It was a perfectly reasonable deduction, but Simone found herself recalling how easily she managed to slip from the ruffians once Gideon had arrived. They had not so much as called out when she had been bundled out of the door.
“No, not money,” she said slowly. “Once you entered the building they made no effort to hold me captive. They were only interested in you.”
“Perhaps because I was the one holding the dagger,” he suggested in dry tones.
“It was more than that, they were seeking to harm you,” she reasoned out loud, her brow furrowed as she recalled the manner the villains had surrounded Gideon. Then suddenly her eyes widened as the truth at last struck her. “That was why I was captured. To lure you to that building. Mr. Soltern wanted you... .”
“There is little use in dwelling upon Mr. Soltern’s motives,” he firmly interrupted. “We are safe.”
Simone shivered as she regarded his poor, battered countenance. He had come so horridly close to death.
“Until he decides to try again.”
“We shall take greater precautions from now on.” The carriage rattled to a halt and he offered her a strained smile. “Ah, I believe we have arrived. My coachman will see you home.”
She offered him a frown of outrage at his presumption. “Do not be daft. I am not leaving you.”
“Simone.” He gave her fingers a warning squeeze. “Wicked temptress or not, you cannot be seen entering a bachelor’s establishment without so much as a maid to give you countenance.”
She gave an impatient click of her tongue. “You are injured.”
“Society will not care.”
“Well, I care,” she announced in stern tones. “Now, hush so the servants can help you inside.”
The dark gaze narrowed at her commanding tone, but at that moment the door was pulled open and Simone hurried out of the carriage so that the servants could help Gideon to the house.
She was not about to leave his side until she was absolutely certain he was properly attended to.
It took surprisingly little effort to negotiate Gideon from the carriage and into the house. In fact, he barely allowed either of the servants to do more than help keep him steady, and Simone gave a disbelieving shake of her head.
She would have sworn he was a breath away from dying when they had been in the brewery. It seemed amazing he was still conscious, let alone walking.
Entering the foyer, Simone halted as the servants continued up the stairs with Gideon. She knew that he would probably balk at having her present when they undressed him and put him to bed, although she would readily have done the task herself if only to assure herself that his wounds were not as grievous as she had feared.
Impatiently pacing the floor, she waited until she had seen the housekeeper hurrying by with hot water and bandages before she slowly made her way upstairs. Once in the upper corridor she patiently secreted herself behind a large urn until the housekeeper once again appeared, leaving the chamber at the end of the hall, followed closely by the coachman and groom.
Although she was shockingly indifferent to her reputation at the moment, she did not want to wrangle with worried servants over whether or not Gideon was fit to receive her. She was all too aware of how a devoted staff could cluck and stew over their employers.
With silent steps she moved down the corridor to push open the door and slip into the large bedchamber.
For a moment she was halted by the magnificent splendor of the room. With a wide Venetian window that overlooked the garden and walls hung with red and gold embossed leather, it seemed to glow like a jewel in the late afternoon sunlight. Across the room was a black marble chimneypiece and in the very center a gilded, four- poster bed with a red and gold canopy stood in barbaric beauty.
It was exotic, passionate and not at all what she had expected from Gideon.
Gideon.
With a shake of her head at her absurd distraction, Simone hurried toward the bed to discover that he was neatly tucked in the center of the mattress with several pillows stacked behind his head.
“How are you?” she demanded, perching as bold as a tart at the edge of the bed. “Has a doctor been sent for?”
His lips curved with a smile at her anxious tone, and, startling her, he reached out to lightly stroke her cheek with his long, pale fingers.
“I assure you that will not be necessary, my dearest. I will soon be completely recovered.”
Her heart warmed at the feel of his tender caress, but she was not about to let arrogant male pride send him to his grave.
“Men,” she muttered in annoyance, reaching up to twitch aside the cover so that she could make her own decision upon whether a doctor was in need. “You realize even the slightest wound can become infected. I will decide ... oh.”
Her words stuttered to an abrupt halt as her gaze moved over the smooth, firmly muscled chest that bore no more than angry red welts where he had been stabbed. In shock she lifted her head to study the cut upon his temple more closely, realizing that it too had faded to a thin scar, while the swelling was nearly gone. He might have been attacked weeks, perhaps months ago.
“I did warn you,” he at last broke the stunned silence.
“But ... this is impossible.”
His fingers moved to trace her unsteady lips. “You should really stop using that word, Simone. There are very few things that are impossible.”
