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small birthmark that rested high on his shoulder, an odd expression on her face.

    “N-nothing,” the maid murmured, her gaze dipping to study the man’s profile with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of Astrid’s neck prickle.

    She, too, studied his face as if she should see something there. Something beyond the handsome man that made her feel things she had no business feeling.

    “Nothing at all,” the maid repeated and fell into a silence that lasted for the remainder of the night. They placed cloth after cooling cloth over his big body, cleaning his wound several times and reapplying the salve Dr. Ferguson had left.

    When dawn broke, its misty light peeking through the mullioned window, she felt certain she knew his body, every ridge and hollow, every scar, every muscle and sinew, better than her own. Even his smell—wind and man—seemed imprinted in her nose.

    Astrid glanced to the silent maid as she gathered the heap of damp linens, piling them on a tray before moving to the door.

    “I’ll send breakfast up shortly. See that you eat. Doesn’t look like there’s much to you beside bones, and he’ll be in need of your care.” Her gaze fell on the man and that strange, intense look came into her eyes again. “We can’t have anything happen to him.”

    Then she left the room. Astrid stared after her, wondering at that parting remark. It sounded almost like Molly had a personal interest in his survival.

    Bone-tired, Astrid shook her head and dragged the chair from the window to the bed. After tending to him through the long hours of the night, it seemed natural to stay close, to feast her eyes on him, to perhaps even hold his hand while he slept…

    She snorted lightly and pushed that mad impulse from her head. Foolish sentiment. And so unlike her.

    He seemed less restless. Almost as if he truly slept. Leaning over the bedside table, she blew out the lamp, allowing the dim gray of dawn to light the room.

    Settling back in the stiff wooden chair, she laced her fingers over her stomach. Eyes achy and heavy from lack of sleep, she cocked her head, studying the steady rise and fall of his chest through slit eyes, wondering what had motivated him to stop and help her today. To put himself at risk for strangers.

    Her father would not have done so, would have considered it beneath him to assist a pair of unknown women. He had not even helped Astrid’s mother when she sent word, pleading for his help to come home after she had run away with her lover.

    Bertram would certainly not have stopped to lend aid to them either. Not at risk to himself.

    Sighing, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

    Tried to forget.

    Only the years had taught her she could never forget. The past could never be outrun.

Chapter 5

    S he woke with her cheek cushioned against a silky hardness that was at once strange and comforting. Opening her eyes, she stared into a pair of startling blue ones.

    “Morning, sweetheart,” he drawled, his deep voice rumbling beneath her cheek. Warm fingers brushed tendrils of hair from her face. “Usually I know the names of the women who use my chest for a pillow.”

    Astrid surged up from his chest. Glancing around, she found herself still sitting in the chair. Apparently she had succumbed to exhaustion and fallen forward, using his chest as the pillow.

    Straightening her stiff spine, she tucked stray tendrils of hair behind her ears. “G-good morning. How are you feeling?”

    A smile tugged at his mouth. “Like a stampede ran over me.”

    Before she could think better of it, she reached out and felt his brow with her fingers, her familiarity with his body temporarily blinding her to the fact that the virile man she had admired and touched so intimately was now awake and no longer unaware of her attentions.

    And he was aware. His pale blue gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made her snatch back her hand.

    He stopped her, catching her wrist and pressing her hand