Page 51 of The Duke of Lies
“No.”
She pivoted slowly and cocked her head at him. “You need help. I’m going to give it to you, and you’re not going to argue. I need to get you cleaned up. If Beau wakes up again and sees you like this—”
“He can’t.” Kit would do anything to keep that from happening. In fact, he should have gone to the kitchen to clean up.
She gestured toward his chamber. “In there, then. Do you have water?”
He nodded and made his way into his room. She followed, closing the door behind her.
The fire had died down to coals, and Kit used a spill to light the lantern he kept on his dresser. Soft, warm light bathed the chamber, and he was suddenly aware that they were alone together with the door closed. With a bed in the same room. And she was barely clothed.
And shortly, he would remove his clothes. No, he wouldn’t do that with her here. But God, how he longed to shed his coat. He’d already removed his cravat on the walk back and wrapped it around his injured hand.
“Sit.”
“You’re very good at giving orders,” he said. “Have you thought of commanding a ship?”
She went to the corner where he kept the washbasin and ewer of water on top of a slender cabinet. “Where are your washing cloths?”
He sat in a chair next to the dresser near the light so she could have it to see. “In the top drawer.”
She poured water into the basin and withdrew some cloths from the cabinet. “I’d get seasick,” she said.
“How do you know?” He bent to remove his boots, his sore body protesting the movements. “Have you been sailing before?”
She came toward him with her supplies and set them on the dresser. “No, but if I ride in a carriage too long, I become ill. I think the motion of a ship on the ocean would be far worse.”
“It can be, but you’d grow used to it.” He’d vomited for weeks when he’d first walked onto a ship.
She moved the lantern closer to him and surveyed his face.
“I’m guessing I’ve looked better.”
“You look like you’ve been in a fight.”
“I was.” He had to tell her about Cuddy. And he would—tomorrow. After he had a chance to review the ledger he’d taken and determine what to do next. It seemed leaving Beaumont Tower might be his only option. “Can I tell you about it tomorrow?”
She stared at him a moment, her dark coffee-colored eyes narrowing slightly with concern. “Yes.”
Pursing her lips, she dabbed a cloth into the water and began to clean the cut along the side of his face. It was just in front of his ear and stretched from his temple to his jaw.
“Will I have a scar?” he asked.
“Perhaps. It’s not very deep—you’re fortunate.” She stopped cleaning when he flinched. “Sorry,” she murmured.
“Don’t apologize. I appreciate your ministrations.”
“You need ointment or unguent. I have something in my room that I use on Beau’s cuts and scrapes. You’re as bad as a six-year-old,” she muttered.
He couldn’t suppress a smile. It wasn’t what she’d said but the camaraderie between them as she tended his wounds.
She rewetted the cloth, rinsing dried blood off the fabric, then went over the laceration once more. “Does it hurt?”
“Not as much as my hand.”
“Your hand?” She looked down at his hands, which rested on his thighs. “Show me.”
He unwound the cravat from his left hand and turned it palm-side up to reveal the cut. “It’s not terribly deep—I don’t think it require sutures.”
