The fact that Amelia was drawn to Logan like a flower to sunlight was not truly a consideration.
Or was it?
Bag in hand, Amelia tiptoed along the corridor from her room to his. Somehow, the passage seemed longer than reality, with each step weighted by doubt.
As she reached the chamber, her fingers clutched the handle on her bag. She hesitated for the span of several heartbeats, praying that she would not live to regret this moment. Heaven only knew what Mrs. Garrett’s or Mrs. Langford’s reactions would be if they discovered her alone with Logan at this hour of the night.
Enough of that.She had no cause to be so skittish. She’d survived gossip before. Even in the worst case, she’d come through it with her head held high. She always did.
Squaring her shoulders, she willed herself to rap lightly upon his door.
“It’s Amelia,” she said in a near whisper.
“Is something wrong?” His tone was gruff as he opened the door.
Oh, dear.
Lamplight illuminated his body in a casual state of undress. He had stripped off his shirt and fashioned a makeshift bandage that covered his wounded arm. In place of trousers, he’d fastened a kilt in shades of green and black low on his lean hips. Her mouth went dry.
She pulled in a low breath. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely proper—not even abitproper, she corrected herself—to enter his room, especially given the fact he was only half-dressed. But it was not as if she were a blushing girl fresh from the schoolroom. It was not as if she had never seen a man’s bare chest. Or a man’s muscular legs. Not that it mattered. She’d simply focus on tending to his injury. That was why she was here.
At least, she could tell herself that. Even if the part of her that longed for his warmth knew her noble motive was not the whole truth.
“Nothing is wrong,” she said quickly. “But I will not be able to rest until I know that you’re well.”
“Well enough. Ye’ve no need to worry over me.”
She shored up her resolve. “I beg to disagree. May I come in?”
“Never let it be said I would turn away a lovely lass—a lovely lass wearing cotton to her chin, no less—in the middle of the night.”
He stepped aside, motioning for her to enter. Perhaps too eagerly her gaze drifted over him, drinking in the masculine appeal of his lean-muscled arms and broad shoulders. Sable brown hair, even darker than that on his head, feathered over his chest, tapering over his sleekly muscled abdomen, trailing beneath the top of his kilt.
Logan’s intelligent brown eyes regarded her with a blend of curiosity and a masculine hunger he could not conceal. His mouth quirked at the corner in that endearing way of his. Had he realized the direction of her gaze?
And of her thoughts?
“Ye’re well aware of my reputation,” he said, his voice gruff. “Ye’re sure of this?”
“Quite so. After all, it’s not as if you’re the Big Bad Wolf,” she said, infusing her voice with a lightness she did not feel.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
With that, he closed the door behind her. Hearing the slight creak of the hinges, she gulped another breath as if that might clear her head.
“I understand you are weary,” she began, determined to keep her focus on the task ahead.
His eyes twinkled with good-hearted challenge. “A rogue is never too tired to allow a beautiful woman to—”
Heat washed over her cheeks. “I would not get your hopes up.”
“Tend my injury,” he said, looking rather full of himself. “Making assumptions, are ye now, Amelia?”
“In this case, it is a logical inference.”
“Ah, a man can harbor hope, can he not?” Absently, he brushed a rebellious lock of dark hair from his brow. A streak of crimson marked his temple.
“You’ve been injured…and not just your arm.”
