“A charity case.” She wanted to run, to snuff out the candles, to curl up on the sofa where he couldn’t see her. He must have sensed it, as he rested his hand on her leg. Not on her knee, but halfway up her thigh. She stared at his hand. He gave her an encouraging squeeze.
This man lay in her bed, stripped to his drawers. She had repeatedly run her hands on his naked skin to treat his bruises. He was essentially her prisoner, though she’d had the most innocent of intentions in bringing him here. Even if he had the strength to get up and walk out, he had no shirt, no shoes, no coat. He’d have to rummage through her dressing room to find his trousers and waistcoat.
His question made her feel as bare and vulnerable as he must. She owed him an explanation. She licked her dry lips and stared at his big hand resting on her upper thigh. “Madame Zavrina took me in when I did not appreciate my cousin’s … hospitality … after my parents died.”
“Unpaid governess.”
She gasped.
“Liam has sisters. They talk. Sometimes he listens.” One side of his mouth quirked in a smile. “Andhetalks.”
How many other people knew? How mortifying! A ghost of her resentment at Niles and his odious wife surfaced. She firmly tamped it down. “Madame Zavrina made a place for me at the academy, where I had recently been a student. I was not qualified to teach any subject. I felt the need to justify my presence there, on the staff.”
“Economies in the kitchen? Serving in the infirmary?”
“I tried to find ways to save the school money, to pay her back for my room and board. She even paid me a salary!”
He turned over his hand. Hesitantly, she rested her palm on his. He curled his fingers, holding her snug. She felt as if he’d put his arms around her in a comforting embrace.
“The first time I received wages, I remember feeling overwhelming gratitude, of being unworthy. I vowed to save every penny I could, so I would never be dependent on my cousin’s so-called kindness again. And I made myself as useful as possible so Madame Zavrina would never have cause to regret taking me in.”
His brow furrowed in confusion. “Georgia said you taught embroidery.”
“I often assisted the teachers. Or filled in if someone was ill or otherwise unavailable to lead their class.”
“Aha! So youdidteach!” He squeezed her hand.
As much as she enjoyed the gesture, she didn’t miss his subtle wince of pain. With great reluctance, she gently disentangled their fingers and bent his arm back to unwind the bandage from his forearm.
He was being stoic again, pretending he wasn’t hurting as she exposed the infected wound and wiped off the poultice. But he couldn’t hide his racing pulse fluttering at his neck. After she tossed the old bandage into the fire, she poured another cup of tea and whiskey and offered it.
“That concoction stinks.” He downed half the cup in one go. He could have been referring to the willow bark tea, but his head tilted toward his arm, where she was smearing on a thick layer of the gruel-like moldy bread.
“Yes, but it’s effective. See how the flesh is not such an angry shade of red?” She held the candle over it for a closer look. It truly did look improved.
He faced the bookcase and swallowed the rest of the tea. “Rather not see it at all.”
“Understandable.” She tucked his hand under her arm, as she’d previously done when she’d changed the bandage, and began wrapping the muslin strip around his forearm. This was the most efficient way to hold his arm up and she thought nothing of it … until she realized he was staring.
At where his hand disappeared in the folds of her night rail. Beside her breast.
He’d been asleep or unconscious when she’d done this before. Now his hazel eyes tracked her every movement.
She swallowed hard. “Folklore has many frightful creatures. Why did you choose the Bogeyman?”
“I didn’t.”
She paused her wrapping to look at his face, her brows raised.
“Georgia has been calling me the Bogeyman since she was little.”
Georgia? Ashley thought back to the conversation she’d had with Georgia and Valerie Kenyon, when they tried to identify the Bogeyman. Had Georgia deceived her, and known her uncle’s secret identity all along?
Her thoughts still racing, she resumed winding the muslin, trying to get the tension just right.
“Lydia and Diana came home for a visit when my leg was healing, their little children in tow. Missy stopped fussing when I held her and sang. Poor babe, had a new tooth coming in.” He covered his eyes with his left forearm. “The next night my sisters brought all their children to the music room at bedtime and expected me to sing them a lullaby. I didn’t want them to make a habit of it. So I sang the requested lullaby, and then asked the children if they’d like a bedtime story. Diana and Lydia looked so pleased.” He smiled at the memory, though there was an edge to his grin.
She’d heard that little brothers could be mischievous. “And what delightful tale did you tell those young, impressionable nieces and nephews to send them off to slumber?”
