When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,96
him.
So of course Messalina walked in the bedroom without so much as a knock at the door.
“Get out,” he said at once.
His sharp words had driven her away earlier, but now she simply drew up a chair next to the bed. He saw she had a bowl of soup in her hands.
“I’ve brought you your supper,” she said, as composed as if she had sat down to luncheon with a bevy of ladies.
“Leave it here and go,” he ordered.
She set the bowl on the bedside table. “Can I help you to sit?”
“No.” He tried to push himself upright with his left hand and bit back a groan as his ribs protested.
“You’re ridiculous,” Messalina said quietly, and put her arms around him to help him up.
It was an undignified and painful process, but in the end he was sitting, even if he was panting.
He frowned at her. “You’re stronger than you look.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re only now understanding that?”
“Humph.” A spoonful of steaming beef soup was suddenly held before him. “I can feed my—”
She shoved the spoon in his mouth.
He glared as he chewed what was, he had to admit, a very good bit of tender beef. When he’d swallowed, he opened his mouth to say—
And she did it again.
The smirk on her face was almost worth the indignity. She’d not smiled at him since that night at the ball, and he secretly basked in it even as he retained his glare. God. He’d turn somersaults like a trained monkey if it would keep that smile on her face.
“I think I like this game,” she said as she held out another spoonful of soup.
This time he didn’t bother trying to talk. He wasn’t enthusiastic about the prospect of choking on that spoon.
For several minutes he simply ate as Messalina patiently fed him. It was almost companionable, and he felt a great longing rise up within him.
Gideon turned aside from the next offering of soup. “No more,” he said gruffly. “I’ve had a sufficiency.”
He expected her to depart then, but she simply put aside the bowl and spoon.
“Who attacked you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Two men, one quite good with a knife. I didn’t recognize them.”
But he had suspicions. He’d been following Julian Greycourt, after all.
Her brows knitted. “Were they intent on robbery?”
“I don’t think so,” he replied dryly, “since they never asked for my purse.”
She paled a little. “Then they wanted to hurt you.”
They’d wanted to kill him, he knew, but he wasn’t about to tell Messalina that.
He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Her glance was sharp. “Why?”
Gideon should send her away. He couldn’t tell her that he suspected her brother. Or perhaps the duke—though Gideon couldn’t figure why the old man would kill him before he’d completed his task. Windemere would be bad enough, but for all their conflict, Messalina cared for Greycourt.
Messalina cared for so many people.
Perhaps even him.
He wanted Messalina’s company. She was finally talking to him, even if it was only to ask unwelcome questions.
He’d waited too long to answer. She sat back and eyed him suspiciously. “It hasn’t escaped my notice that you’ve been especially prone to footpads attacking you in the last several weeks.”
He blinked.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re surprised I noticed.”
Gideon cleared his throat. “It’s true that I don’t usually attract footpads.”
She cocked her eyebrow. “Who wants you dead?”
He simply couldn’t tell her. “I don’t know.”
“You mean you have no enemies—or that you have too many?”
“I have a few,” he said cautiously. “Your uncle has many more. And since I am his man, there are some who might want to hit at him by…removing me from his service.”
She frowned, looking toward the fire. “Have you done that mysterious job for him, Gideon? The one that you promised him for my hand in marriage?”
Jesus, he had to get her away from this subject. “Not yet.”
She turned back to him, her gray eyes solemn and clear. “Why?”
Because he couldn’t hurt her. Now or ever. Promise to the dangerous Duke of Windemere or not. It was suddenly very clear in his mind that he had no intention of killing Greycourt.
Even if the man wanted him dead. “It’s complicated.”
“You won’t tell me.”
Sweat dotted his forehead. “No.”
Her expression turned resigned. Disappointed. “You don’t trust me.”
He felt as if he’d been punched in the belly, the pain sharper than any hit he’d taken in St Giles.
“Messalina, please,” he said urgently as she stood. “It’s not that.”
She paused and looked back at him, and he could see that her humor was hot as