The Gift of Love (The Book of Love #8) - Meara Platt Page 0,62

down the hall to her bedchamber and opened the door to allow them in.

Her maid had already been in here to tidy up, but that was earlier, and before they’d realized Joshua and Ronan were coming home. These were the sheets she’d been sleeping on. They were still on the bed that was now neatly made up.

Well, it wouldn’t matter for now. There was no time to change them. In any event, he was dusty from the road and possibly bleeding because he’d been too stubborn to remain in Tilbury. How badly had he damaged himself on the ride back?

She remained in the room but stepped back to allow Robbie and the soldiers to settle him atop the bed. Although she wanted to help make him comfortable, she knew it was inappropriate for her to even be in here. The less she did to make herself noticed, the better.

Robbie handed her Ronan’s cloak.

She held onto it a moment, wanting to breathe in his scent and not caring that it would likely smell of his sweat and possibly of dried blood. Worse, what if his blood was still fresh? She inhaled, the scent not quite as bad as she expected. Mixed in with the dust and travel grime was the subtly fragrant sandalwood soap Ronan liked to use and the rugged, male heat of him.

She set the cloak aside with care and then hurried to gather his boots as they hit the floor with a thud. Ronan had emitted a wrenching groan as Robbie pulled off each one. Tears formed in Dahlia’s eyes. But she held them back.

Robbie knew what he was doing, and Joshua’s soldiers obeyed him without hesitation as he quietly issued orders. Only when the soldiers had cleared out did Dahlia dare approach Ronan. He was stretched out on the counterpane, his clothes stripped off save for his breeches.

Dahlia shuddered upon catching sight of his body. There was an ugly red welt resembling a vicious burn running along the entire width of his chest. The skin had been scraped off in spots, leaving caked-on blood and remnants of raw skin. “Ronan...”

Her heart was aching so badly, she could barely speak.

He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Queen Pea, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

She reached out and took light hold of his hand. “Oh, even your hands are badly scraped.” She meant to draw hers away, but he would not let her go.

“Your touch doesn’t hurt me.”

Robbie cleared his throat. “Let me stoke the fire in the hearth. I’ll add a log or two and then go down to check on the others. Dahlia, will ye stay with the lunkhead and see that he does no’ do anything foolish?”

She gave a laugh, one of relief that was badly needed to break her tension. “Yes, Robbie. I will.”

She returned her gaze to Ronan. A mistake, she realized at once. Her body immediately responded to the sight of him. There was something magnificently raw and masculine about his unkempt appearance.

He wasn’t unkempt so much as wounded and in obvious pain, looking very much like a magnificent medieval warrior returned from battle. Big and muscled and not a whit of softness to be found on him.

She did not know what to do to ease his agony. If only Uncle George would arrive. He would make him better.

All she seemed capable of doing was gawking. She had seen statues in museums, of course. But she hadn’t realized men were actually built like this. Ronan’s arms seemed sculpted out of granite. His shoulders were broad, and his body exquisitely hard and lean. She noted the dusting of dark curls across his chest and itched to touch it.

She was also fascinated by the way his muscles rippled whenever he moved, and she wanted to run her fingers along those ripples. But she was too much of a coward to touch him boldly, so she merely placed a hand on his shoulder.

His skin was hot. He tried to shift his position but winced in pain.

“I think you may be running a fever.”

“No, I’m just hot for you.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake. Lie still. I’m sure you’re feverish. Don’t you dare move. I’ll get you whatever you need. Is there anything in particular you want?”

“A kiss from you. Why else do you think I rode back to London, risking a punctured lung? I may have also cracked three ribs between Tilbury and here.”

She gasped. “Are you jesting? You are a lunkhead! How can you be so