This new desire to stroke his face or brush back his hair must come from the days she’d spent nursing him back to health—judging his temperature with a palm against his forehead, washing his face and chest with a cooling rag to quell his fever, rubbing his scalp to ease a headache. Touching him had become familiar. Easy.
And she liked it. There was a deep sensual pleasure in running her fingers through his thick, soft hair, in pressing her fingertips against his scalp, and it gave her a visceral satisfaction to watch his face soften and relax as she did so.
It warmed her, too, to slide her arm around his waist, his side against hers all the way up and down. To drag a damp cloth across his chest, feeling the padding of muscle and hardness of bone beneath his skin.
She must be a sensualist, given to unladylike pleasures—look at the way she had responded to his kisses when he was in a delirium. Without any love for the man, she had caressed him, kissed him, trembled at his touch. Truth was, she wished deep down that he had not stopped.
Laura returned to the fire and the lengthy process of brushing out her hair. She turned her thoughts to her accident this afternoon. It was enough to make one suspicious, given the attempt on James’s life.
However, it took only a few minutes’ reflection to see how unlikely it was that someone arranged it. Perhaps, in the short time between Tessa suggesting the idea and Laura leaving the house, one of the others could have sneaked down to the stables and tampered with the brake mechanism.
But how could Claude or anyone else have arranged for a bee to sting one of the horses at the top of that hill and set it off on a run? The idea was ludicrous. And to what purpose? She doubted James had told anyone how much of his fortune he was leaving to Laura. They would assume she had only a relatively small widow’s portion. No, she was simply starting at shadows. Thank heavens Graeme had not leapt to the same cynical thoughts, or he would have insisted on telling James about it.
She continued to brush her hair. It was a soothing, almost hypnotic ritual.
“I’ve kept you from practicing.” James’s voice from the bed startled Laura from her reverie.
She jumped, banging the brush against her scalp, and turned to him, fearful his mind was wandering again. “What?”
“Your music. Violin in the mornings. Piano in the music room. Sometimes I’d stop and listen.”
“Why didn’t you come in?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“I invited you one day, if you’ll remember.” Laura went over to the bed. “Do you like music?”
“I haven’t any talent for it, but I enjoy listening. I’m fond of Mozart. Among current composers, I like Tchaikovsky.”
“Really?” It came as no surprise that James would like the crisp mathematical precision of Mozart’s music, but she would not have guessed he was drawn to the more florid, emotional Russian compositions.
“What? You thought I wouldn’t enjoy a little bombast?” he asked, correctly interpreting where her surprise lay.
“Then you’ve heard the 1812 Overture.”
“Indeed. In London a month ago.”
“I should like to hear it. I’ve read about it.”
“I’ll take you. We’ll go to London. See everything you want to.”
“I’d like that.” She bent over him, her loose hair falling down over his chest and arm, as she pressed her palm to his face. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“That’s good to hear.” She slid her fingers into his hair, fingertips rubbing his scalp. She was, she knew, giving in to her odd need to touch him, but there was no reason he had to know that. “Your head aching?”
James made a soft noise and closed his eyes, nestling his head against her hand. “Yes.”
“Did you have a good visit with Graeme and the dowager countess?”
“I came out unscathed, which with Lady Eugenia means it went well. She gave me her thoughts on who was trying to murder me.”
“I don’t suppose it occurred to her not to upset you?”
“Graeme was a little upset by it.” James shrugged and slid up to a sitting position, pulling away from her hand, and leaned back against the massive headboard.
She quirked up an eyebrow as she straightened and stepped back. “It didn’t bother you at all, I take it.”
“Sad to say, I’m apparently as insensitive as the dowager countess. I’ll admit it took me back a bit at first to think someone in my family wants me dead.” James’s tone was light, but it sent a pang through Laura’s chest. “I mean, not just in a general I-wish-you-weren’t-here way, but in a very specific, final knife-through-the-heart fashion.”