Chapter 2
Two
HENRY
Henry cracked one eye open and went to rub his face, only to bump a viciously tender spot near his temple. He hissed through his teeth and explored the knot with a few gentle touches. He’d taken a nasty blow to the head. If only he could remember when and how it had happened.
More importantly…Where was he?
The shabby room was small, with only a double bed, a wardrobe, and a chair beside the fireplace. A stand with a pitcher stood in one corner. On it was a vial of dark liquid labeled laudanum and a glass of water.
That will do wonders for this wretched headache. He swung his feet out from the cozy warmth of the bedclothes and, naked, took two strides—
His foot landed upon something soft and solid. A high-pitched yelp reminded him of the pretty widow.
Mrs. Longwood. Henry’s last coherent thought as he went sprawling, a seemingly endless fall during which her wide-eyed shock and parted lips as she clutched the thin blanket she was sleeping under was indelibly etched into his memory.
Through a feat of agility born of pure desperation, he caught himself just before crushing her. At least enough not to kill her.
He blinked. His wrist ached where he’d landed too hard on it, but that didn’t matter. He was acutely aware of her curves pressing into his body. Her thighs were trapped beneath his, her hips at an awkward angle, and her breasts burned through the flimsy fabric.
“Sir,” she said with breathless censure. “Get off me at once.”
“What are you doing on the floor, Mrs. Longwood?”
“What are you doing out of bed?” she countered.
“I was going to take another dose of laudanum.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” She peered at him with suspicion. “It can become a habit, you know.”
“I hardly think two doses in the span of one night will tumble me into the throes of an addiction.” He could, however, easily become addicted to her lush curves.
Her eyes were a lovely soft gray, the color of a storm cloud on the horizon, framed by long dark lashes.
A pert nose turned up slightly at the tip, and her delicate chin was balanced by lips too plump to be strictly beautiful.
She was sensually handsome rather than a great beauty.
Despite her penchant for propriety, there was a playful carnality about her.
Fascinating.
She tented her fingertips on his bare shoulders and swallowed. The light from the dying fire played along the column of her throat, licked the flaring hollows at the base and glowed upon the twin swells of her breasts. Henry was abruptly, excruciatingly aware of their position.
He was fairly sure that the faint tinge of red on her cheeks and chest wasn’t a trick of the light.
“True.” She sighed. “If you will allow me up, Henry, I shall prepare the tonic for you.”
“No need,” he said, without moving. “I am perfectly capable of putting a few drops into a glass of water.”
“It’s watered brandy, actually,” she said. “Masks the taste somewhat.”
“I see.”
“Yet you are still lying on top of me, most inappropriately.”
“I seem to find myself in a predicament, Mrs. Longwood.”
“Artemisia. It’s only fair that you call me by my given name, considering I’ve been using yours.”
“That’s rather a mouthful.”
“My sister calls me Artie. So do my cousins, aunt, and parents. My late husband called me Misia.” She pronounced it mee-sha.
Henry found this iteration of her name adorable, but he didn’t think she was inviting him to adopt it.
He should get up. But that would mean revealing the extent of his… nudity.
Specifically, the part of him that was rudely, juttingly aware of his hostess. He was going to have to steal her blanket to conceal that troublesome appendage, which would be appallingly discourteous.
Conundrum.
“Artemisia,” he said, sidestepping the tricky issue of pet names for the time being, “I am going to get up now. I need you to close your eyes.”
Her chin dipped. She smelled heavenly. Henry found himself reluctant to move away, even though he was a complete cad for pinning her on the floor like this. Speaking of which, they still hadn’t addressed why she was down here in the first place.
With considerable reluctance, Henry rolled over and sat up, tugging the blanket over his nether regions.
To her credit, and his annoyance, Artemisia kept her gaze averted as she got up.
“You were asleep when I returned with your clothes. I cannot promise they will fit properly, but they should serve until we can get you back to your family. In the morning we’ll try to borrow a pair of shoes that suit you.
I didn’t want to attempt to guess your size, and there wasn’t much selection, I’m afraid. ”
She was rambling. A ball of warmth took up residence behind his sternum.
That was most definitely a blush. He could see it staining her cheek in profile.
A fascinating constellation of tiny dark spots beneath her ear was almost hidden by the thick chestnut curls that had escaped from her braid.
Artemisia wore a long-sleeved nightgown trimmed in lace.
The garment had slipped down the curve of her shoulder.
The dying firelight turned the creamy linen nearly transparent.
Henry’s mouth went dry. His cock kicked hard against the rough wool he was holding in front of his crotch. His palms itched to ruck up her gown and taste her skin.
“I’ll turn my back while you dress,” she said quickly, striding to the stand with his medicine.
“Right.” Henry dropped the blanket and reached for the pile of clothes she had obtained for him. He stepped into the smalls and tugged one of the shirts over his head. The sleeves were slightly too short, but otherwise, it was a good fit. “Ready, now.”
He went to the bed and lay down.
Artemisia took the blanket to the chair and sat in it, covering herself from throat to knee.
“What are you doing?” Henry asked, perplexed.
“I can’t decide which is more uncomfortable, the floor or the chair. I have tried both. Several times tonight.” She blew out the candle, plunging them into darkness.
He sighed. “Artemisia?”
“Yes, Henry?”
“Get into the bed.”
“I cannot possibly—”
“Artie.” Terrible nickname; he would have to find something better to call her. “You are a widow, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Then why can’t you sleep beside me?”
“It isn’t big enough to fit two people,” she said primly.
“How do you know if you haven’t tried?”
“I have eyes, Henry.”
“Very pretty ones, at that. Unfortunately, they seem to have failed you. The bed is sufficient for two. Get in.”
A tense, silent standoff ensued.
“Do I have to come over there and carry you?” he asked after several moments of listening to the quick thumping of his own heartbeat.
“You are not supposed to exert yourself,” Artemisia said in that same prim tone that did not fool him one bit. She might have high moral standards, but she was no prude.
“Then don’t make me. I will get up and carry you if you won’t come of your own volition.”
Another tense moment passed before she huffed. A spring squeaked when she got up. Footfalls padded around the end of the bed. The coverlet moved, and the mattress dipped.
He had been wrong. Utterly, completely, catastrophically incorrect. This bed was not big enough for the two of them. With her shoulder and hip pressed to his, the erection he had barely subdued surged to new, almost painful heights.
“I won’t touch you,” he said.
“I appreciate that.”
“Unless you want me to.”
The mattress shook with her silent laughter. A chuckle rumbled out of him.
“Henry, what about ‘no exertion’ don’t you understand?”
He grinned up at the ceiling. The laudanum began to work its magic and sleep stole over him—until his companion pressed her freezing feet against his calf. Without comment, he rolled onto his side and tugged her close to his chest. The widow didn’t protest. She was already asleep.