Page 70 of A Daring Pursuit

Chapter Twenty-Five

The throbbing inGeneva’s head really did feel as if she’d taken a dive off the cliffs. But what the devil had she been doing outside the castle? Her mind was a blank slate. Mr. Oshea—Noah—was white as alabaster. She peered at the large hand enfolding hers, and a sense of utter safety seeped through her.

Oddly, she remembered threatening Docia if she didn’t return with Geneva to Stonemare. She remembered Abra, Pasha, and her taking the train to Alnmouth. Lord Pender’s funeral services. Running after Julius and tripping over—

Wait…“Yourfault?” She smiled at that. “I take it you pushed me?” But the pounding in her head increased, attempting representation of crashing cymbals at a concerto.

He withdrew his hand and the warmth along with it and scrubbed a palm over his face. “Miss Wimbley.”

“Geneva,” she whispered with closed eyes, willing away the pulsating throb. “I give you leave to call me ‘Geneva.’” She opened her eyes and lifted her hand to touch his hair…

He raised his head, meeting her gaze with his haunted one. A small smile curved his lips, turning her insides to mush.

She lowered her hand to the coverlet.

“Geneva. I like that. It seems to roll off my tongue.”

“You’re in my bedchamber. You’re willing me back to life. Seems only fitting…” She spoke softly, sinking into the notion of how right it felt.

He smiled too. Then he frowned. “I couldn’t reach you in time. I nearly got you killed.”

“What utter rot. That’s ridiculous,” she snapped. “Whatever I was doing out there was through no fault of yours. Such asinine chivalry is quite irritating.” But her fingers gripped and twisted within the coverlet as each question in her head pounded with the force of a hammer. Why couldn’t she recall going outside or being there? Whathaddriven her to such stupidity? And why did fear grip her throat with the impact of a ballista?

Pasha reentered the chamber in a breathless rush.

Noah turned quickly to relieve her of the tray she carried.

“I’m sorry it took so long. Everyone was asleep. But one of the scullery maids helped me pull together a pot of tea.”

Steam rising from the bowl and teapot hit Geneva’s nose and dove straight for her stomach, which sent a noisy message. Noah set the tray on the bed and poured out a cup of tea, dropping in more sugar than she’d consumed in her lifetime. “Please, that’s enough.”

“It will help with the aching head.” He held it out then pulled back. “Are you certain you can hold it?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to lash out regarding her abilities to do that much, but the concern in his eye stopped her, and instead, she held up her hands to see if they still shook as badly. “I think I shall manage.” A husky tonality seeped out of her she didn’t recognize.

He set the cup in her hands. The touch of his fingers brushing hers sparked through her. Her hands jerked, but he averted disaster, making things worse by cupping his fingers about hers. The slosh of the hot tea braised his fingers, not hers. “All right now?” The gravel, gritted sound raised bumps over her skin.

She wanted to rail at him to move back. He was too close, the sandalwood scent going up her nose. The utter masculine essence that stole the oxygen from the suffocating room. Sheclosed her eyes, avoiding his penetrating perception. She guided the cup to her lips, her hands steadying, while inside, her body was all chaos.

A long moment went by before Noah released her hands and leaned back, finally allowing her to breathe.

He folded his arms over his chest with his head tilted to one side. She tried not to watch him, but of course, it was an impossible feat, his every move caught by the corner of her eye. “Don’t forget your broth. Though don’t overdo it. You don’t wish to cast up your accounts. Very messy.”

“This is an entirely inappropriate conversation when one is attempting to enjoy a bracing cup of tea.”

“Perhaps I should take over, sir,” Pasha said.

Noah glanced over his shoulder. “No need. Pasha.” He turned back to Geneva, meeting her eyes, yet still addressed the maid. “I shall remain with Miss Wimbley.” A devilish smile crooked his lip. “Back to bed, Pasha. You shall likely need your strength on the morrow. I bid you good night.”

To the maid’s credit, she didn’t immediately leave. “Miss?”

“It’s all right, Pasha. I’m confident enough Mr. Oshea will not ravish me, as I’m so infirm.”

Pasha’s eyes narrowed and her lips firmed. “If you’re sure…”

Geneva nodded because what else could she do? Then she watched, helplessly from the bed, Pasha depart, the woman determinedly leaving the door open.

Another long pause ensued. Pasha’s footfalls could not be heard for the thick carpet. Nor the sound of her door latching, which drew a quick grin from Geneva she hid behind her cup.

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