Her throat moved as she gulped in a swallow.
“You’ll not be able to get out of a conversation so easily this time.” His elbow jabbed behind him, hitting the solid oak door with a pointed thud. “Start talking.”
“I’m…” She swallowed again and her eyes widened in distress. Again, distress.
But he wasn’t having any of it. Not now, not anymore.
He’d played nice for weeks. Dutifully calling her what she wanted, reining in his teases, taking long walks outside so he wouldn’t be tempted to hunt her down and find out what she was doing. He’d treated her with a deference he’d given no other woman since his dead wife and dead mother.
Not anymore.
“You’re…?” He arched a brow. “You’re what?”
Her hands, the hands he’d become fixated on for no reason at all, her hands lifted to her mouth. His fascination with them made no sense. Her nails were plain and cut to the quick. The fingers weren’t long and elegant, nor were they short and blunt. They were…average. Exactly like the rest of her.
Yet, he lusted. He lusted, dammit.
“I…” she gasped. “I…”
Her hands fluttered to her throat and her skin, if it were possible, became whiter.
Much to his disgust, his anger dissipated, replaced by confusion. Straightening from the door, he dropped his hands. “What’s wrong?”
Those big grey eyes went from horror to a dazed incomprehension. Her hands slapped on the cabinet, like she was trying to keep herself upright.
“Fucking hell.” He took two steps to get to her side and barely made it in time. She sank down almost to her knees before he scooped her up. Her head flopped back on his arm and her eyes closed, blanking out his ability to understand what was going on.
If this was a fake faint, then Ms. Jennet Douglas should immediately take the train straight to London’s West End.
Her whole body trembled and a light sheen of sweat covered her face. Cam tightened his grip, noticing how solid her weight was in his arms.
How neatly she fit in his arms.
Before he allowed himself to take that thought further, he strode to his unmade bed and sat with her in his arms. She curled into his body as if trying to find safety. He’d been the one yelling at her, though; she shouldn’t be finding comfort in her accuser’s embrace.
“God damn.” His heart thudded in his chest. “Should I be taking ye to the hospital?”
“No.” The one word came, soft yet assured.
Surprised, he looked down to meet her grey gaze. Her eyes had cleared and relief swamped through him. “No?”
“No,” she said again, quite clearly.
“You’re sure?” He swept a careful hand across her forehead, letting himself brush the line of blonde hair he’d wanted to investigate for weeks.
“Yes.” She didn’t move from his embrace or make any attempt to get away from him. The implicit trust settled in him like a long-lost mate.
Something shivered up his spine.
There was something wrong here, something threatening to him, yet Cam had never been very good at walking away from threats. His hand drifted farther into her short hair, sifting through her details: making note of each curl of her ear, the exquisite grain of her skin, the way her lashes ended with a touch of honeyed gold.
The mouse didn’t move, didn’t swing her gaze from his or jump from his grasp. Instead, she lay pliantly, her hands curled into his chest, her legs splayed across his one thigh and the bed.
His heartbeat stuttered, before beating fast once more.
Touching her skin was like brushing warm alabaster, so fine, so pure. He skimmed his fingers over the arch of her brow and down across her subtle cheekbones.
And then, to her mouth.
The mouth that had been so average until a minute ago.
Her lips didn’t pucker or protest. Again, her passive acceptance of him made the blood in his body roar and roil for more and more and more.
“I had one of my attacks.” Her mouth moved under his fingers and a line of sweat popped out on the length of his spine at the feeling of her lips on his skin. “It’s nothing.”
“Attacks?” Cam dragged his hand away from her face before latching his eyes onto hers.
He’d thought they were mere mist, a normal grey color any Scotsman would recognize and not find astonishing in any way.
But he’d been wrong. Very wrong.
They were mystery. They were mystical. Her eyes drew him in and he felt himself falling into the depths, falling into a deep, dark story he’d never imagined existed.
“I have panic attacks sometimes.”
Her words shocked him into straightening, pulling back from the something he’d known was potentially deadly. “Really?” he managed to choke out.