The merry sound of dancing fiddles sounded faintly in Molly's chamber.
Con stood watch next to her bed, greeting Thea with a raised hand when she entered.
"How's she getting on?" Thea whispered, smoothing a strand of Molly's hair back from her forehead. She slept peacefully, though her face was still white and her lips pinched.
"Doctor gave her a sleeping draft," Con whispered. "Said she'll be fine. Only half-starved and exhausted."
"Did she eat anything before she fell asleep?"
Con nodded. "Drank some hearty beef tea and devoured six rolls." He glanced at Molly with a strangely tender expression. "You know her, don't you?"
"She comes from a large family of tenant farmers near the town of Balfry. Eleven mouths to feed. I'm not sure how Mrs. Barton manages."
Con's blue eyes widened slightly in his wrinkled and bewhiskered face. "Mrs. Barton, you say?"
"A widow."
"Wouldn't happen to know her Christian name, would you?"
Thea thought back. She'd only ever referred to Molly's mother as Mrs. Barton. She shook her head. "I'm afraid not."
"Never mind, then." Con's eyes crinkled as he looked at Molly. "Reminds me of someone I once knew. Has the same fierce brown eyes." His gaze returned to Thea. "Well then, and how did His Grace fare with those two blighters? They didn't know what hit them, eh?"
Thea tilted a glance at Con. "On the contrary, His Grace received battered ribs, a cut over one eye, and quite a few other bruises I've no doubt."
Con's bushy eyebrows climbed. "Really now? In that event, perhaps you'd best go and tend to him. I'll stay here and watch Molly. She'll be fine, don't you worry."
Had she ever thought Con rough and unmannerly? Quite the opposite was true. She touched his sleeve. "Thank you."
He cleared his throat. "Go on with you now, my lady. You've an injured beast to soothe."
Thea's stomach did nervous flips as she traversed the hallway.
The prudent course of action would be to request separate chambers. For propriety's sake.
She stopped walking.
Only a short time before she'd been singing an aria under the moonlight for an audience of ruffians.
Not much propriety in that.
Right then. One more step down the path of adventure.
And then another.
And then she knocked upon the duke's door.
"Enter," came the deep, gruff command.
He'd loosened his bloodstained cravat, and his coat was unbuttoned, but it seemed he hadn't made any progress on washing the blood from his face.
Too busy drinking whiskey, apparently. The level of the amber liquid inside the bottle had lowered significantly.
"How are you feeling, Your Grace?"
"I've been worse."
"Let's have a look at those injuries, shall we?" She spoke briskly, as she imagined a trained nurse might speak to a patient.
Purely medical interest. Completely aboveboard and irreproachable.
He grunted.
"Right, then." She unbuttoned the cuffs of her long sleeves and rolled them over her wrists. "You'll have to move to the bed. I can't wash your wounds when you're all scrunched up like that."
He lifted his eyes and the floor tilted under her feet.
Such a deep, deep blue. And filled with pain. She reached her hand toward him and then snapped it back to her side.
"I can't lift you, Your Grace. You'll have to rouse yourself. Our meal will be here soon."
"You want me on the bed, do you?" he asked, his eyes glinting.
Heat flushed her cheeks. "For purely medical purposes, you understand."
"Oh, aye, I understand." He lurched to his feet, gasping slightly, but refusing her offer of support.
He removed his coat.
Thea's turn to gasp. "There's blood on your shirt."
"Is there?" He glanced down. "So there is. One of them had a knife."
"Gracious. You could have been killed."
"Not likely." He grinned wolfishly. "I've got a tough hide."
He lowered himself onto the bed. "Do your worst, Thea. Do your worst." He swallowed more whiskey.
Thea undid the buttons at the top of his white linen shirt.
He pulled a laborious breath through the sides of his teeth as she gently worked the shirt up his arms and over his head.
Thea caught her breath at the sight of his powerful chest and hard, ridged abdomen.
She washed blood from the cut over his eye with a cloth dipped in hot water and he winced and caught her by the wrist.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace."
"Call me Dalton." He gazed at her steadily, searching her face. "And don't apologize, Thea. A woman who rescues dukes by singing moonlit arias should never apologize . . . for anything."
Her heart skipped a beat. "Dalton? But aren't you Osborne now?"
"My former courtesy title stuck with me even though I'm the duke now, since I was Dalton for so long."
Dalton . . . Did that make them . . . intimates?
She scrubbed blood from the shallow cut on his chest.
How different men's bodies were. Her fingers brushed over the golden-brown hair dusting his chest and one flat, round nipple.
He had other scars. The ghosts of other wounds.
"You're a damned sight more attractive than my usual nurse, you know that?" His lips quirked. "It's Con who usually tends me after a few rounds of pugilism."
Thea scrubbed a spot of blood off his cheek. "I've never understood the allure of pugilism. Men beating each other with their fists for sport. Isn't there enough violence in the world? Do you need to ritualize it?"
"I told you, Thea, men aren't complicated. We like smashing things. It's in our blood. After my brother drowned I felt vulnerable. As soon as I was old enough, I learned boxing and fencing to make myself stronger."
"You maybe should have studied the boxing a bit harder."
He smirked. "Oh, I was just warming up. Another five minutes and I would have delivered the knockouts."
"Mm-hm."
"You don't believe me?"
"It's just that . . . well, you weren't hitting them."
"Ah, but that was my strategy. Wear 'em down, tire 'em out, and then boom." His fist thudded on top of the bed. He groaned, the jarring motion obviously hurting his ribs.
"Stop flailing about," Thea remonstrated.
She spread ointment over the cut on his chest, her fingers sliding across smooth flesh and solid muscle. "Sit up, please. I'm going to wrap some linen around this scratch."
He propped himself up on his elbow. He was so very wide. It took her a long time to wrap the cloth around his torso. She had to lean so close to do it.
It made her want to wrap more than cloth around his powerful frame.
Thea drew her hand away. "I'll send for a fresh shirt," she said, turning away and scooting off the bed so he wouldn't see the longing in her eyes.
He caught her wrist and pulled her back to face him. "Don't." His eyes glowed boldly in the candlelight. "I always sleep nude."
And there were those waves of heat again, spreading from her belly up into her cheeks.
Something wild and bold caught hold of Thea. If he slept nude, she should remove his breeches as well.
Her fingers hovered, itching to move down to his breeches' flap.
Good gracious. She needed to walk around the stable yard in the cold air. Splash some icy water on her face.
"I'll just go and inquire after our meal," she said to hide her confusion. To cover the fact that her entire body had gone liquid with longing and she'd been seconds away from ripping off his breeches.
Which was not even remotely a ladylike thought.
Outside the room, she leaned against the wall, catching her breath.
Betsy appeared at the top of the stairs, bearing a silver tray laden with dishes. "And how's Mr. Gabrielli? No serious injuries, I trust."
"Half-clothed at the moment, I'm afraid. Please have fresh linen delivered."
"Of course, Mrs. Gabrielli."
"I'll take that tray now, thank you, Betsy."
Thea grasped the edge of the tray.
Betsy held on. "Oh, now, it's too heavy for you. I'll just bring it in, shall I?"
In other words, she wanted a glimpse of unclothed Dalton.
"It's not too heavy." Thea pulled harder and Betsy reluctantly relinquished the tray.
"I'll just open the door for you then, shall I?" Betsy opened the door, craning her neck toward the bed, but she couldn't see around the bed curtains.
Whatever was on that tray smelled like heaven. Thea realized how ravenous she was. And not just for dukes.
Thea set the tray on the table and showed the curious Betsy to the door.
Dalton hoisted himself out of bed and sat in the chair across from her, wearing only buckskin breeches and the linen strip she'd wrapped around his chest.
"She's sending up a shirt for you." Heat flooded Thea's cheeks. She couldn't help blushing. She'd never sat across from a half-naked man during a meal before. How did that disreputable stubble along his jaw and the bluish bruise on his cheek somehow make him more devastatingly handsome and his eyes even more blue?
Thea distracted herself by concentrating on the simple beef-and-carrot stew and good, thick crusty bread and butter. She didn't care about manners tonight. She even mopped up some stew with her bread.
Dalton ate heartily as well and for a time silence reigned as they satisfied their appetites.
"Have you noticed how hunger can make simple fare more delectable than the finest society feast?" Thea asked, wiping her hands across a napkin. "What are you drinking? It smells rather"-she leaned over and sniffed the bottle-"mossy."