Page 98 of The Marriage Method

Miles bowed his head to her touch. Some of the tension went out of him. “Do you?”

“I was responsible for Miss Brent,” she said. “And you—well, I daresay you feel you’re responsible for me.”

“I am responsible for you.”

“Because I’m your wife.”

“Yes.”

But that wasn’t all. It wasn’t even the largest part of it. His overpowering sense of protectiveness for her had nothing to do with any antiquated notions about ownership, duty, or property. It was something dearer. More important.

“And because you’re my friend,” he said.

Nell’s gray eyes were solemn in the candlelight. She wasn’t angry, but otherwise…it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. “Friendship is a powerful thing.”

“It seems so,” he said.

Powerful enough that he’d do anything to keep her safe. To make her happy. Powerful enough that he was beginning to have difficulty imagining his life without her.

She dropped a glance downward. “Let me see your hands.”

He reluctantly presented them to her. He’d been wearing gloves when he’d pummeled Silas, but they’d had no padding in them. His knuckles were raw, and a few of them bleeding.

Nell examined them in the candlelight, unflinching. “You must soak them before I apply the salve and bandages,” she said. “If you don’t mind cold water. I’d hate to trouble the servants for another can of hot.”

“I don’t mind,” Miles said. But he didn’t move to the basin. Too weary to consider the wisdom of it, he leaned forward and rested his head in her lap.

Nell stiffened beneath him in surprise. But only for an instant. In the next, she was relaxed again, her body wondrously soft against his cheek beneath the layers of her blanket, and her voluminous nightgown and robe.

Miles breathed her in. The scent of candle flame and clean linen, and a fragrance that was distinctly hers—some heavenly combination of gardenias, warm skin, and woman. Peace followed with it. He didn’t know what tomorrow or the next day would bring. But right here, right now, he knew beyond all doubt that this was where he belonged.

Nell’s fingers threaded through his hair. Her voice was pure velvet—husky and soft. “Mrs. Bright says you didn’t sleep last night.”

“I slept.”

“In a chair by my bed?”

“No place I’d rather have been,” he murmured.

She continued stroking his hair. “Must I do the same tonight? Keep vigil over you?”

“On no account.” In a moment, he would get up and carry her to her own room. She didn’t need to remain here to treat his trifling wounds. She had her own injuries to contend with. She required rest. Still…

He couldn’t bring himself to move.

“I finished reading all of the documents you gave me,” she told him. “Mr. Cowgill’s columns, the whole of both his notebooks, and the articles on the Fawn-Purvis family. There was nothing to indicate the significance of that second date. And absolutely nothing mentioning anyone named Innes. I did, however, learn that Mr. Cowgill attended a great many house parties.”

“He did,” Miles acknowledged.

“Is that where he gathered his society gossip?”

“That was the rumor.”

“And another thing,” she said. “Did you notice that Baron Amstead’s ancestral estate, Northwick Hall, was designed by Sir Robert Taylor?”

“Mmm.” Miles had seen the brief mention of the man’s name in one of the articles.

“He was an architect of some repute, I believe. Highly sought-after for a time. He designed many great houses.”