Page 106 of The Duke's Mysterious Lover
It was the last quiet moment for a few hours. Kit oversaw the cleaning of the wound and as she finished the doctor arrived. He decided Thorne needed stitches, and unfortunately the poor man woke during the application.
His cursing told Kit his lungs were working fine, at least.
Thank goodness she had experience with men’s clothing; as the surgeon left she listened to his instructions, sent Fawkes off to reassure his wife, and undressed Thorne, listening to his complaints the entire time.
“Do you want something to eat?” she finally demanded to shut him up.
Thorne glared mulishly at her. “If I say aye, are ye going to feed me weak broth?” His eyes suddenly opened wider. “Actually, if ye clasp me to yer bosom and spoon the soup into my mouth while staring lovingly into my eyes, muttering sweet nothings, I might no’ mind it that much.”
She snorted, a reluctant grin surprising her. She was exhausted and sore, and half sick with worry, but he could always make her heart lighter. “Actually, I was thinking some hearty meat and veg, something to fill you up and help you sleep.”
His blue eyes glittered eagerly. “Some of that leftover ham would likely help replenish my blood supply.”
Shaking her head in amusement she dared not let him see, Kit headed toward the door. But his words stopped her.
“Hang fire—ye’re no’ a footman anymore, love.”
Her hand was on the door knob, and she stared down at it.
Shewasn’ta footman.
She wasn’t even Thorne’s valet anymore, was she? Oh, she knew her way around his chambers and his clothing better than anyone, but she hadn’t accepted a salary for a fortnight. She wasn’t wearing trousers. She was wearing a gown.
She was just…his. And he was hers.
Kit swallowed, then nodded and opened the door, issuing the request to the footman who waited out in the hall. The man nodded respectfully and hurried off.
It was in a strange frame of mind that she returned to Thorne. Whowasshe?
The master of the house had asked her to marry him, and with each passing day she became more certain she’d made the wrong decision in denying him. Aye, on paper she was all wrong for the Duke of Stroken… But she was right for Thorne.
He needed her.
He needed her to tell himno, I’m not fetching the whisky, you idiot, the doctor said no spirits until the skin healsas she fed him the ham sandwich the footman returned.
He needed her on his arm to protect him from all the conniving Society women who wanted their claws in him.
He needed her to take control in the bedroom, so he could let down his barriers and nothaveto be so strong all the time.
He needed her to help him focus in his study.
He needed her.
And Kit…Dio Benedetto, Kit needed him.
Needed him like she needed breathing.
It was well after midnight when she finally climbed into bed with him, wearing one of his shirts instead of a nightgown. She propped her back against the headboard and gathered him in her arms, like she had that very first night she’d held him after talking him through to orgasm.
He let out a little sigh which caused her heart to clench, but she stroked his arm gently, willing him to sleep. To allow her to care for him.
“Thorne?” she finally murmured.
“Hmm?”
“Don’t do this again.” When Kit took a deep breath his heavily bandaged head, pillowed against her small chest, moved as well. “Don’t frighten me like this.”
“We’ll take down yer father, love,” he said sleepily. “It willnae happen again.”
