He unbuckled his sword and set it on a low table, then lifted her up, took her place in the chair and settled her on his lap. Silent, they watched the fire together, Colin holding her close, her head against his chest.
He buried his lips in her tangled curls, and they stayed that way for a very long time, motionless except when Colin’s mouth moved against her hair. His kisses were gentle, slow and warm. Possessive, healing. Cherishing. His heart seemed to burst at the miracle of her back in his arms.
Servants dragged a tub into the chamber and filled it with bucket after bucket of steaming water, scented with oil of roses. Hard-milled perfumed soap was left, along with a comb and a brush and large linen towels. They set up the screen Colin had requested to shield everything.
Alone again, Colin rose and stood Amy on her feet. “I should have killed him,” he whispered, looking at her. Her wrists and ankles were raw and abraded. He could only imagine what damage lay hidden. Purple marks marred one side of her face; dried blood crusted her forehead. Her lips were bruised and swollen, her hair a tangled mess tumbling down her back.
He had thought he would never see her again.
She looked beautiful.
Taking her hand, he led her to the tub. “Do you need help?”
“No, thank you,” she said quietly, her eyes on his bloodstained shirt.
“It’s naught but a scratch,” he reminded her, his voice low and steady. “I’ll clean it up while you bathe.” With a sigh, he left her behind the screen.
He winced when he pulled the fabric from the wound and slipped the shirt off over his head. But it was just a scratch, the barest graze, and wouldn’t even require stitches. It stung, but not so much that he couldn’t ignore it.
Had it hit a quarter of an inch to the right—the thought made Colin suck in a breath. A broken rib, perhaps bone fragments puncturing his lung. It would have wreaked havoc, would certainly have impaired his swift action, if not killed him outright. Well, it hadn’t happened. He’d been lucky—very, very lucky—and he would never reveal to Amy just how narrow their escape had been.
At the washstand, he poured water from the ewer and dabbed at the shallow laceration until it was clean. Then he shrugged back into his surcoat.
He heard the water swishing behind the screen and imagined Amy washing away the blood, the dirt, and—he hoped—the memories. He knew her wounds were merely surface deep, nothing that wouldn’t heal in a few days at most. But he was furious nonetheless, feeling somehow responsible for her suffering, for the damage to her perfect young body.
He should never have left her.
He would never leave her again, he promised himself as she stepped from behind the screen. The nightgown was ruined and the blue dress ripped in the back, so she had wrapped herself securely in one of the inn’s large, luxurious towels. She was blushing furiously, one hand holding on to the towel for dear life, the other resting across her shoulder as if to cover its nakedness.
“Look, Amy,” Meaning to distract her, he opened his surcoat to show her his cleaned wound—but that only made her blush even harder. “See the scrape? It’s nothing.”
She stood still for a long moment, seeming to have some kind of struggle with herself. Finally she reached out tentative fingers, touching him lightly, and when he didn’t flinch, she nodded her satisfaction.
He dragged the chair closer to the fire and drew her long hair out as she sat down, draping it over the seat back. Then he sat behind her to brush it dry. He had never brushed a girl’s hair before. It was oddly intimate. He hummed as he worked, a soft lullaby his mother used to sing to him, and watched the firelight play off the glistening mass of black silk.
“It’s so beautiful…” Had he said that out loud? She froze as though she were surprised, and he would swear she even stopped breathing for a few seconds. But she didn’t say a word, and he went on with his task.
When her hair was dry and gleaming, he rose and she came up with him. She turned to him with a shy smile. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I feel much better now.”
“I’m glad.” She stood so close he could feel the heat from her body. He swallowed hard. “Can you face the bed now?”
She nodded, her smile wobbly but determined. “It’s a different bed.”
“Yes, it is.” He led her to it and lifted a corner of the covers; she slipped between the sheets.
Her gaze followed him as he poured more water from the ewer to rinse the bloodstain from his shirt, then moved to the hearth to lay it out to dry. His insides warmed at her peaceful, sleepy expression. When his boots hit the floor with two dull thuds, she closed her eyes.
“Will you sleep by me?” she whispered. “I don’t want to be alone.”
It was that or the floor, so he nodded, even though she wasn’t watching him. He blew out the candles, then slid into bed beside her, leaving as much space as he could between them.
“Amy?” he called softly through the dark.
“Hmm?”
He had to know. “Did he? …I mean…”
She rolled to face him, opening her eyes to search his in the firelight. “No.” she whispered. “You arrived just in time. Like magic.”
His body sagged into the bed with the release of tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
Moving closer, she touched his face with feather-light fingertips. “I still cannot believe you’re here.” Her eyes turned luminous as her fingertips stroked his jaw. “It was dark in that corridor—so dark that once you battered down the door, I could see only your outline framed in the opening. But I knew it was you. I knew it, but I couldn’t believe it. I’d prayed my screaming would draw someone
