were capable of committing foul crimes, and that even the lowest street scavengers sometimes behaved with honor.
'Miss Sydney is a viscount's daughter,' he told his mother. 'Though I wouldn't care if her father had been a rag seller.'
His mother made a face. 'I fear that working so long at Bow Street has given you some rather democratic sensibilities.' Clearly, the remark was not intended as a compliment. 'However...a viscount's daughter? One could do worse, I suppose.'
'You're making assumptions, Mother,' Ross said dryly. 'I haven't said that I have any intentions toward her.'
'But you do,' she returned smugly. 'A mother knows these things. Now, tell me how a young woman of supposedly good blood has come to work at Bow Street.'
His eyebrows arched into sardonic crescents. 'Aren't you going to ask about my wound?'
'I vow to give youanother wound if you do not tell me more about Miss Sydney!'
CHAPTER 7
Sophia did not come to Ross's room for several hours after his mother and brother had left. He fretted impatiently, wondering what menial tasks took precedence over him. She sent Lucie upstairs with his supper tray and medicine, as well as some reading materials to divert him. However, he had no appetite, and his head had begun to hurt. As the sun set and the walls darkened, Ross tossed and turned in the stuffy room. He was dry and hot and he ached everywhere, especially in his shoulder. Most maddening of all, he felt isolated. The rest of the world was carrying on without him, while he was confined to a sickbed. Awkwardly he stripped off his nightshirt and lay with the sheets pulled up to his waist, stewing in annoyance.
By the time Sophia appeared at the hour of eight, Ross was surly and exhausted, lying facedown on the mattress despite the pain it caused him.
'Sir Ross?' She turned up the lamp a bit. 'Are you asleep? I've come to change your bandage.'
'No, I'm not asleep,' he grumbled. 'I'm hot and my shoulder aches, and I'm tired of lying in this accursed bed.'
She leaned over and felt his forehead. 'Still feverish. Here, let me turn you over. No wonder your shoulder hurts, when you are resting on it like that.' Her slender but strong arms helped him to lift up. Ross flopped over with a disgruntled sound, the sheets slipping down to his hips. Keeping an arm behind his neck, Sophia brought a glass to his lips, and he drank the cold, sweetened barley water in gulps. Her fresh scent seemed to cut through the stale atmosphere of the room.
'Who closed the windows?' she asked.
'My mother did. She says the outside air is bad for a fever.'
'I don't think the night air will do you any harm.' She went to open the windows and admit a refreshing breeze.
Ross leaned back against the pillows, relishing the relief from the stifling sickroom climate. 'You've been gone all day,' he said testily. He pulled the bed linens back up to his chest, wondering if she realized that he was naked beneath. 'What have you been doing?'
'The girls and I cleaned the kitchen range and flues, and blackened the ironwork, and then we did some laundering and mending. Then I spent the rest of the afternoon making currant jam with Eliza.'
'Let Eliza take care of those things tomorrow. You stay with me.'
'Yes, sir,' Sophia murmured, smiling at his autocratic tone. 'If you wanted my company, you had only to ask.'
Ross scowled and remained silent as she changed the dressing on his shoulder. His aggravation was soothed by the sight of Sophia's serene face, the dark lashes screening her blue eyes as she concentrated on her task. Remembering the sweet fire of her response, Ross felt a glow of triumph. Despite her fears, she had been willing to let him make love to her. He would not press the issue now, not until he was well again. But then...oh, then...
Sophia finished tying the ends of the bandage and dipped a cloth into a bowl of water. 'No signs of festering,' she said, wringing out the cloth. 'I think the wound is healing. Perhaps your fever will break soon, and then you will be more comfortable.'
The cool cloth moved over his hot face and forehead. A breeze from the window fanned across his damp skin, making him shiver in enjoyment. 'Are you cold?' came Sophia's gentle voice.
Ross shook his head, his eyes closed. 'No,' he whispered. 'Don't stop. That feels good.'
She moistened the cloth again. He let out a slow breath while the coolness glided over his throat and chest. How long had it been since anyone had taken care of him? He couldn't remember. Steeped in gratitude, he listened to Sophia's lilting voice as she hummed a tune. 'Do you know the words to that?' he asked drowsily. 'Some of them.'
'Sing them to me.'
'My voice is not distinguished,' she said. 'You will be sadly disappointed if you expect anything beyond the mediocre.'
He caught at the slim fingers on his chest. 'You could never disappoint me.'
Sophia was silent for a long time, her fingers unmoving beneath his. Eventually she sang in a kind of melodic, tranquilizing whisper.
When I have found out my true love and delight I'll welcome him kindly by day or by night; For the bells shall be a-ringing, and the drums make a noise To welcome my true love with ten thousand joys
When Sophia fell silent, Ross opened his eyes and saw that she wore a bittersweet expression, as if she were thinking of past heartbreak. Equal parts of jealousy and concern coiled inside him, and he searched for a way to jolt her from the mournful memories. 'You're right,' he said. 'Your voice is not distinguished.' He smiled as she adopted a threatening scowl. 'But I like it very much,' he added.
Sophia laid the damp cloth on his forehead. 'Now it isyour turn to entertainme' she said impishly. 'You may begin at any time.'
'I can't sing.'
'Ah, well. I didn't expect you could, with a voice like yours.'
'What is wrong with my voice?'
'It's gravelly. No one would expect you to possess a golden baritone.' She laughed gently as she saw his disgruntlement. She slipped her hand beneath his neck and brought the glass of barley water to his lips. 'Here, drink some more.'
He drank the sickroom distillation with a grimace. 'I haven't had barley water in years,' he said.
'Eliza says you are never ill.' Sophia set the glass aside. 'In fact, most of the runners are amazed that you were wounded. They seem to think that mere bullets should have bounced off you like raindrops.'
Ross smiled ruefully. 'I've never claimed to be superhuman.'
'Nevertheless, they all believe you to be so.' She watched him closely as she continued. 'Above human needs and weaknesses. Invulnerable.'
They were both still, their gazes intricately locked, and Ross understood suddenly that she was asking some kind of question. 'I'm not,' he finally said. 'I do have needs. And weaknesses.'
Sophia's gaze lowered to the counterpane, and she smoothed away a wrinkle of fabric with great care. 'But you don't give in to them.' He caught her fingers in his, drawing his thumb over the velvety surface of her short nails. 'What do you want to know, Sophia?'
Her lashes swept upward. 'Why have you not married since your wife passed away? It has been a long time. And you are still relatively young.'
'Relatively?' he repeated with a scowl.
She smiled. 'Tell me why you are called the Monk of Bow Street when you could so readily find someone to marry.'
'I didn't want to marry again. I've managed well enough on my own.'
'Did you love your wife?' she asked.
'Eleanor was easy to love.' Ross tried to summon the image of his wife, her delicate, pale face, her silken blond hair. But it seemed that he had known her in another lifetime. With surprise, he realized that Eleanor was not
