Page 143 of An Imperfect Scoundrel

“There are new wounds across my legs and back.”

A grin split his face. “For the purposes of treating your injuries, you’ll need to remove your shirt as well.”

Dropping her hands to the hem and lifting the shirt slightly, she paused, narrowing her eyes.

“Do you promise not to enjoy yourself?”

He shook his head. “I can’t swear to something I have no intention of following.”

Swallowing her grin, she raised the shirt, exposing her stomach. He hissed at the large gash that ran along her abdomen.

“It doesn’t hurt,” she said, releasing the hem.

“Lying to me again, Mrs. Dubois?” He reached out and tugged her shirt up, pulling the garment free of her body. His gaze traveled over her bruised skin. “I doubt your brother will forgive me for this incident.”

“He’s forgiven you for others?” She sucked in a sharp breath as he placed a clean cloth over the cut, then wound the bandage around her abdomen.

“Many times.”

She sank her teeth into her lip, debating her question.

“Why did you leave?”

“My father…” His voice trailed off, his gaze staring into the distance.

After several moments, he shook himself, his eyes clearing. He lifted the next cloth, taking her wrist and pulling it toward him.

“My father was an abusive man. He took pleasure in hurting his wife and children. When I was fourteen years old, he beat me unconscious with a whip. My mother intervened, and he killed her with that same whip.”

Alana tried to curl her hand around his arm, but he jerked away. Pulling his shirt from his body, he turned around, revealing a map of scars across his shoulders. She touched her fingers to his back, running them lightly over the rough skin in a comforting gesture.

He leaned into her hand.

“I threatened to turn him into the constable, and he swore if he was arrested, he’d ensure my sister and I were left destitute. I couldn’t leave Dinah without protection, so I stayed silent. We had a tumultuous relationship after that, hardly speaking more than six words in the years that followed.”

“But why pretend you were dead?”

“It was a fortuitous accident,” he said, pulling his shirt back over his head, and turned away, attempting to hide the wince that accompanied his movement.

She wound her fingers together to prevent herself from reaching out again, and waited until Cedric returned his gaze to her, his face a hardened, composed mask of stoicism.

“The night I left for America, my father was away on business. I snuck into his room, heading straight for his armoire, where he’d hidden several pieces of my mother’s jewelry in a locked drawer. Prying the drawer open, I took every piece, sewed them into the lining of my coat, save one, which I sold for my ticket to America.”

“Did your father know you took the jewelry?” Alana asked, burning with curiosity.

“He did, and he reported me.” A sad smile pulled at his mouth. Cedric dragged her legs over his, inspecting a laceration on her upper knee. “There’s a reward for the capture of Mr. Charles Ashmore. If I’m discovered in England, I will be arrested. Your brother warned me of this.”

“I wager the compensation for Mr. Ashmore isn’t quite as high as the reward for the capture of the Pirate Shaw.” Alana shifted, acutely aware of his fingers, which drew tiny circles on her leg, scattering goosebumps across her skin.

“It isn’t.”

“What name do you intend to use when you rescue your sister?”

“I hadn’t considered one yet.”

Her breath hitched. “A man with wealth and no history is not to be trusted.”

“What are you suggesting?”