“Did she?” He nodded, absorbing this last bit of information. “Very well, then. Good night.”

The groom nodded his head. “Good night, my lord.”

Owen ascended the stairs, his footsteps deadened by the runner. He required fresh clothes again. A bath, too. He’d spent another night at Sodom, a gaming hell that belonged to his old school friend, Ian. There had been a fair amount of brandy flowing throughout several hands of cards. He could not rightly recall the details. Lately he had spent a great deal of time there, losing himself in drink and cards. He might have even spent a night or two in the bed of a woman whose name he did not know.

The female had been more than happy to offer him use of her bed. She even made the generous offer to share it with him. An offer he had refused for reasons he could not precisely define. As fetching as the curvaceous blonde had been, he wasn’t interested in making her his bedmate. He told himself it was because he’d simply craved sleep . . . a place somewhere within the walls of Sodom to rest his head, which felt as though it were stuffed full of cotton.

A wretched situation. He’d let her run him from his own home—the very place he’d long to return to. Inside his chamber, his gaze drifted to the adjoining room. No light glowed from beneath the door and he could only surmise she was asleep. Of course. In all likelihood she was exhausted from a day of walking stairs. He frowned, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it. He‘d left Mrs. Kirkpatrick with instructions that Anna should resume activities and start building up her strength, but he didn’t want her to injure herself. That would only prolong her stay here, beneath his roof.

He closed his eyes against that notion, and that was a mistake because the image that rose, unbidden, in his mind was of Anna. Naked in a tub. Anna stretched out wet and inviting on the bed, the towel clinging to her body, hiding nothing. Only emphasizing the flare of her hips, the generous swell of her br**sts, the flat expanse of belly that begged for his touch. His fingers curled inward at his sides in reflex. As if it was all he could do to stop himself from striding into her room and laying his hands on her satin skin.

He turned to his bed. Sitting down, he tugged off his boots. Next he stripped off his jacket, followed by his vest and irreparably rumpled cravat. Realizing it was too late to call for a bath, he strode to the basin and splashed water over his face and bare chest, washing himself, heedless of the mess he was making.

He was bent at the waist, his head practically submerged in the bowl, when he heard the creak of a floorboard. He seized the towel from the side of the stand and dragged it over his face and head. Rubbing it over his chest, he lifted his face and listened.

It came again. Steps in the corridor. It was a little late for a servant to be wandering the halls. Curious, he strolled to his door and opened it.

The flickering firelight from his bedchamber spilled a path out onto the shadowy hall, directly onto the person inches from the threshold of his room.

“Anna?” He eyed her up and down, standing only one arm’s length from him.

She froze in place, blinking those large brown eyes at him. The velvet brown glowed, the outer edge a ring of black. “My lord,” she breathed.

Gazing at her, he registered that he had never seen her upright before. Her head only came to his chin. The way she stood so utterly still reminded him of a rabbit caught in the eyes of a predator. His gaze crawled over her, devouring the long rope of brown hair draped over her shoulder, the tendrils unraveling from its plait like so many threads.

She wore a modest nightgown, the neckline laced with ribbons almost up to her throat. Her bare feet peeped out beneath the hem, the small, round toes curling into the floor as if shying from his scrutiny.

“You are home,” she murmured, indicating that she had been fully aware of his absence. Home. Is that how she viewed this place? As her home now? He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. It probably wasn’t a good development.

He motioned to her person. “You are standing. Walking.” Inane, he supposed. He could see as much—even if he hadn’t already been informed, he knew.

“Yes.”

“You look well.”

“Thank you.” She paused, moistening her lips, and his gaze followed the glistening trail left by her tongue. “I am.” She walked in a small circle as though to demonstrate. “And no limp.”

She stopped to gaze up at him with a face glowing with delight. And no limp. The words had been uttered as though she expected a limp—as though he should have expected as much.

“Should you have a limp?”

Her mouth opened but no words fell. She had that look on her face again. The one that came like a cold wind, freezing her features. He recognized it, knew it signified something. Fear? Regret? He wasn’t certain.

“I simply thought that I might—” Her voice broke off. She tried again, “I’ve heard of people left with a limp after a broken leg.”

“Have you? I am happy to see you on your feet then.” Relieved, he silently added. The quicker she was well and moving about on her own again, the sooner he would be rid of her. An uncharitable thought, he knew, and one that caused him to feel myriad emotions aside from relief. Not all of which he could identify. Nor did he wish to even try.

When he’d left his brother and Paget, he had sought to simplify his life, and this was a far cry from that. From the moment he found her along that riverbank, his life had been in upheaval.

He wanted to find a place where it was just him and the blast of his ugly thoughts and waking nightmares. He was unfit for the company of others. That’s why he had to leave Jamie and Paget. Not because he was angry or jealous. He could not taint their happiness. He was a corrupted soul. He couldn’t be around them. He couldn’t be around anyone.

And yet here she was. He had never asked for her presence in his life. He wanted only solitude, to be left alone with his wounds, and yet somehow he stood here. In the dead of the night face-to-face with a woman who looked at him with eyes bright and full of expectation.

As if she sensed his anxiousness to be rid of her, she replied. “I am certain you are happy. My presence here is quite the burden. I understand that.” She tilted her head at a defiant angle, almost as though she dared him to dispute this.

His mouth curved and he glanced away, peering into the dark depths of the corridor, trying to banish his grin. It couldn’t be helped. She amused him . . . affected him.

He faced her again, his expression sober. “What are you doing from bed so late?

“I’m doing as you instructed.”

He arched an eyebrow. He had not been around lately to instruct her on any matters. A fact he was achingly aware of as he gazed at her, his every nerve, every sense, heightened and alive and aching at the sight of her. Even garbed in a virginal nightgown and cloaked in shadow, he vividly recalled what she looked like with it off. He swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat.

“Mrs. Kirkpatrick conveyed your wishes that I should add to my distance each day in order to increase my strength.”

“Ah.” He crossed his arms and nodded sagely. “I said that, yes.” And then he’d gone about his way, leaving her to Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s care, trying to fill his days and nights and block out the past, block out her.

“And I’ve done that. Am doing that.” She waved her arms out.

Astonished, he dropped his arms at his sides. “Is that what you’re doing? Right now?”

“I want to become stronger so that you can start helping me.”

He ignored that reminder and stepped out into the corridor, looking left and right. “Foolish woman,” he muttered.

“Pardon me?”

Even in the gloom, he detected the flood of color in her cheeks. It didn’t give him pause. “You should also be getting plenty of rest. Not walking the halls at night. What if you lose your balance? What if your leg gives out?” He took a step closer, looming over her.

She backed up and wobbled a bit—proving his point. She wasn’t as steady on her feet as she thought. Or as she would like him to think. He instinctively reached out and grasped her elbow to help balance her. A mistake. Immediately, heat flared between them, centering on where his hand connected with her.

“I’m fine,” she bit out.

“Is this what you’ve been doing at night? Walking alone? I’m certain Mrs. Kirkpatrick is unaware—”

“Of no doubt. She would have reported back to you if she knew.” The accusation rang clear in her voice. He wasn’t around. Not as she had expected him to be.

Determined not to rise to the bait, he growled, “If you’re so determined to regain your strength—”

“I’m not attempting to merely regain my strength,” she hissed, the color still high in her cheeks. It only made her look more fetching. More like the innocent young girl he had no business associating with. Despite the other night when she had practically offered herself to him, he knew her to be innocent. It dripped from her every pore. It was in her speech, her manner, the way her face reddened around him.

“I want to be stronger than ever. Better. I want to protect myself, and you promised to help me do that.” She waved a hand wildly. Her breath fell harshly on the air. “Instead you’re off cavorting and forgetting my existence.”

He felt her words more than he heard them. They gouged deeply. He inhaled a large gulp of breath. She glared at him, the gleaming brown glinting angrily. He understood about survival. About staying alive, staying one step ahead of forces that threatened to pull you under. Even though she claimed no memory of events, she remembered something. Enough. Enough to feel unsafe, vulnerable and desperate. He understood her fear. Her need. That was why he had agreed to help her in the first place. He had forgotten that and pushed it aside for his own selfish reasons.

“I have not forgotten your existence.” Hardly.

Her gaze scoured his face, searching for more from him. She just did not realize. He had nothing more to give. Not to anyone. He couldn’t be anyone’s hero or salvation. He couldn’t even be there for himself.

He motioned to her door again. “You need to go back to your bedchamber.”

Her breathing evened, the rise and fall of her chest slowing. The anger in her eyes, however, did not lessen.

Her face captivated him. The rounded features, the thrust of her chin. Her mouth was shaped like a heart—the top lip dipping deeply in the middle, the bottom full and kissable. And her eyes. Even in the dark the lushness of her lashes beckoned him. He yearned to just stroke a finger against those lashes, test their softness. Moments passed and still she did move from her position in the corridor.

He dropped his hand from her arm and waved in the direction of her door again. “Go to bed. Before you hurt yourself. Before . . .”

Before he lost his will and touched her again. Everything about her looked so soft and inviting. Her freshness, her innocence, lured him. He couldn’t surrender to it—to her.

He couldn’t do that to this woman in his care. He couldn’t corrupt her with him.

As the moments crawled by, she returned his scrutiny. Her gaze roamed his face before stopping to fix on his mouth, and his gut tightened.

Still watching his mouth, she replied, “I’ll retire in good time.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. Stubborn chit. She was determined to thwart him.

She blinked those wide eyes of hers. “I think I’ll take another pass down the—”

Before she could finish her sentence, he swept her up in his arms. She released a little squeak.

He clenched his jaw and strode to her door. She felt like a familiar bundle against his chest. It took everything in him not to pull her closer and nuzzle the sweet-smelling hair.

“Unhand me! I can walk!”

“You can resume walking tomorrow. After a night’s rest.” She crossed her arms as he carried her into the bedchamber.