Chapter 3 #3
Apparently, he did.
“Caillen, may I come in?” her sister asked.
“Just a moment!” He heard her scurry across the room and stole a glance to see her grab another blanket before turning to toss it over his midsection. “Control that damned thing, Astley,” she whispered.
He could think of several ways he wanted to control it, but that only made matters worse.
She stood back and looked at her handiwork. It wasn’t nearly good enough to disguise the rise in the blanket his cock was creating, but she was helpless to do more. He certainly couldn’t hope that she took him in hand and took care of the problem in a natural fashion.
“Impressive cock, impressive cock!” Charlotte deigned to add.
“Shhhh! Charlotte!”
She grabbed the wet cloth and began patting his brow.
A memory seeped into his thoughts, as if her repeated dabbing on his forehead beat another image back into full view in his mind.
Filthy dark stones covered in blood and gore in what should have been a place of worship but had been turned into a political prison during the age of French Enlightenment.
The fresh scent of copper mixing with decay and human waste as tortured screams rang through the cavernous corridors like clockwork; the human bells of agony tolling away the hours of torment from within.
His cockstand disappeared before Caillen opened the door, but his heartbeat raced as if he were scaling the walls of Mont Saint Michel at breakneck speed. Damn French bastards.
“You may come in now.”
Her younger sister, Robina, entered the room with a bowl of what he could only guess to be more broth. God save him from someone’s idea of a healthy diet for a man who had nearly been starved to death.
“I thought you’d never let me in. How is the earl today?”
“The same.”
He should tell her he was better, if remembering the nightmare of his time in hell was any gauge of his improvement.
“Do you think he’s going to live?”
He had to, now.
“I don’t know,” Caillen replied. Water trickled in the basin once more as she wrung out the cloth.
“Are you ever going to hold a conversation with any of us again?” Robina asked, her voice much gentler than she normally spoke.
Caillen still hadn’t talked to her sisters? Had she talked to anyone except him? He peeked out of the slit in his eyes once more. The racing of his heart slowing to the pace of a dashing descent down the stairs of the French prison.
“What would make you ask that?” Caillen wrung out the cloth and folded it.
“Because you don’t engage in any form of discussion with us. You just spout out answers that are meaningless.”
He definitely needed to live. If for nothing else than to vex her out of her shell.
“I’m just preoccupied with Astley.” She changed the subject. “What can you tell me about Viscount Pembrock?”
Well, fuck. He had done it. He needed to recover, and fast, or the blasted woman would get herself killed.
Robina put the tray down next to the bed and he sensed her exasperation with the way Caillen had avoided any exchange that would have been personal in nature. “Why do you ask?”
Simon watched her from lowered lashes as Caillen bit her lush, lower lip. Damn, but he wished it was his teeth teasing her.
“One of Astley’s sisters is interested in him. I wanted to make sure he was a good person.”
Lie.
Robina snorted. “He’s the last person you would want your sister to be around.”
Interesting. He’d always known Robina was smarter and more well-informed than half the young chits of Mayfair, but this was reaching, even for Robina. Viscount Pembrock traveled in a much different set than he or Ross.
“Probably not the last person.” Caillen stopped her patting and he closed his eyes.
No, Pembrock wasn’t the last person, but he was definitely in the running.
“Oh, most definitely the last,” Robina said. “Don’t you read Whispers of the Ton?”
“No.”
Of course not. Caillen only had time for novels.
Robina sighed, then crossed the room to where Charlotte stood on her perch and cooed at his bird for a few moments.
From the whoosh of air and rustle of silk, he suspected she plopped down in the chair and then threw her legs over the arm in a most unladylike manner.
The girl was a termagant, yet she got it honestly from her older sisters.
“He is said to be a bigger rake than even Astley,” Robina said with the authority of someone who knew.
She didn’t know.
“Not possible.”
Actually, it was. Too bad Caillen didn’t realize. Once again, he peeked out to see the sisters’ interaction.
Robina shrugged and looked at her fingernails.
“When he came into the title, it was in debt beyond what anyone believed to be recoverable without a marriage to a wealthy heiress. Yet somehow, he turned it around. He owns much of the land the Caledonian Canal is being built upon, and he’s said to keep a mistress at each one of his estates.
Can you imagine how expensive that would be? ”
“Are there any rumors about his involvement with the underworld?”
Damn. The woman was becoming almost as curious as Robina about matters she had no business meddling in.
Robina laughed, her gaiety so loud, he flinched and closed his eyes completely.
“Shhh,” Caillen admonished.
“The ton might consider dabbling in trade as holding court with the underworld, but if you’re talking about criminals, then no. Wait. Did the earl implicate him? Is Pembrock a French spy?”
“Spy for the Crown. Spy for the Crown,” Charlotte interjected.
It took everything he had to not strangle the damned bird.
“Do you think Charlotte’s onto something?” Robbi asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Robbi,” Caillen hissed as she leaned over him toward her far-too-intelligent little sister.
“It’s true! Wait until —” Robina’s voice rose with excitement, before Caillen cut her off. “Say one word, and I’ll box your ears so hard, you’ll never be able to listen in on another conversation.”
Thank God. But he heard the grin in Robina’s voice as she stood up and skipped across the room.
“It’s nice to see my sister again.” As the door closed behind her, Caillen took a deep, calming breath.
“I’m not sure what’s worse. Having the information which is supposed to go to the War Office in the hands of your little sister, or not being able to respond when a beautiful woman washes your body.”
Caillen’s gaze shot to his and her cheeks heated. “You were awake?”
His lip quirked in a bedeviling taunt. “Could a man sleep while his body is being caressed?”
“I did not caress you! I bathed you like I’ve been bathing you for over a fortnight!”
His brows drew together. “I’ve missed entire weeks of erotic hands doing wonderful things to my body?”
Caillen’s lips thinned as she pressed them together. “If you even think about touching me, it will be the last thing you ever do.”
“Damn, all that passion wasted.” She was going to hit him, and somehow, he thought that particular type of torture would be worth it. He delivered a beguiling smile that never failed to make a woman swoon. “You can’t hit a dying man.”
“Actually, I can.”
His grin grew. He could see she wanted to smile right back at him, so he said, “My cock still needs to be washed.”
Her wet washcloth smacked him in the face. “Do it yourself.” The door slammed shut before he could remove the cloth from his eyes.
Damn, but she was beautiful, just as she had been the first day they’d met and she’d slammed Ross’s library door as she left her weapon, the most sought-after novel of the ton, behind. He glanced over at his nightstand to her copy of Sense and Sensibility written by A Lady. Had she recognized it?
And then, not for the first time, did he wonder if the lady author was none other than Miss Caillen Blair.