“On the contrary and that’s the pr—” She stopped. She was not going to get into a debate with him.
“You’re running scared.” His gaze dropped briefly to her breasts and he smiled.
Aware that her nipples had hardened in the cold, she folded her arms over her chest. “Of what, pray, am I scared?”
He sat back against the pillows, folded his arms behind his head, and grinned. “You liked what’s been happening in the bed and you’re afraid that next time you won’t have the strength of mind to stop.”
Well, of course she was. She was only human, wasn’t she? Her body, even now, was urging her to leap back into the bed and let him finish what they’d started, but she—thank God!—was in the grip of cold, hard reality.
“Nonsense,” she said, and it sounded feeble, even to her own ears. “The moment you are well enough to be moved, you will go to the vicar’s. My mind is made up. Now, I need to get the children ready for their lessons—”
“Ohhhh!” He groaned suddenly and doubled up.
“What?” She hurried closer to the bed. His face was screwed up with pain. “What’s the matter?”
He opened one bright blue eye and said in a perfectly normal voice. “I’m having a relapse.”
She fought a smile. “You’re impossible. And you won’t change my mind.”
His eyes danced as he gave another artistic groan. “I’m allergic to clergy. Vicars give me vertigo . . . priests give me palpitations . . . and bishops make me bilious.” He added in an unconvincingly feeble voice, “I might be stuck here for weeks . . .”
“In that case, I’ll call in the vicar for the laying on of hands.” She pulled the bed curtains closed with a snap.
His voice followed her into the scullery. “He’d better not lay a hand on me! He poked a finger in my ribs yesterday in a thoroughly unfriendly manner! If he tries it again, I’ll punch him, man of the cloth or not.”
Maddy grinned. He was a devil, to be sure. She put the oatmeal on to cook, washed and dressed, and went upstairs to wake the children.
“Can I take Mr. Rider his breakfast?” Jane asked when the porridge was ready.
“You did it last time,” Susan interrupted. “It’s my turn.”
“I’ll take it,” John offered. “I’m sure he’d rather have a man—”
“You can all take it,” Maddy interrupted before the squabble could start. “Jane, take the tray with the porridge, Susan, take the honey, Henry carry the milk jug, and John give him his willow-bark tea. Tell Mr. Rider he can add more honey if it’s too bitter.”
“Amazingly enough, Mr. Rider can hear through the curtain,” a deep voice said.
“I want to take something, too,” Lucy spoke up.
“Yes, of course, you must take his napkin.” Maddy handed it to the little girl, who marched importantly to the bed, stool for climbing on in one hand and napkin in the other.
Maddy waited for the children to stop fussing over him and return to the table. They were as fascinated with him as she was. He was so wretchedly charming. Quite impossible to resist.
But she had to.
Even when he was unconscious, she’d been drawn to him.
She hadn’t known him at all, hadn’t known that his eyes were bluer than a summer sky in the evening, that they could tease and dance with mischief, and suddenly turn somber as the night. Or that blue could burn with an intense light . . .
And yet she’d slept three nights with his body against hers, feeling—quite illogically—safe with a stranger in her bed.
Worse, she’d assumed it would continue to be safe once he came to his senses. Because he was a gentleman.
Madness! He was more dangerous than ever now. And in ways she would never have realized.
Who could see danger in watching him in serious conversation with two small boys, allowing them to tell him things about horses he’d probably known forever, not letting on for an instant that he was tired or bored or in pain?
But there was. There was danger in the way he smiled and thanked Jane or Susan for fetching him a cup or taking a plate, making little girls feel important and appreciated.
