Blackstone's Bride. Bronwyn Williams

you well, and then we’ll talk about how we’re going to get away from here.”

      Eleanor forced herself not to hover. Once he was awake enough to take a bit of nourishment she could find out more about him. Things such as what he was doing here, where he’d been going, and how long he thought it might be before he could—before they could travel.

      As frustrating as it was to have him sleeping away the hours, she had to admit that after months of stupefying boredom, she felt vibrantly alive again. Standing beside the bed, she continued to study the man. She suspected he wasn’t always asleep when she looked in on him, but if it suited him to pretend, there wasn’t much she could do about it. Both his eyes were closed again. For a minute he’d opened one of them. She thought some of the swelling might be going down, but the color had spread all the way up to his hairline.

      “I’ve come to bind your ribs,” she said, watching to see if he reacted. She’d tried before, but he’d groaned and moaned so much she’d offered to wait. “The sooner we get it over with, the sooner you can go back to sleep.”

      She waited to see if he reacted. There, that was a twitch, she was sure of it. Almost like a wink, only both his eyes were still shut.

      He sighed. “I give up,” he said. “Do what you have to do.”

      The only trouble was, he was lying down. She needed him standing, or at least sitting up. Evidently, he knew it, because he rolled over onto one side unassisted, braced himself with his arms, and pushed to a seated position. There was no disguising the fact that he was in pain. She winced for him, but she refused to put it off any longer. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can move without its hurting so much.”

      I hope, she added silently. Taking one end of a strip of sheeting, she held it against his collarbone and said, “Hold this.”

      It took longer than she’d expected, because she had never done it before. Never done anything even faintly like it. By the third strip she’d learned how to secure the ends until she came to the very last one. After a moment of hesitation, she tucked it under, her fingers pressing into the flesh of his waist. While she’d been wrapping him she had run her hands over his torso, front, sides and back, to see if anything was obviously out of place. She could tell by the way he breathed that he was hurting. She’d apologized until he’d finally told her to just get on with it and leave him in peace.

      She had two strips left over. The poor man was exhausted. She helped him down again, pulled the covers up over him and left him to recuperate. Closing the door, all but a crack in case he called out, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.

      Mercy, she’d forgotten how pleasurable the feel of a man’s warm body could be. Had she ever felt that way about Devin’s body?

      She honestly couldn’t remember. Probably not. It had all been so new at the time. It had taken her nearly a year to get over her shyness, and by that time Devin had been more interested in digging for gold than he was in bedding his wife.

      Absently stroking the cloth draped over her arm, she marveled at the salacious thoughts that had filled her mind as she’d reached around him again and again, so close she could feel his warm breath on her face. She wasn’t the kind of woman to lust after a man, especially not a stranger who was lying helpless in her bed, dependent on her for care and protection.

      But she’d thought about him that way, oh yes, she had. Wondered what it would be like to slide her hands down over his chest and move them down over his buttocks….

      Shameless. Demented. “That’s what comes of being a hermit. A hermitess,” she corrected.

      “Mm?” Evidently he wasn’t yet asleep.

      “Nothing,” she said through the crack in the door. “But if you’re still awake—that is, if you’re not too tired—we could have supper. I can have a tray ready in no time at all.”

      She could? Using what, pray tell? Her larder wasn’t exactly brimming. She had used the last of her sugar to make a soft bread pudding, but it was barely a teacup full. Hardly a meal for a grown man. “I’ll be back in a little while. Try to get some rest.”

      As he didn’t protest, she hurried away, worrying over what to cook that he could eat. It would have to be something soft. Soup, only soup took time, even if she’d had a good soup bone. Besides, she had learned with cousin Annie that trying to spoon soup into a patient who was lying flat in bed was a messy process, at best.

      Less than an hour later she shouldered the door open and tiptoed inside with an enameled tray that had belonged to the mother she barely remembered. “Time to wake up,” she caroled softly. “Did I tell you I took care of my cousin? Not that cousin Annie needed binding, but I used to make soft bread pudding for her, too—and soup. All kinds of nutritious soups.”

      He was awake. He gave her that slitted look, as if he were wondering if he’d landed among the Lilliputians. She set the tray aside, washed and dried her hands, then ran one finger over the pat of butter she’d brought to go on the cornmeal mush. Leaving the bowl and spoon there, she turned to him. “First, we’ll see about your lips. This should help.”

      And before he could protest, she touched his mouth with her buttery forefinger. Gently she moved it over first the top lip, then the full lower. He had nice lips—even with the swelling she could tell that much. The upper one dipped in a nice bow in the center. She hadn’t seen his teeth yet, at least not all of them, but from what she’d seen, those were nice, too. Not too small, not too large—not crooked and not even yellow. He obviously didn’t dip, didn’t chew and might not even smoke cigars.