Page 5

Chapter Four

“ A room,” Spencer barked as he strode into the inn, soaked with sweat and urgency, Lady Eleanor trembling in his arms.

The innkeeper paused mid-polish, his eyes drifting from the disheveled woman to the grim-faced man who held her.

“My wife is unwell. Do you have medicine?” Spencer snapped, his tone clipped, tight with strain.

He didn’t care how it looked—her torn dress, his coat barely covering her, the dirt and blood and bruises.

Let them stare. Let them wonder.

He had ridden hard, faster than was wise, but every jolt had made him wince for her. The welts on her back looked barely a day old.

How fresh are they, really?

The thought sickened him. A burning knot tightened in his gut and refused to let go. He could hardly focus on the road. He told himself it was nothing—only concern about her connection to Charlotte. That was why he took her with him.

But that lie was growing harder to believe.

She had trembled in his arms during the whole ride. Not once had she asked for warmth, comfort, or help, and somehow that made it worse.

He kept telling himself that it didn’t matter.

He wasn’t the kind of man who rescued strangers.

He didn’t feel things this deeply. And yet he kept glancing down at her, at the pale face buried in his chest, the shudders that wracked her body, the coat that offered barely enough protection from the wind.

By the time they reached the roadside inn, the tremors had grown so violent he could feel them in his bones.

It’s only because they are irritating , he told himself as he dismounted. But even that excuse sounded brittle.

The innkeeper frowned apologetically. “Usually, my wife would oversee such things, but she has gone to another town on an errand. At the moment, the best I have to offer is a bottle of brandy to use as a sterilizer.”

“I will take it.” Spencer stepped back and let the innkeeper lead the way, the brandy clutched in his hand.

The innkeeper led them to the last room on the upper level of the inn, and Spencer did not protest when he opened the door to a one-bedroom suite. It was nothing grand, typical for a roadside inn, but it was comfortable enough.

Far more comfortable than the place Spencer had rescued Lady Eleanor from.

It was improper for him to be in the room with her, he knew, but he could hardly bring himself to leave her alone.

He nodded, keeping up the act, as the innkeeper told him that he would bring up some leftovers from that evening’s dinner shortly.

The innkeeper lingered in the doorway while Spencer set Lady Eleanor near the hearth.

Spencer took the brandy with a nod of thanks. “I will need bandages,” he said. “Do you have them? And hot water.”

“Of course.” The innkeeper nodded his way out of the room, and Spencer was left alone with Lady Eleanor.

He moved back for a moment, studying her.

What had he gotten himself into?

Before he could move, she stirred on the floor, subconsciously curling her fingers into the collar of his coat with a soft, content noise. He could swear he saw her brush her nose along the fabric before she froze. He watched her go still, before her eyes flew open and landed on him.

“Lady Eleanor,” he said slowly, carefully.

She bolted to her feet, only to sway. He caught her easily, gripping her hips. She wrenched herself out of his grip, only to stumble again.

“Get away from me!” she shouted.

His eyes flicked to the door, fearing that the innkeeper had overheard her. Heavens, that would be hard to explain.

“Stop touching me. Stop—stop manhandling me! I am not a sack of grain.”

“You are not,” he relented, his tone clipped. “But a thank you would not go amiss.”

She glared at him, her chest heaving. The fire behind her cast flickering shadows across her pale, furious face. He saw the hollows under her eyes, the tremor in her limbs she was trying to hide.

He didn’t want to be angry with her. But he was tired. And worried. And she was impossible.

To his surprise, she drew in a breath and said, “Thank you. For taking me out of there.”

It wasn’t begrudging. It was clear, and quiet, and real.

“But,” she added, lifting her chin, “if you listened to me when I first came to Everdawn, you might not have had to face those women at all.”

Spencer let out a sharp breath—almost a laugh. “The moment you stepped into my house, you involved me, My Lady.”

“No.” She shook her head, and it made her sway again. “I tried to warn you, Your Grace. But you—” Her voice faltered, then steadied. “You looked at me like the rest of them. Like a scandal. A ruin. A madwoman wandering out of obscurity.”

His jaw tightened. She wasn’t wrong.

“I had the truth,” she continued, soft but insistent. “I have it. But you wouldn’t hear it over the noise of what everyone already believes about me. And now your sister is engaged to a man who?—”

She drew back instinctively, and the tension in the room thickened. Spencer straightened.

The door creaked open to reveal the innkeeper holding a small basket of folded bandages and a steaming basin.

“There’s more if you need it,” he said, his eyes flicking briefly to Lady Eleanor. He didn’t linger, just nodded and stepped back into the hall.

Spencer took the basket and basin without a word, pushing the door closed with his boot. The scent of boiled linen and lavender-scented soap filled the room.

Silence followed, thick and uncomfortable.

Eleanor’s hands curled around the mantelpiece again. She didn’t look at him.

Spencer set the basin down on the small table near the fire, the clink of porcelain breaking the quiet.

“I didn’t know what they’d done to you,” he said at last.

Her eyes rose to his, tired and wary. “No. You didn’t.”

He didn’t apologize. And she didn’t ask him to.

Instead, he dipped a cloth into the water and wrung it out. “Come here,” he instructed, gentler this time. “Let me help you.”

She hesitated, pride flaring in her spine—and then her knees buckled.

Spencer was across the room before she hit the floor. Quickly, he scooped her up into his arms. She was still conscious, at least, and he nodded toward the mantelpiece over the hearth.

“Grip that,” he murmured. “And at least try to stay upright.”

His words were clipped, but he was worried, barely managing to contain his concern for her.

With each stumble and stagger, he worried about how deep her injuries were.

Gently, he peeled his coat from her body, revealing the torn fabric and the torn skin beneath. He bit back a curse as he looked at her marred skin. The wounds were shallow but had bled too much.

His blood boiled as he beheld the pain written all over her skin. So much pain she had carried, and yet her main concern had remained Charlotte.

“How fresh are these?” he asked her.

At first, she did not answer him.

He set about soaking one of the cloths that had been left soaking in brandy.

He began to dab at her back, looking at the stubborn, prideful set of her shoulders.

It was a stance that he recognized. It cut him to see it from such a small woman.

From somebody who should not know the strength it took not to voice such pain.

“I received them in the hours before I arrived at your estate,” she told him in a hard tone.

Simple. Matter-of-fact. Once again prideful. Something she had long accepted.

Spencer fought down an unexpected wave of anger at how she spoke of it—at how used to it she sounded.

“You rode in this state?”

“Yes.”

His jaw clenched as he cleaned the blood stains, the wounds, the shredded bits of fabric that had gotten caught in the deepest parts of the wounds, ensuring his hand was gentle. He knew what it felt like to hold back humiliation and shame when such vulnerabilities were exposed.

He fell silent. He wanted to press her, to ask more, but he refrained. He had no right. If their positions were reversed, he would not have answered as much as she had. So he cleaned her quietly, methodically.

When he was done, he pulled back. “You are still shaking.”

Lady Eleanor looked over her shoulder at him, pulling away before gripping the mantlepiece as she swayed again. “Of course, I am shaking. You are bathing me in liquor, Your Grace. Perhaps you should offer some for my nerves.”

“And then you will accuse me of taking advantage of you,” he countered, raising an eyebrow.

Lady Eleanor paled, her limbs trembling. “I would never wrongly accuse anybody. If I do accuse, it is because I am honest about it.”

Spencer flinched at her harsh tone. Without another word, he took off his waistcoat, cravat, and shirt and held the latter out to her. “Put this on and remain by the hearth.”

He tossed the other garments onto the bed and looked back at Lady Eleanor to find her eyes wide, her focus falling below his chin.

Despite their cold words, he recalled their interaction in the library: how close he had drawn to her, how he had thought he would kiss her…

Yet he pretended for another moment. Just a man and a woman in a roadside inn. Such things were not unfamiliar to him.

“Yes?” he teased, eyeing her as she took in his torso.

He had always kept himself fit. First out of survival, and then out of habit and want. It hadn’t hurt that it boosted his ego when women admired him, but the way Lady Eleanor looked at him now…

There was a hint of pink on her cheeks and a transfixed look in her eyes, as if she knew she was looking at something scandalous but could not bring herself to tear her gaze away.

This was by far his favorite expression.

“Do close your mouth, Lady Eleanor.”

Strange . According to the rumors, such a sight should not have been unfamiliar to her. Perhaps it had only been her surprise.

Her blush deepened as she clamped her mouth shut.

“Why are you offering me your shirt?” she demanded.

“Your dress is falling apart,” Spencer pointed out, his tone grim but not unkind. “My coat’s bloodied, and I’ve already cleaned the worst of your wounds. It would be foolish to wear that thing again. Just… put the shirt on, Lady Eleanor. And lie down. You need rest.”

Her hand clutched at her ruined bodice. She looked as if she might hurl his shirt back at him on principle alone. Hatred flashed in her eyes—not toward him, not fully, but at the position, at the indignity, at everything she’d had to endure to survive.

“I am not in the habit of undressing before men,” she said icily.

He held up both hands, backing away from the hearth. “I won’t look.”

“You already looked,” she snapped.

Spencer exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “I looked because you were bleeding.”

Silence fell between them. Her face was flushed, and not just from fever.

With jerky movements, Eleanor turned her back to him, dragging his shirt behind her as she moved toward the bed. She slipped beneath the covers fully clothed, then shot him a warning glare over her shoulder. “Turn around.”

He obeyed.

He heard the faint rustle of cloth—her torn dress being peeled away, his shirt sliding over her skin. A pause. Then a soft thump as the tattered garment hit the floor.

Only then did she speak again. “You may turn back.”

Spencer faced her, just in time to see her sink into the pillows. His shirt swallowed her small frame, the sleeves slipping past her slender wrists. The lower half of her body was hidden beneath the blanket, but he could easily imagine the hem barely brushing her upper thighs.

The thought sent a sharp pang through him—unexpected, unwelcome.

He tensed, his jaw tightening. She was vulnerable, exhausted, and wounded. This was not the time for such thoughts.

He forced his gaze up and nodded once, choosing not to speak.

She turned her face toward the fire.

“Where will you sleep?” She eyed the bed wearily.

“On the floor,” he told her simply.

“That means you will be below me,” she said. “You could… you could reach out, catch me off-guard.”

Anger surged through him. Perhaps the darker parts of him craved her, but he’d never touch her without her consent.

“I have already seen your back, Lady Eleanor, and had no inclination to do anything indecent,” he argued in a tight, furious voice. “That should be enough for you. I do not take advantage of women, no matter the circumstances.”

She opened her mouth, likely to protest again.

“Good night, Lady Eleanor,” he added, cutting her off. “Rest well.”

She slid further beneath the sheets. He did not watch her long enough to see how long it took her to look away from him or drift off. Instead, he stared into the flames, his back turned to her.

For now, they could both enjoy some peace.

He did not know how much time he spent there, watching the crackling fire, when he heard a whimper behind him.

He stood up immediately and found Lady Eleanor still asleep, stirring through a dream.

He approached the bed quietly. It was clear she was cold; her body quivered beneath the sheets, her teeth chattering as though she was crawling through a snowstorm. Nonsense spilled past her lips, and his heart clenched at the sight.

He looked around the room for more covers to warm her, but he found none.

He slipped out of the room and went downstairs, but the inn was dark.

Sighing, Spencer returned to the room. Lady Eleanor was still sleeping and shaking like a leaf.

With no other choice, he slipped into the bed beside her, careful not to touch too much of her body but remaining close enough to share his warmth.

It was nothing more than sharing his body heat with her.

Lady Eleanor, still lost in slumber, shifted closer in her sleep. Her cold knees brushed against his thigh as she curled inward, seeking warmth. He felt a slight swelling beneath her skin—another wound he hadn’t noticed.

Heavens, what did they do to her in that place?

A moment later, her cold hands grazed his chest before she tucked them between her arms.

Spencer stiffened, his instinct urging him to inch away. But he didn’t. After a beat, he exhaled and relaxed against the pillows. She needed warmth, not distance.

Sleep found him soon after.