The Offer by Catherine Coulter Page A

change as a result.
    He awoke the next morning sweating and stiff. He nearly groaned aloud at the cramp in his shoulder. Then he felt like giving a shout of sheer pleasure when he realized Sabrina was also sweating. Her fever had broken. “Sweat all you like, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her temple. He gently eased himself away from her and out of the bed. She immediately rolled into a small ball, her sleep unbroken. He stood quietly, listening to her quiet, deep breathing.
    â€œThis time I’ve won,” he said aloud to the silent room. He stood a moment longer, watching the rise and fall of her breasts, listening to her breathing. He felt happier at that moment than he had in many a long month. Actually he hadn’t been this happy since Rohan and Susannah had visited Dinwitty Manor and they’d figured out the clues to the treasure. Yes, he was immensely pleased with himself.
    The room was cold. He built up the fire, always one eye on her to see that she still breathed, to see that she still sweated.
    While she slept, Viscount Derencourt heated water to wash his clothes in the kitchen. First though, he bathed himself, sighing at the feel of being clean again. He eyed the pile of dirty clothes, but knew there was no hope for it. Without a second thought, he dumped the clothes into the water and washed them as best he could. He grinned, picturing Dambler’s face were he to see his master scrubbing his fine white lawn shirt in a rather dirty tub of water in front of a kitchen fire.
    He hung his clothes to dry over the backs of chairs that sat around the big block wooden table in the kitchen. He dressed himself in his only remaining clean shirt and britches and went back upstairs to check on his patient.
    She still slept, curled up on her side away from him. Her brow was cool, but her dressing gown was damp with sweat. Damnation, he hadn’t thought to check. He stripped her, hoping she wouldn’t awaken. Because he was a man, because he simply couldn’t help himself, he looked at her, tried to touch her as little as possible because he wasn’t completely lost to good sense, and gritted his teeth. But she was lovely, particularly since there was a flush on her cheeks.
    The hair on her woman’s mound was just a bit darker than the hair on her head. He wanted to touch her, touch her woman’s flesh. He shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts. Very well, he’d think about nonsexual parts of her. Her hands were very white, her fingers long. He imagined she played the pianoforte. There, that wasn’t badly done of him. Not to mention her breasts that were actually very nice and—no, that wasn’t well done of him either. He stared at her feet. Nice feet, arched, probably quite useful, as good feet went.
    Then he laughed at himself, he couldn’t help it. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m trying to do thebest I can. Please forgive me when I fall into these lapses.”
    She moaned softly in her sleep, which was no answer, and made him think about sex.
    Phillip straightened the man’s white shirt over her, smoothing it down. It came halfway down her thighs, surely modest enough. He supposed he’d have to wash the two dressing gowns. No, he didn’t think velvet could be washed. He looked down at her quiet face. He knew that face now; it was precious to him. It was odd, but it was true. He had no idea if she was a shrew, a devious liar, a saint. When they’d spoken, she’d seemed well enough, witty even, her voice soft and cultured, but he knew from long experience that she could just as easily be another virago like Elaine. Elaine. He hadn’t thought about her in a very long time. In fact, the only time he ever thought about her was when he came face-to-face with her at a gathering in London. He rather hoped she was miserable, she deserved to be.
    She still slept. Food, he thought, it was time to make something. He made bread.