She blinked. “So that’s the injury…”
When she didn’t go on, he raised his brows. And waited.
“When I first came to the manor to see Anthony, you and Connimore were talking of some lingering injury.”
He was silent for a minute; from the look on his face, he was replaying his words to Connimore. “I see.” He refocused on her face, studied it. “What sort of injury did you think I had?”
His tone was curious, wondering, and suspicious. She was tempted to declare she hadn’t thought about the matter at all; the expression in his eyes warned he wouldn’t be fooled, more, that he was starting to suspect just what she had thought. She lifted one shoulder. “I have three older brothers. And then you summoned Percy…”
She broke off as his face split in a grin. His chest, beneath her, started to shake. She narrowed her eyes at him. “And then you declared you wouldn’t have children. What the devil do you imagine I thought?”
He threw back his head and laughed, trying vainly not to make too much noise.
She waited with quite terrible patience.
He noticed; hilarity reducing to a chuckle, he grinned at her. “Wouldn’t, not couldn’t.” Beneath the covers he nudged her hip. “I would have thought that distinction would by now have occurred to you.”
“I daresay it would have if I’d given the matter any recent thought.” Despite her haughty tone, that was indeed the truth; he was so transparently virile and vigorous, she’d forgotten he was supposedly carrying an injury.
Yet he was. If a frown could change in tone, hers did. “How is it? What exactly is it? Does it hurt much?”
He grimaced. She read in his eyes the usual male reaction to female fussing. “It hurts sometimes, but lately not as much. It was just a bad knock on the head.”
A knock on the head that still hurt weeks later? “What on earth were you doing to get such a clout?”
He studied her eyes, then resettled her against him, and somewhat to her surprise, told her. She listened, alternately intrigued, shocked, and amazed. She made no comment when he described how he’d been taken in and then coshed by the spy he been left to guard against. Although he clearly considered that a failure, one that still rankled, he’d acknowledged it and set it behind him; he neither dwelled on the mistake nor tried to excuse it. She had experience enough of life’s vicissitudes to appreciate the maturity in that.
When he ended his tale, she frowned. “So you’re retired from the services, yet still at the beck and call of the government?”
He shook his head. “It’s more that we’ll oblige in pursuit of a good cause. Those of us who’ve served in our particular capacity are better equipped, better trained to respond to certain situations. And in this latest instance, we were assisting a friend, an ex-comrade-in-arms so to speak.”
“So am I right in assuming that those contacts you intend to speak with in London will be your ex-comrades, along with your ex-commander?”
“Indeed.” Stifling a yawn, he sank lower in the bed. “I’ll speak with those of the crew still in town.” His voice had grown sleepy. “And yes, they will help us.”
His tiredness was catching; her lids felt increasingly heavy. She snuggled down on his chest. His hand rose to stroke her head, his fingers gently tangling in, then smoothing out strands of her hair.
Peace enveloped them, warm, still, undemanding. They hadn’t shared a bed before, yet the closeness felt right; she felt unexpectedly secure.
His certainty that his friends would help, would rally to James’s cause, reassured some part of her that was still in shock at the very thought of James being accused of traitorous dealings. But more intriguing had been the view of him his tale had revealed—how his friends viewed him, that he was a member of such a group of gentlemen, loyal defenders even in peace upon whom those charged with the defence of the realm did not hesitate to call.
Her original vision of him as a dissolute wastrel floated into her brain. Her lips curved; how very wrong she’d been.
The more she learned of him the more she approved, the more she appreciated. Heaven knew she was halfway to thinking him admirable. There were few other men she’d admitted to such status; indeed, as sleep slowly fogged her brain, she couldn’t think of one.
She felt the last of his wakeful tension fade, sensed him slide into sleep. Listened to his slow, steady breathing. His heart beat beneath her cheek, a muffled, solid thud, regular and reliable; his arms held her, not tightly but securely. Not restraining but comforting, a protection, not a restriction.
Sleep beckoned, and she let herself go, let herself relax in his arms.
Warm, comfortable, sated, and secure. Playing man and wife with him wasn’t bad at all.
The errant thought jerked her from that comfortable slide into slumber, made her inwardly blink, but then she smiled, let the thought drift away, and fell asleep.
For the first time in his life, Jack woke at dawn with a woman in his arms.
He’d slept with countless women, but he’d never before shared a bed with one through the night.
But this one, his warrior-queen, was different in such a multitude of ways. Waking to the feel of her warm, soft, quintessentially female limbs draped over him, her curves pressed provocatively against his side, seemed the ultimate warrior’s reward.