Page 41 of Barbarous

She snorted and picked up her book, determined to ignore him whether he slept or not.

“Daphne?”

She turned a page.

“Daaaaaaphneeeee . . .”

The laugh broke out of her before she could stop it and she looked up. “What?”

“Won’t you read to me? Please?” His brilliant green eye was half-closed and he appeared sleepy, an overgrown boy playing at being a pirate, complete with eye patch. He looked . . . adorable.

Daphne huffed out a disgusted sigh. She would read to him—or sing an aria or declaim a Shakespearean soliloquy—anything to put him to sleep.

As it turned out, he was fast asleep before she’d read five minutes. Once he was breathing deeply, she closed the book and slumped in her chair, exhausted. He looked even more beautiful asleep than he did awake, and considerably less alarming. His hair was tousled and the tanned skin of his face and neck glinted with golden growth.

Daphne was completely, utterly, foolishly infatuated; there was no use trying to deny it. She should have been outraged both times he’d touched her. Instead, she was shattered that he’d stopped. Her hands twitched to stroke his face, neck, and all the parts of him she could imagine but had never seen. She drank in the sensual curve of his full lower lip, remembering how he’d felt and tasted—how his mouth was soft and firm at the same time. And his upper lip, much more chiseled but every bit as skillful and teasing.

Raw, demanding want pulsed through her body and she dropped her head back and closed her eyes. What was she to do? Did this type of thing simply need to run its course—like a fever or infectious disease?

Her mind drifted back to the book she kept hidden in her bedside table. At least now she knew something about what occurred between men and women. She had read the entire book, several parts more than once. The story in Fanny Hill was rubbish, but the graphic descriptions provided information beyond price.

The analytical part of her mind, which she’d formerly believed the largest, was fascinated by the variety of physical acts possible between a man and a woman. The other part of her mind, a part she’d never known existed before Hugh arrived, thrilled at her new knowledge of human bodies and what they could do with one another.

Daphne was shocked and excited by how merely reading about lovemaking could cause such physical reactions. Her newfound knowledge of what men and women did in private made her regard men—Hugh in particular—in an entirely new light. She imagined him doing to her those things she’d read about. Would she look at every attractive man she met with this new curiosity? Was that how men regarded her?

What a fascinating new world she had discovered, and it had existed beside the regular one all along. How glad she was none of that world had been contaminated by Malcolm and what he’d done to her on that long ago afternoon. She now understood what he had done, but was more confused than ever why a man would want to do such things with an unconscious woman. She was also more determined than ever to keep him away from every part of her life.

Daphne sighed, too tired to think of Malcolm right now. Instead she pondered the man sleeping on the bed; Hugh was far more than a lighthearted rake. Tonight his mood had gone from carnal to cold in an instant. She should not be surprised to find dark currents beneath his genial façade. How could there not be after such a past—after he’d suffered such terrible physical abuse?

Daphne swallowed. How would he react when she confessed what she’d done? Which expression would he wear then?

And then the memory of the cut girth came crashing down on her.

“Oh God.” The words slipped from between her frozen lips. Will Standish would see the saddle soon—if he hadn’t already. He would know what it meant and he would wonder who had done such a thing and why. And then he would tell Hugh, and Hugh would have those same questions.

Questions that had only one answer, as far as Daphne knew: her.

Chapter Eleven

Hugh woke to sunlight streaming through a small gap in the heavy drapes and blinked away the swirling dust motes. A quick survey of the room showed only Kemal, sitting beside the window, plying his needle on a garment.

Memories of last night flooded his mind and Hugh closed his eyes, recalling his inability to restrain himself. It was neither the sleeping draught nor a concussion that had made him grab her. He’d woken from a troubled sleep and found Daphne wearing an expression of tenderness he had never expected to see—at least not directed at him.

“You are awake, my lord.”

Hugh opened his eyes. Kemal had approached in his silent way and studied Hugh from the foot of the bed.

“Yes, I am awake,” Hugh agreed, grimacing as he levered himself into a sitting position so that he would not be looking up at people, something he was most unaccustomed to. Kemal arranged the cushions and bedding so that Hugh was soon comfortably placed to take a cup of tea and some fresh bread and butter Kemal seemed to have conjured from thin air.

“What is the diagnosis, Kemal?” Hugh asked as he inhaled the fragrant bergamot tea, Kemal’s own blend.

“We are looking for forgetfulness, disorientation, or nausea.”

“Who are you? Where am I? I believe I may vomit,” Hugh said lightly, smiling and raising the cup to his lips.

“Quite so, my lord.” Kemal nodded, reaffirming Hugh’s belief the man was entirely without a sense of humor and more interested in straightening bedclothes than engaging in conversation with his patient.

He missed Daphne.