Pricing The Heart

Chapter 14

The sight of Eloise standing barefoot by the window, the sunlight caressing her form, stole the air from David's lungs. The flimsy white fabric of her chemise did nothing to conceal her body, and in that moment, he desperately wanted to trace his fingers down the path of every curve of her body. He wanted to push her hair aside and trail his lips down her neck.

And then she turned around...

Goodness, she turned to him, her luscious lips falling apart in obvious shock. He wanted—needed—to close the gap between their bodies and taste them. He wanted to feel the silkiness of her hair between his fingers as he caressed her scalp.

But rather than give in to his many desires, he turned from her to the door and murmured like a dumb schoolboy:

"I would like to look at you..." He lost control of his tongue as the words slipped out his lips.

He regretted his words, not only because it was madness to let her in on his inner musings like that, but also because he didn't need her permission to look at her... to do anything to her, for she belonged to him.

Still, something restrained him; something he couldn't understand. There was the need to protect her, as well as the need to keep his promise to let her go once she was well enough. The thought of watching her leave his house sent a sharp, unexpected pain through his chest. He didn't want her to leave, but he didn't want to take her choice away.

Curling his fingers to form a fist, he pounded lightly on Eloise's door, unwilling to barge in on her like he had done yesterday, even if the sight of her had done more than delighted him. He knocked again, and after a few seconds, the door slid open. Eloise appeared, her face lovelier than he remembered, her hair bound in a simple bun atop her head. He imagined combing his fingers through her hair and relieving it of the pins that held it in place.

"My lord," she said, releasing the doorknob long enough to curtsey.

His gaze fell to her lips, and not for the first time, he wondered how they tasted. "Mrs Taylor," he ran his tongue across his bottom lip, "you needn't come all this way to open the door. The knock was to announce my presence, not force you to your injured feet."

"I shall not command your presence, my lord." She shook her head.

He stepped forward, taking her hand in his and tucking it in the crook of his arm. "No, but you shall permit it." He led her back into the room and helped her settle on the bed. "I'm here to check your foot and check the bandage," he said, and she nodded.

Crouching down before her, he took her foot. "How does it hurt?"

"Not so much, my lord."

"Hm." One at a time, he unwrapped her foot. He heard her soft sigh as the last gauze came off, and against his better judgment, he imagined catching her warm breath with his mouth.

Pushing the image aside, he stared at her ankle. The swelling had gone down, and the redness had faded to a blueish-brown. It was healing nicely; he concluded when he pressed his index finger to her ankle and she winced, not squirmed.

He took the fresh strips of gauze from his pocket and re-wrapped her foot. "It'll get better in a few more days," he assured.

She nodded. "Thank you, my lord."

"It's my fault you're hurt, Mrs Taylor. It is only right that I help make you feel better. You mustn't thank me like I'm a saint doing some charitable work."

"No, my lord. It is for your kindness that I must thank you."

"Kindness?" He saw no kindness in his actions, only a desperation to recompense for his sins against her.