Page 91 of Heartbreaker

“Here, in this room. Is there nowhere for you to have slept more comfortably?”

Her lips formed a little O, and for a moment he thought she might not answer him. And then, simply, “You were here. In this room.”

Pleasure bloomed in his chest. She didn’t want to leave him.Good.He cast a glance at the bed, wide enough for two. “With only this bed?”She nodded and he raised a brow at her. “There is a shocking lack of beds in this country.”

She gave a little, watery laugh. “Shall I draft a letter of complaint?”

There. The tears she shed for him were gone, at least. Christ, the way they’d made him feel, both full of rage and full of pride—it was primitive.

“No need,” he said. “I have been looking for a new parliamentary issue, and I think this is something the whole of Britain will support.”

“Additional beds?” Her eyes sparkled, playful, and he tilted his head to watch her, to delight in her, as much a balm as an open window or a hot bath or a bit of tooth powder would be in that moment.

“Now that I think on it, I am quite happy with the number of beds we’ve encountered during our journey.” He paused. “How long have I been in this particular one?”

“Today is day five,” she answered.

“My God, really?”

“We thought you might not . . .” She inhaled deeply before the tears could come again. “Well. You did. So it doesn’t matter.”

“And have you been sleeping here, in this chair, for four nights?” He hated that.

She nodded. “You might have woken. You might have needed me.”

“Did I? Need you?”

He knew the answer instantly. Could recall the dreams, the way he followed her, the way he ached for her. The way he ached for her here, too. In reality. Even now, after four days of unconsciousness and a half-dozen pains that were more than a little uncomfortable, the way he ached for her—the need clawing at him—was the worst of them all.

“You might have,” she repeated, taking a step back as though to put distance between them. “And so I stayed here.”

“Only one chair,” he whispered, finally, finally letting himself reach for her. Catching her by the hand—the same one that he’d been holding when he woke. Like it was home.

She let him take it. “It’s a small room.”

“And a large bed.”

She swallowed. “Henry, you were unconscious.”

“Mmm,” he said. “I am not unconscious now, however, and I don’t like your tears. Let me hold you. Let me chase them away.”

“I did not cry,” she insisted even as, miraculously, she let him pull her closer, letting him wrap his arms around her and breathe her in, fresh rain and rosemary.

“You took care of me,” he whispered to the top of her head. “Just as you promised.”

She inhaled deeply and relaxed in his arms, going soft and languid. His poor girl was exhausted, which was perhaps why she admitted, “I was scared.”

The words shouldn’t have run riot through him, and still they did, on that twin course of pleasure and pain—that she had feared for his life and also that he had been the source of her worry. “I am sorry,” he said to her fierycurls, tied back but cascading past her shoulders. “I am sorry that I was not with you. But I am here now. Christ. Five days—” he said softly. “They’ve made it to Gretna.”

“Likely,” Adelaide replied. “They are being followed by others now.”

His brows rose. “Our others? Or Havistock’s others?”

She flashed a small secret smile. “Our others. Though I am surprised you claim us.”

“If I am allowed,” he said. “I’ve never had a crew.”

With a serious nod she said, “You may try mine on for size.”

---