Page 8 of The Duke With the Dragon Tattoo

He’d never spoken to her. Never reached for her. Not only because his wounded body wouldn’t allow it, but because he was fair certain his hands would sully her perfection, somehow. He imagined they were filthy. Tainted by the kind of shame one couldn’t wash off. Whenever he opened his mouth to speak, a dread of her repulsion, of her retreat, wrapped their icy fingers around his throat. Choking him into silence.

If he stayed very still… she wouldn’t leave. If he said nothing, he’d not offend her.

If he didn’t breathe, maybe she’d touch him.

To his everlasting astonishment… it worked.

Like an answered prayer, her fingers closed over his wrist and lifted his good hand to clasp between her two smaller ones.

“Exciting news,” she sang in the enthusiastic whisper of someone with an incredible secret. “Dr. Holcomb is taking the bandages off your head today.”

It took a full minute for her words to permeate his slack-jawed amazement. Not because of the chance that he might see again. Or breathe through his nose. But because she’d hugged his hand to her chest.

Just below her throat.

Lace rasped against his knuckles, and a row of tiny buttons indented the meat below his thumb.

She dropped her cheek against his fingers and hefelther smile.

Lord love a goat, he could die a happy man. He’d caused one of her smiles.

Dr. Holcomb entered with sure, confident strides. “I say, old boy, do you think you can sit up again?”

He’d answered Dr. Holcomb before. Verbally. When they were alone. But he’d never before had to form words with “my lady’s” bosoms grazing his forearm.

He must have nodded, because Holcomb’s strong arms slid between his shoulders and the pillow. It took the three of them, but they wrestled him into a sitting position once more.

The darkness spun, and the world tilted.

She didn’t let go. Her hold on his hand anchored him to the world. And eventually, the dizziness abated and the ringing in his ears, vibrating like a plucked wire, dimmed and died.

“Are you ready?” Holcomb asked.

He swallowed and nodded.

The snick of the scissors echoed inside his head ratherthan against it. He held his breath as the pressure of the wrap released, and the grip of her hands intensified. He didn’t know which of them trembled. Maybe they both did.

The cotton patches unraveled from beneath his nose, then lifted from his eyes, which he immediately peeled open.

Sapphires danced in a blur of gold.

“Can you see me?” she whispered breathlessly.

He should answer her. He really should. But nothing seemed to obey him. No words could escape past the thickness in his throat.

“Close, if you please,” Dr. Holcomb clipped.

He impatiently submitted his closed lids and tender nose to a warm wash with a cloth, then blinked them open the moment he could. His gaze starving for her.

“Youcansee me!” she exclaimed.

See her?Heabsorbedher. Devoured her. Committed every detail to his empty memory with inhuman precision. In fact, he could see nothing else. And never wanted to.

The downy curve of her beaming cheeks, dimpled with a delighted smile. The fullness of her expressive lips. The riot of untamed curls spilling like dark honey down her plain peach gown.

He was no poet, this he knew, because every word that came to mind was both crass and insufficient.

He had no frame of reference with which to compare her. No metaphors to pronounce. But he remembered that in the graveyard, he’d dragged himself beneath the statue of an angel. Soft-cheeked and solemn, with the striations of gray stone curls tumbling down to her hands pressed in prayer. Her head tilted to the side, as she gazed in grace, guarding the dearly departed.