Winter's Warrior (The Wicked Winters #13) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,3

a gentle nod. Moving too strenuously still produced the devil of a headache thanks to the beating his old knowledge box had taken.

He wished he knew who had attacked him and why. Caro had told him it was a miracle he was not dead, and he believed her. He must have been in a bad way. About to croak.

But it was difficult indeed to comprehend himself in danger, when now he was ensconced in the softness of her bed, the seductive floral notes of her scent, those hazel eyes pinned on him, her hands fussing with his hair. Sweeping a lock gently from his forehead.

Christ, had anyone shown him such care?

He could not remember, but he thought not.

“How are you feeling today?” she asked him, frowning.

He did not like when she stopped smiling, for he knew from experience that her expression meant she was concerned. Worrying. Usually, over him. He did not know why, or what he had done to produce such fretting.

“I feel like I want your smile,” he blurted, and then regretted his tongue’s haste.

He was strangely adrift, uncertain of who he was, what he would ordinarily say. There remained the questions, as ever, gnawing away at him, filling him with guilt.

“My smile?” She obliged him by giving him a bright, teasing grin. “And here I thought you would be wanting to break your fast.”

The scents on the tray she had brought with her reached him. His stomach growled. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to be beyond broth and gruel.”

“I can well imagine.” She flitted away from his bedside to fetch it before returning and placing it carefully upon his lap. “Broth and gruel are detestable. I was sick once, and my sister spooned bone broth down my throat until I nearly choked for fear of what would become of me. To this day, I cannot stomach broth.”

If she had taken note of his incessant cockstand, straining against the bedclothes, she said nothing. He was partially ashamed for the rampant display, but also partially concerned with the need to keep her here, at his side. To ignore his body’s reaction, over which he freely acknowledged he had no control. Being ill required a man to give up all hope of reining in his own anatomy. Ever since he had awoken, he’d been a prisoner of his inabilities: to remember, to move…hell, even to complete the simplest of tasks.

He turned his attention to the sustenance she had brought him. Coffee, eggs, a rasher of bacon, honey cakes. His stomach growled once more, but she was watching him, hovering near, her delicious scent like a continued benediction. He shifted on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position, to seek some relief.

Finding none.

As long as she was here, within reach, casting her spell upon him, he was stripped of any chance at producing the necessary defenses. “I meant what I said, Caro. I’ll not be taking your bed from you any longer.”

Pink lingered in her countenance, but she busied herself with motion, as always. Caro was often a blur as she flitted from one task to the next. She never sat. Nor was she still. She was always, forever, moving. And as someone who had been stricken with great difficulty when it came to his own movement, he appreciated it all the more. She was something akin to a butterfly, beautiful and bold, flying about him.

He would never catch her.

“You will remain here until you are well enough to go,” she told him curtly as she tidied the assortment of tinctures and vials on the table at his side. “I have another place to sleep which suits me fine.”

“I do not like your keeping me a secret from your family,” he groused. “You must stop doing so.”

Her smile was small, almost wistful. “You do not know my brothers. If you did, you would be thankful for this respite. Eat now, lest your food grow cold.”

What choice had he? He lifted his fork and began to devour the plate she had brought him, trying his utmost to distract himself from unworthy thoughts. Thoughts that involved hauling her across his lap, sending the tray to the floor, and kissing her breathless.

“You must tell your brothers soon, Caro.”

The firm, low edict of her patient hit her.

She stiffened, turning back to him, distracted from her task of tidying the bedside table with its assorted tinctures and vials. The wickedly handsome, green-eyed stranger Caro had saved from the alley behind The