She’d given the creature a small dose of laudanum to ease her pain and keep her calm. Now the bunny was lying on her side, awake and watching her, but breathing calmly and steadily. With slow, measured movements, Francesca reached out and stroked a velvet ear, the running like warm water through her fingers. The rabbit watched her, eyes wide, but other than that the bunny showed no sign of alarm. The laudanum must be working.
Francesca wished she were as calm. For most of the day she’d been too busy to think about the previous night’s attack, but now with the rabbit out of danger and night falling, she shivered when she caught a glimpse through the window of the line of trees just beyond the remains of the old Roman wall. Was the man from last night crouching out there, watching the hospital, waiting for her?
The sensation of helplessness—of blind terror—she’d experienced the night before washed over her again. She could hear his voice next to her ear, smell his scent—full of sweat and arousal—and feel his gloved hands on her bare flesh.
She shuddered violently, her sudden movement causing the rabbit to jerk away.
Stop it! she scolded herself.
She had nothing to fear. Peter sat right outside, and Winterbourne was always somewhere close by. She’d never admit it to the arrogant marquess, but his presence at Tanglewilde today, the few glimpses she’d had of him walking about
the property, had calmed her fears and made her feel safe. Even so, she crossed to the window and closed the curtains.
Turning back to the bunny, she put her hands on her hips. This would have been one night when dinner with her parents was preferable to staying in her hospital alone. Her mother and half the staff had certainly attempted to force her back into her bed, but Francesca stalwartly refused. Thankfully, her mother was too preoccupied with the betrothal to force the issue. Besides she was weary of lying abed doing nothing, and she’d never forgive herself if the rabbit took an unexpected turn while she was away. Not to mention, she had to keep the bunny from chewing at the bandages and undoing all her hard work. She’d already seen the rabbit tugging at the cloth strips once or twice.
Nat would arrive soon to watch the bunny through the night, and as far as Francesca was concerned, he couldn’t come too soon. She could have taken the rabbit inside, but it would be a clear sign to everyone that she’d given into her fear. She had to be strong. After Roxbury, Francesca had learned she must conquer her demons or they would eat her from the inside out.
She heard a thump outside and jumped involuntarily. Stock-still, listening, she heard it again. Just Peter moving about on the step outside. Balling her fists, Francesca willed her heartbeat to slow. Her nerves were frayed—too little sleep and the added stress of caring for the injured rabbit. But she couldn’t stop herself from stealing another peek through the slim opening in the curtains.
Nothing out there.
“What will we do with you, bunny?” Francesca knelt beside the kennel. The rabbit had flinched at the noise outside as well. “How can I let you go back out there? What with all the dogs and foxes and cats and your injured leg, you won’t last a day.” She stroked the bunny, watching the animal’s tension ease. The creature was falling asleep, finally giving into the laudanum.
“And soon you won’t be afraid of people. In a few days you’ll be hopping up to every person you see, hoping for a treat. If I release you, no doubt some idiot hunter with a rifle and no appreciation of how beautiful life is will find you.”
“You’ve a pretty low opinion of sportsmen.”
The quiet voice came from the shadow of the doorway, and Francesca squealed in alarm.
It was Winterbourne, of course. She’d recognized his voice immediately, but that hadn’t stopped her heart from seizing. Her chest clenched painfully enough that she was pretty certain his unexpected appearance had just shaved a year off her life, if not two. But she couldn’t allow Winterbourne to see her fear, and she schooled her face into a mask of serenity before she glanced at him.
He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, mouth quirked in that roguish way that made her breath catch. Forgetting all about attackers and bumps in the night, she felt a familiar wave of attraction break over her. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from that sensual mouth.
She wondered how his lips would feel on hers. Would he kiss her softly? Would his lips be playful or was he the sort of man who kissed a woman with hard, demanding passion?
An image of Roxbury came into her mind, but she pushed it aside before it took hold.
“Sportsmen!” she scoffed. “I wouldn’t call them sportsmen. How is finding a defenseless creature and shooting its head off a sport?”
Winterbourne pushed away from the door, coming fully into the light. “I suppose some would argue that the patience of the hunt or the skill involved in tracking the animal makes it a sport.”
Francesca could see his amber eyes assessing her, the gold in them like molten fire.
“Handling a rifle and firing a clean shot takes a certain amount of ability as well.” He set something on the floor and put his hands on her examining table, long fingers splayed on the smooth wood.
Francesca snorted and rose from the rabbit’s cage, keeping her movements smooth and slow, not wanting to disturb the bunny’s sleep. “A clean shot? Have you ever seen a maimed animal, suffering a slow, painful death?” She stood opposite him at the table.
“Unfortunately some men are careless or irresponsible.”
“Careless?Irresponsible?” Francesca hissed the words, mindful of the skittish rabbit behind her. “Well, the next time I see a squirrel with a bloody stump of a leg, terror and anguish in its eyes, struggling for one last breath, I’ll just say, ‘Sorry, Mr. Squirrel, some men are just careless and irresponsible’ and go whistling about my way.”
She could hear the raw emotion in her voice, was embarrassed by it, but Winterbourne clasped her hand across the table before she could turn away. She kept her gaze on his hand. It was bronze and sprinkled with golden hair that was almost invisible except in this low light. She felt the calluses on his fingers and wondered if he felt her own roughened palms. Roxbury had chided her for not having the hands of a lady. He’d always worn black leather gloves to protect his own hands.
“You’re right, Francesca,” she heard Winterbourne say.
Her gaze shot to his and saw a sincerity there she hadn’t expected. Sincerity and a glimmer of understanding. His grip tightened on her hand.
“Most men want to feel powerful. In control. Some feel a sense of control from exercising power over something weaker than themselves—an animal, a servant, a child.” His penetrating stare locked on her face. “A woman.”
