"No respect for the dead." His words came out in silent whispers, his teeth clenched.
A small smile tugged on her lips. "Respect is earned in life, my lord. When a man fails to earn respect in life, it cannot suddenly be bestowed on him simply becau...
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The warmth of his fingers seared her bare foot, pulling her out of a light sleep. Beatrice tore her eyelids apart, her gaze settling on the curly mass of raven that was Camden's hair.
Confused, yet thrilled by his presence, she watched him work on her wounded foot, so engrossed in his task of tying the gauze to her foot, he failed to notice he had awakened her. Beatrice glimpsed the blood that stained the sheet underneath her foot, and she immediately knew her foot had begun bleeding again while she slept—she only wondered how Camden had known as well. How was it possible that he knew she would need him again tonight? What was it that compelled him to return to her bedchamber?
Beatrice attributed his return to mere coincidence, but a stubborn part of her was determined to be illusioned by the idea of him caring for her; that he cared so much, he was deprived of slumber, made restless by the thought of her wounds, summoned by the silent sound of the blood that poured from her foot, staining the sheets.
Beatrice thought of the damage that would have been done to her foot by morning if Camden hadn't returned. He was here to rescue her like the many times he had rescued her in the short time they had known each other—the time with Lord Curtis at the ball where the vile Lord had nearly ruined her; the time with her father, when he had beaten her to an inch of her life; only a few hours ago, when she had clumsily knocked down a bottle, injuring her foot; now...
She watched him, his brows knitted in concentration as he worked, just like his cousin Oliver. The resemblance was there, so striking it was that Beatrice would have been deceived into thinking it was Oliver who was kneeling before her. Except Oliver would never kneel, nor would he touch her with affection, nor display the least form of kindness. Oliver would not deprive himself of rest to care for Beatrice's wounds...
... Oliver could never make her feel this way; this... Warm. The warmth that took over her, setting her skin ablaze, tugging on her heartstrings, pulling down all her defenses that had been built to help her cope with the years of abuse.
He released her foot, dragging her back to the present as he rose to his feet. She laid still before him, pretending to be asleep, unwilling to be caught staring at him—terrified by the thought of him knowing the things that had gone through her mind while he worked on her foot.
He stepped forward, circling the bed. Closing her eyes for fear he would find her awake, she listened to his footsteps pause before her bedside. He leaned down, his warm breath tickling her skin, stealing the air from her lungs as his fingers brushed her forehead.
"My lady," he whispered warmly, his voice barely carrying into her ears. If she had been asleep, she was certain she would not have heard him.
He captured a stray tendril of hair that had fallen to her forehead, and tucking it behind her ear, he continued, "What is this sorcery, this witchcraft..." He sighed, his touch sending waves of warmth down her spine, constricting her lungs further until Beatrice could barely breathe. She imagined his lips were only inches from hers, and for the umpteenth time, she relived their kiss; for the millionth time, she desired to repeat it.
