Behind the Courtesan - By Bronwyn Stuart Page 0,57

of his skin as she’d checked him over for injuries after the accident. He was always so warm. She licked her lips again and lifted the glass, draining the contents in two swallows.

“Take your clothes off.”

Her gaze finally snapped from his stomach to his eyes. Had he really just said...?

“Sophie, you are going to catch your death, now take your clothes off.” He went to the armoire and took out two robes. One was the rich red she had curled up in a few times because it was so large and warm and the other was hers. A white, almost transparent flimsy material that was hardly worthy of the label robe.

“Sophie, move.”

Her actions were shaky, erratic and rough, but she soon had every button undone down the front and slowly the feeling came back to her fingers with the movement. She leaned down to take the hem in her hands, pulled, dragged the heavy material up, but then as she stood with her arms over her head, the wet bodice stuck to her body, the hem in her hands, she found herself stuck.

* * *

By the time the fire roared and heat blasted from the hearth, Blake had stripped all of his clothes off and pulled on the red robe he’d accidentally left in his room. This room. The one where she now slept.

The tinkle of Sophie’s giggle reached his ears and he turned to see what she laughed at. In his fuzzy, ale-filled mind, he’d almost forgotten her presence. Almost. Except lately he couldn’t forget she was there. Everywhere. In his kitchen, in his dining room, in his bed—since he’d given her his room—and in his life. Her laugh, her smile, her scent—she was everywhere. Right now, she stood before the fire, her dress in the air, and she laughed. Not the practiced, sophisticated laugh of a courtesan. She laughed like Sophie. Like she hadn’t a care in the world.

“Are you stuck or trying to tempt me with your petticoats?”

Sophie’s giggles became muffled as she tried again to lift the wet skirts over her head with another tug.

“Would you like me to help you?” he asked, his fingers itching to undress her.

“Please.”

She stopped struggling and just stood there. He stepped closed, willed his hands to remember he only helped. They were friends and that was it.

Friends.

He did not want to ruin anything between them by letting his prick do the thinking.

But think it did. So much of his blood traveled south that he almost felt lightheaded.

Once he’d removed the heavy gown, she stood in a shift, no corset, and her petticoats. The shift was made of the palest, most translucent fabric he’d ever seen. He didn’t even have a word for it beyond delicate. Perhaps fragile. Just like her.

He turned away as she peeked from beneath long dark lashes. If she saw the longing in his eyes he would frighten her. He should leave her be, but hers was the only fire already lit. His small temporary room would take some time to warm up and with the twinge in his ribs and the ache in his leg, he couldn’t take the cold. At least that’s the story he told himself. He hadn’t been in a weakened state for at least two days. But she didn’t know that. He enjoyed the way she fussed when she thought he did too much. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when someone had fussed over him. Not even his mother had shown him much love before throwing him into the arms of a drunkard.

Sophie needed to fuss as much as he needed to see her do it. It kept her mind off darker matters. She could deny her worries until it snowed in hell, but she had her fair share and when she thought no one looked, she brooded. So he made her think he was still too injured to work.

He stepped wrong with his aching leg while hanging her dress on a peg on the back of the door and nearly faltered. He must have drunk more than he thought. Before he’d completed the thought, Sophie was under his shoulder, her small body supporting his large one and damn him if he didn’t smile like an idiot.

“I’m all right,” he assured her.

“You are not. Why did you not tell me your leg pains you also?”

Blame the ale, blame the lack of blood to his brain or the cold, but before he knew what happened, his mouth opened and he