no women. What a sorry pass.
Even the conviction that her fingers were skilled because she was a thief wasn't working. But then he was struggling with bad temper.
"Fine." He managed just to sigh. "Go ahead." His gaze lit on the other bowl. He wrinkled his nose. Brandy. Definitely brandy. But before he thought things were looking up, he smelled mustard too. "What the hell's that, though?"
"That?"
"Something you intend slapping my face with? Or worse?"
"That's a poultice."
"A what?"
"A poultice."
"I know what a bloody poultice is. Just not that I'm obviously one too."
"I'm glad we agree on something, Lord Hawley. I got the ingredients from the kitchen. Carrot, calendula, and mustard. Some brandy too. I think if we apply it twice a day it will help. And you sit with it on for ... some time anyway, too."
Some time anyway too? Chained to the bloody bed? She was clever wasn't she? Because if he was here, he couldn't be anywhere near her. Although the way his body itched, maybe that was as well.