He sat on the bed next to her and bumped his shoulder against hers. “And what of the injury to your side from yesterday? Have you reopened the wound?”
“The scratch is fine. Your salve ensured it is healing well.” She paused for a moment. “I’m beginning to hate it when you make reasonable sense.”
He was beginning to hate that he couldn’t correctly gauge her reactions. Why wasn’t she screaming at him? She should have been reaching for the chamber pot to brain him.
James knew he should feel remorse, Butcher or not. He should feel sorry that he used her in his scheme. It was less likely than she was aware to end her way—which he’d always known. Germaine was likely enough to return the Trelissick women but he would surely never set his daughter back on the ocean. Amelia was worth more than Daniella’s happiness to James. He could and would trade his already shattered conscience for her any day of the year.
He was more than half tempted to drive his own dagger into the back of the captain and take back what was his. But he didn’t kill senselessly. Not anymore.
But he could. He was sure of that much.
Chapter Sixteen
If the truth were to actually pass her lips, Daniella would have admitted she was confused. The wrath of the Butcher had been waiting for her in her room but now James, the man, sat on her bed and teased her like a brother. And more than that, he had again stopped her before she did something regrettable with her “virtue.”
Oh, it would have been fun though. A red-hot haze of lust still thrummed in her veins, though it was cooling slightly.
At first she’d thought his refusal of her personal. After lying atop her and hearing her wanton, brazen words, he’d changed his mind and rolled away. But when he’d lit the candle and her eyes had dropped, the tell-tale bulge in his breeches told her he wanted her well enough. But he had resisted.
She’d thought him weak when faced with a willing woman but it was she who was weak. He was a gentleman through and through, despite the Butcher business. She wasn’t even sure she really had glimpsed the ruthless assassin after all in the depths of his eyes. Perhaps the ferocity and fierceness he’d displayed had been his gentlemanly, brotherly, protective instincts but in overdrive.
She could now understand why he’d gone to such lengths to take her hostage. His items weren’t items at all. He fought for his family. She had to admire that about him.
She wished her brother had ever shown that particular emotion for her. She wished her brother had ever looked upon her in a way that wasn’t calculating, adding up her worth to the House of Lords, to him, to his cronies and his social standing. She wished the men around her saw her as a woman and not a bargaining chip.
At that moment, she wished James saw her as more than a female to be protected.
“You should get some sleep: tomorrow is going to be another long day.” His voice was low and smooth, gentle.
“I will bid you good night then.” She rose and went to the washbasin in the corner of the room intending to prepare for bed, to remove yet another ruined gown. But he didn’t move. James just sat there and stared at her, his eyes narrowed, his hands fisted on his thighs.
A thrum of anticipation reheated her cooled blood. Her grip loosened on the blanket around her shoulders, letting in the cool night air.
“I think I will sleep here tonight.”
Her heart rate faltered, her hands paused in midair. “Oh?”
“Don’t get any strange ideas, Daniella. I am not going to share a bed with you. I’ll sleep by the door.”
The look in his eyes told her he actually meant against the door. “I thought we were achieving a level of trust?”
“We are. But I am taking no chances tonight.”
So much for her brotherly gentleman. He nodded in her direction and then turned. She thought he would make himself comfortable by the door as he’d said but she’d had to goad him. Instead he placed the dagger on the small night table and, still wearing his boots, breeches and shirt, lay down on the blankets, his hands behind his head.
With a glare and a humph, Daniella retrieved her cotton nightgown and retreated to the relative safety of the dressing screen. She would not argue with him anymore tonight. If he wanted to sleep on the bed, then she would sleep on the floor. When she dropped the blanket the ruined gown almost made her gasp. It had been quite exquisite, despite her intense hatred of layers of skirts.
“What do you expect me to wear tomorrow?” she called.
Silence greeted her question before he let out a long, audible sigh. “I really don’t know.”
“You could have been gentler.”
“Where would the fun be in that?”
She almost chuckled. Almost. The light-hearted banter, the niceness of his voice versus his actions, added to the confusion.
Changing into the nightgown, she dropped the ruined gown to the floor, picked up the blanket and emerged. She felt naked. Or rather, exposed. Despite her earlier words, she knew he was capable of forcing her. She wasn’t as strong as he was. She wasn’t as calculating or manipulative either.
She wondered who was more desperate. Desperation made a person do silly things. Like sell her fake virginity at an illegal auction.
She avoided looking at him as she snuffed the candle. In the darkness, she wrapped the blanket around her and slid down the door to sit on the floor. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Can I stop you?”
“I doubt it.”
“I’ll answer your questions but not while you are sitting on the cold, hard floor.”
“Care to trade places?”
“I do not.”
She huffed again. Why must he always make her feel like a petulant child? “I cannot share a bed with you,
