The Perfect Wife (14 page)

He smiled slowly. It was indeed a beautiful day.

Sabrina flinched at the sight of the battered body on the berth. The sailors who carried Nicholas to the cabin had removed his clothing, tossing it in a bloody heap on the floor. Only a light blanket covered his nude form.

Fearful of what she might find, Sabrina took a deep breath and folded back the coverlet, exposing his bronzed body. The rise and fall of his chest was even and steady, a good sign. Angry, scuffed, reddened skin confronted her, not yet showing the shades of blue and purple bruising that would come. But there were no breaks in the skin, no bloody gashes with white bones protruding. She released her pent-up breath with relief and gratitude.

Sabrina ran her fingers lightly along his ribs, searching for any abnormality, any indication of serious damage. Nothing. The flesh beneath her hand was warm but not feverish. Her touch drifted to his stomach and lingered. She reminded herself that this was an examination of necessity, nothing more.

Still, she could not help but marvel at the hard, muscled planes of his chest. Seemingly of their own accord, her hands stroked upward, her fingers tunneling through the mat of rough, dark hair. His heartbeat pulsed against her fingers.

What would it be like to be crushed against that chest? To feel his heartbeat next to hers? To have her own naked breasts flattened against his solid form? Her heart thudded at the thought, and longing throbbed within her. She wanted that intimacy and more.

A groan broke from his lips and she jerked her hands away, as if burned by the contact with his skin, or her own scorching desire. Irritated and shaken by her unthinking reaction, she glared at her unconscious husband.

“Bloody hell, Nicholas, you’ve gone and done it now.” She dipped a rag into a basin of water and dabbed at his battered face. “You’ve made me love you.”

Exasperation colored her words, but her hand was gentle as she sponged off the last traces of dried clay-brown blood. “I did not ask for this. It makes it all so much more difficult.” A cut marred his handsome face above his right eye; the skin on his left cheek was puffed and bruised. Sabrina winced at his obvious pain and her tone softened. “It simply isn’t done, you know. I don’t believe I know of one wife in the ton who loves her husband.”

Sabrina sighed and considered her confession. She had never known an emotion quite like this. Not with Jack. Not with anyone. She’d never even dreamed of a passion this powerful. A passion that had her willing to ignore a painful reality: Nicholas was not the kind of man who would return her love. He used the word itself like an inexpensive seasoning, with a generous sprinkling to spice and flavor a dish and no thought given to the food itself. Perhaps her love alone would be sufficient. Perhaps not. There would be time enough to deal with the consequences of her feelings later.

She gazed at him and wondered why he had not yet come to his senses. Simon said he would recover, unless there was a serious injury they had not noted. Smoothing his hair away from his face, she narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. He was no more badly beaten than Matt, yet he remained unconscious. Unless...

Sabrina eased her fingers under his head and carefully felt the back of his skull. Within moments she found what she feared: a huge knot at the back of his head. The injury came not from the fight but from the fall—the fall she had precipitated.

Guilt swept through her and she stared helplessly at the silent figure. “Good Lord, Nicholas. I am so very sorry. I would not have you hurt for the world. You have to recover.” She lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. “There is much yet to be settled between the two of us. I shall not allow you to leave me with so much unresolved. This is fair warning, husband; I shall run you to ground through the end of eternity if you do not return to me.”

Impulsively, she leaned over him and lightly pressed her lips to his. It was not enough to satisfy her yearning to possess him, and be possessed in return. But it would do for now.

She dipped the rag in the water, wrung out rust-colored water and stroked his brow, keeping up a constant stream of chatter, a narrative that leapt aimlessly, detailing her thoughts and dreams and desires, her history and their future.

Day slipped into night and to day again, and Sabrina remained by his side. Simon checked on them both occasionally and agreed with Sabrina; the lump on Nicholas’s head was very likely the reason he had not awakened. She slept little, bathing his face and his body and murmuring words of encouragement, of frustration, of concern and of love.

All the while knowing he could not hear a word. All the while hoping, perhaps, he might, somehow, understand.

Awareness teased the corners of his mind. Damp, dank air weighed heavy on his skin. The salty, rotted scent of the sea assailed his nostrils. Dimly, the roar of the ocean and the crash of the waves sounded. Distant... hollow. A steady drip splashed and echoed. All in the blackest black. Was this a dream? Or death?

Nicholas struggled to fight his way back from the darkness, swimming against a sea of oblivion.
He jerked his head, and hot pain lanced through the back of his skull
.

Pain. Familiar yet obscure. It pummeled his head and throbbed through his body.

He battled to open his eyes and failed. Was he too weak? Or did a blindfold shroud his sight? Voices drifted around him, only one penetrating the shadows of his mind.

The feminine voice was low, slightly husky. It might have been the damp in the air, it might have been the way she always spoke, but he was stunned to note that the voice fired his blood. In spite of the impropriety and absurdity of his sudden desire, he wanted nothing more than to take her as his own.

Wanted whom? Who was this woman he longed for, ached for? Confusing images assailed his mind. Thoughts and memories jumbled together in an indistinguishable kaleidoscope of meaningless emotions and desires, colored by time, shaded by pain.

Gentle fingers stroked his chest.
Cool, gentle fingers, light and teasing
... Fresh cloths soothed his face.
A tentative touch lingered
... He sighed at the press of warm lips against his mouth.
A delicious shiver ran through him at the unexpected contact
. Yet there was nothing to ease the burning frustration filling every unguarded crevice of his being.

She paused, and he wondered at the tension between them. Wondered if she felt it as well. He again caught her breath upon his upturned face and her lips brushed against his in a faint caress. He started slightly, then involuntarily strained toward her. Her lips parted and her tongue teased the inner edge of his mouth. Desire pounded through his veins. His mind worked feverishly. What kind of woman kissed so boldly as this? Perhaps . .. it no longer mattered.

What no longer mattered? Futility swamped him. Why couldn’t he remember? It was so very important. Who was she?

Sabrina. The name appeared like a buoy bobbing to the surface of his soul. Bree. She was ... what?
A vague, spicy scent wafted around him
. Her scent, a memory from today? From yesterday ... from forever?

His wife; that was it, she was his wife. Fragments of memory emerged. Not the passive, insipid child-wife of his youth; this was a woman to savor, to cherish, even to love. He had won her, hadn’t he? Or at least claimed her. His most impressive triumph, or was it... his greatest failure? He did not know.

Sabrina ... Bree ... Lady B. The names, the impressions and emotions, the scents and sounds from now and from the dim recollections of a decade past scurried and scrambled in his muddled mind. Dreams and fantasy mingled with remembrance and reality, a haunting puzzle with questions he could not comprehend and answers that lingered just beyond reach.

He sank back into blackness, his exhausted mind succumbing to the needs of his body for healing sleep. A thought nagged at the back of his consciousness, elusive and vague. He battled to grasp it, knowing instinctively that it would provide the key he searched for, and the solution to mysteries he had long ago put aside.

And it would give him peace.

Nicholas pulled his eyes open with a strength born only of determination. His vision blurred and sharpened and his gaze flicked over a beamed ceiling. Where was he? He drew his brows together in an effort to recall and tried to sit up.

Sharp pain ricocheted around his head and radiated through his body. He gasped and sank back on the bed, closing his eyes against the pain.

“Welcome back,” a low, sensual voice greeted him. Her voice. Sabrina’s.

He opened his eyes cautiously, avoiding the slightest movement. Her face seemed to hover above him.

“Where am I?” He croaked the words, his throat parched and thick.

“You are exactly where you belong right now, in bed.” A concerned frown furrowed her brow. “In your cabin. On the ship. Do you remember?”

The ship? Of course. The details remained indistinct, but he definitely recalled fisticuffs with that arrogant American.

“How do you feel?”

“Bloody awful.” His head throbbed and pulsed, his muscles ached. Even breathing hurt. If he fared this poorly, surely Madison must be dead. “How is Madison?”

“Nearly as bad off as you.” Her dry tone left no doubt as to her opinion of the entire incident. “Not that you both don’t deserve it.”

Nicholas drew his brows together, struggling to remember. Gradually, the fog in his mind lifted. The fight on the deck ... the final blow ... the fall. “I would have beaten him senseless if I hadn’t tripped.”

“Yes ... well, you did trip, and that’s the end of it.” Her brisk manner signaled a close to that particular topic. Pity. He was extremely interested in knowing just how his skills compared to Madison’s, but, apparently, that was not information to be gleaned from Sabrina.

Only concern and sympathy shone in her eyes. “You are terribly weak, you know, Nicholas. You’ve been unconscious for more than a day. You really need to eat or at least drink something. Do you feel up to that?”

His throat rasped, and hunger gnawed at his stomach; food and drink could only help. “I think so.” He sighed. “As long as I don’t have to move.”

“Excellent.” She beamed at him and stepped to the door. “Stay put and rest. You need it. I’ll be back in just a moment.” The door closed gently behind her.

Flat on his back, he stared at the ceiling. Tentatively, Nicholas flexed and relaxed his muscles, one at a time, in his arms, legs, hands and feet. Aside from an overall ache, he seemed relatively fit. With slow, studied movements, he pushed himself upright to a sitting position. The throb in his head did not diminish, but it did not increase either.

He had not experienced pain like this in ... how long? A decade perhaps? Not since the last time he’d received a blow on the head that rendered him unconscious. Not since he had awakened alone on a deserted beach near a remote English village, the smugglers he sought long gone. There was something important about that recollection. Something he needed to...

“What are you doing?” Sabrina’s voice cracked from the doorway. He jerked his head toward her, and agonizing pain fired flashes of light across his vision. Nicholas doubled over, catching his head in his hands, as if the pressure of his fingers would alleviate his suffering.

“Please, if you have any compassion in your soul at all, if only for children and small animals, take pity on me and do not raise your voice.” Even his whispered words took their toll in pain. “My head feels as if I have consumed barrels of whiskey single-handed.” He moaned. “And not very good whiskey, either.”

She marched to the table and set down a tray. Stepping to his side, she thrust several pillows behind him for support. “I can’t say you haven’t earned it.” Sabrina retrieved the tray and returned to the berth, settling on the edge of his bed. The tray balanced precariously between them.

He eyed the mug and accompanying bowl of steaming liquid through the gaps between his fingers. “What is that?”

“It’s just broth.” An amused smile quirked the corners of her mouth. “You needn’t be so suspicious. I’m not going to poison you.”

“You’d be a rich widow if you did.” Nicholas uncovered his face and glared at the innocent soup.

“You’re right.” Her eyes widened, as if considering his suggestion. “I hadn’t thought of that. What a cunning idea.”

“Sabrina.” He caught himself. The twinkle in her eye gave her away. “I am in no mood to be teased,” he grumbled.

“What a shame,” she said lightly, her manner annoyingly pleasant and brisk. “Now, will you eat this yourself or shall I feed you like a child?”

He relaxed against the pillows and gazed at her. She appeared weary. Abruptly, he realized that she must have been by his side the entire time he slept and probably had had little sleep herself. She looked fragile, ethereally vulnerable and infinitely appealing. An odd urge to protect and care for her surged through him.

His gaze trapped hers and lingered. The moment lengthened, becoming intense and weighted without warning. Her smile faltered. His breath caught in his throat. Deep in the emerald waters of her eyes, her soul simmered, calling to him. Somewhere, in their clear, shining recesses, inevitable passion beckoned. The urge to protect shifted, changed, evolved into a need more imperative and insistent and inescapable.

The ache in his head eased and he smiled slowly. “Feed me,” he said.

Heat flushed up her face and she dropped her gaze to the tray beside her. Flustered, she battled to compose herself. This was absurd. Could she only express her newfound feelings when he lay silent and unconscious and there was no fear of his response? Why did his eyes, dark, devastating and brimming with danger, seem to search out her secrets and peer into her soul?

She drew a deep breath and picked up the spoon. Her hand trembled, and she steadied it through the sheer strength of her will. Dipping it in the broth, she brought the spoon to his mouth. His lips did not part and her surprised gaze flew to his.

His eyes smoldered and burned, and she struggled not to spill the spoonful of soup. “Open your mouth,” she said, her voice quiet and firm, belying her inner turmoil.