She tilted her head on one side, like a wary little bird. “Strange things?”
“Dreams, hallucinations, that sort of thing. And waking was like trying to rise from a bed of glue.” He had no intention of telling her what sort of dreams—they were deeply erotic and involved her.
“It wasn’t the medicine. You were delirious last night because you were burning up with fever.”
“Fever? So that’s why I’ve been feeling so dam—er—dashed weak.”
She nodded. “You were very sick. The fever broke just before dawn but it will take a while before you get your strength back. Willow-bark tea is harmless and will help with your aches and pains—and don’t tell me you have none, because I can read them in your face.” She thrust the cup toward him again. “It’s in my interests as well as yours to have you recover quickly,” she reminded him.
“Oh, very well,” he said, taking it and downing it on one big gulp. He shuddered and handed her the empty cup. “It tastes atrocious.”
“It’s worse without the honey. Now, I suppose you’ll need this.” She bent and pulled out his portmanteau, handing it to him before she went to fetch the hot water.
He took out his shaving kit and unrolled it, setting out his badger-hair shaving brush, soap, razor, strop, and a bottle of liquid that he unstoppered and sniffed. Eau de cologne, it smelled pleasant and familiar. He tested the razor. A perfect edge.
“Here.” She returned with a tray on which sat a basin of water, a large cup, a hand mirror, and a towel. “Are you sure you can manage?”
“Of course.”
She watched while he lathered up the brush with soap and hot water and vigorously applied it to his lower face.
“I’m perfectly all right,” he told her.
She nodded but didn’t move away.
He picked up the mirror in one hand and the razor in another. He frowned at the razor. It was shaking like a leaf. He gripped it tighter. It was still shaking. What was the matter with his blasted hand? He brought it toward his chin, but it was shaking so much he knew he’d be bloody at the first stroke. He muttered something under his breath.
“You’ve been injured and had a bad fever, and you haven’t yet recovered,” she said softly, taking the razor out of his hand. “I’ll do it. I used to shave Papa when he was ill.”
He wished he’d never thought of shaving, but it was too late to change his mind. She’d think he didn’t trust her—and she’d be right.
Women shaving men? Insanity.
Particularly after he’d insulted her earlier. He devoutly hoped she really had forgiven him. One way or another, he was about to find out.
She ran a thoughtful glance over him. “I could either sit on your legs to do it or—” She caught his eye and broke off.
He tried to repress a smile, but really, she was too innocent for words. Sit on his legs indeed. It was all he could do to refrain from inviting her to do so, with his very good will.
A blush stole up her cheeks. In a brisk, no-nonsense tone, she said, “Swing around so you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, please.”
He obediently swung. He shouldnottease a woman with a deadly sharp razor in her hand.
But he could not seem to help himself. His legs dangled, bare and hairy, over the side of the bed. The vicar’s nightshirt was not so very long. It reached just to his knees.
She pulled the sheet across and draped it primly over the offending limbs.
He wondered how long it would be before she realized what the only practical stance for her would be.
Her blush intensified. She’d realized it. Slowly, keeping his face as blank as he could, he spread his knees wide and waited.
She hesitated only a moment, then with head held high, she stepped between them. She did not meet his gaze. He was glad of it. If she could see into his heart, he’d fear for his skin.
Oh, he was very glad he’d wanted to shave.
In a calm, businesslike manner, she tilted his head to one side, refreshed the lather on his throat and chin, dipped the razor in the hot water, and placed it against his throat.
He braced himself, trying not to breathe or swallow as he felt the deadly instrument slowly glide up the curve of his throat to the jawbone.
