Page 9 of Master of Games
She smoothed back his hair, his skin ridiculously hot to the touch. “Ironheart.”
“Marry me.”
Her lips parted in surprise. The man was surely delirious. She leaned over then and pressed her lips to his forehead, breathing in his scent. “Trust me, you don’t want me as your wife.”
The words made her throat close. That silly, foolish seed of hope had bloomed in her stomach again. It wasn’t every day she received a proposal, and in fact, this was her first. Not that it was real. This was the fever-induced delirium of a man on the precipice of death, which is why she’d have to take great pains to stamp out that bubble of excitement that rose in her chest.
“I do. Marry me,” he said hoarsely, his eyes closing again. “If I live through the night, call for the vicar in the morning.”
“Don’t be absurd,” she chastised, even as her fingertips danced over his forehead. “You could live, and then what would you do?”
“I’d be married to you. I think it’s very obvious what I would do.”
Her mouth opened and then she closed it again, her eyes meeting the doctor’s. His brows had risen an inch up his forehead as he cocked his head to the side. She had the most ridiculous urge to tell the other man to mind his business.
She’d known Dr. Merigold most of her life. She liked and respected him. But he, more than anyone, knew the devastation that her dress disguised. He’d treated her himself.
“Trust me,” she whispered as her fingers stilled. “It’s not as simple as all that.”
“It is to me.” His hand found hers, the one she’d rested on his chest without even realizing she’d done so.
The part of her that was so vulnerable still demanded that she push before he touched her pain. “Ironheart, everyone knows you’re not husband material.”
“True,” he ran his fingers softly over the back of her hand. “I’m going to need the strongest sort of woman.”
“You’ll recover from this and then you’ll wish to go back to your old life. We’d both be miserable.”
“My old life was vapid and useless. A punishment for a father who didn’t love me. Until I realized…the person I was punishing most was myself.”
Her mouth fell open as she stared him, his fingers growing relaxed as he fell asleep. Could it be true?
Had Ironheart ceased to be the rake she’d known?
Her heart fluttered as she drew in a ragged breath. It didn’t matter. Whatever he thought she might be, she wasn’t.
Her strength was only armor to protect a heart that could so easily be shattered.
Dreams and conversations mixed in his mind.
Had he proposed to Tabbie? He couldn’t be certain.
But as often as he’d dreamed of her, he’d had moments that he knew were real. The feel of her hand. Her whispered conversations with the doctor, laced with her concern.
The sensation of the cloth soothing his skin, the way she kept his lips wet and dripped small amounts of water into his mouth.
Finally, as the first rays of the sun peaked into the window, he slipped into a deep sleep. When he woke, the sun was high in the sky, but he was no longer cold.
Instead, he was warm and more comfortable than he’d remembered being for a long time.
He opened his eyes and immediately found the source of his comfort. Tabbie lay curled into his side, fast asleep.
In the wide neckline of her gown, he could see the edges of her scars, marring her creamy skin. He wanted to trace the edges, soothe the marks away.
A creature this perfect should never have to suffer like that. Then again, perhaps the suffering had shaped the beautiful strong woman who lay at his side.
She lay on his uninjured side and, without thinking, he tried to lift his wounded arm to touch her face, but pain shot through his arm, and he hissed a breath through his teeth.
Her eyes popped open as she pushed up. “What’s the matter?”
