Winter's Warrior (The Wicked Winters Book 13) Read online

  Gone now.

  “I understand how important your salves and whatnots are to you,” Pen said, her tone softening, “and you must know I would never wish to make you spill them. However, I do want you to tell me the truth. Why are you and Jasper whispering and spending so much time together? The two of you are ordinarily at odds, spitting fire and throwing blades at each other.”

  Caro sighed. It was true that she and Jasper often disagreed. The matter of Gavin Winter was not unlike any of the other occasions upon which they had found themselves at odds. It was also true that she was a healer, and that referring to her creations as salves and whatnot was an insult.

  She decided to keep her attention firmly pinned upon the latter rather than addressing her sister’s other concerns. “Do you have any inkling how much time I spend reading and experimenting during the creation of my salves and whatnots?”

  Pen rolled her eyes heavenward. “Why do I suspect you’re about to tell me?”

  The truth was, not even Caro knew how much time she spent upon being the Sutton healer. But it was easily half of each day, if not most of the day.

  Caro reached for a freshly laundered rag and bent to clean the remnants of her ointment from the scarred floorboards. “You needn’t mock. We cannot all go gadding about with disreputable rogues. Some of us must tend the flock.”

  If there was bitterness in her voice, it was not because she did not enjoy being the Sutton healer. On the contrary, she loved tending to all who needed her efforts. She enjoyed reading, expanding her knowledge, and experimenting. Her dream of being a physician would never come to fruition, for she had been born a woman. At least she was able to pursue her calling within the walls of The Sinner’s Palace, if nowhere else. However, she could not deny that part of her had come to resent Pen for having no responsibilities at the hell beyond keeping the ledgers, a role which enabled her endless time to run off with Lord Aidan.

  “Aidan is not disreputable,” Pen denied, her shoulders going back in defiance, chin tilting up. “He is the son of a duke.”

  “Third son,” Caro reminded. “And a despicable wastrel.”

  “He is a fine gentleman.”

  Ha! Lord Aidan Weir was neither fine nor a gentleman. Caro snorted as she sought a clean part of the cloth and wiped the fallen ointment from her slipper.

  “Of course you would defend him, Pen.”

  “He needs no defense.”

  Yet, there was an edge to her sister’s voice. A note of desperation, as if Pen herself knew how much of a scandalous rascal the man she had befriended truly was. Whoring, drinking, gambling, and getting Pen into no end of scrapes—the man was not a Sutton favorite, aside from his endless purse and his desire to spend it exclusively at The Sinner’s Palace. Caro had always suspected there was something more between her sister and Lord Aidan, but Pen claimed they were friends and nothing more.

  “He needs an entire infantry brigade of defense,” Caro challenged her sister, straightening once more, a sense of defeat settling over her.

  The ointment had numbed her skin, which had been the effect she had been attempting to achieve as a means of aiding the pain a wound caused. But she had no notion of how to recreate her unguent without the precise measurements, and the surprise arrival of her sister and subsequent barrage of questions had stricken those from her mind. She would have to begin anew.

  “Why are we speaking of Aidan when you and Jasper are keeping a secret from the family?” Pen demanded, crossing the chamber until she crowded Caro with her presence and her displeasure both. “Tell me what is afoot with you and our eldest brother, and tell me now.”

  “I have already told you,” Caro said, avoiding her sister’s gaze, “and it is nothing. No reason. If Jasper and I were speaking, it was a matter regarding The Sinner’s Palace and nothing more.”

  That was true, indirectly.

  “Randall has been going to your room a great deal,” Pen said. “Are you bedding him?”

  Randall? The man was akin to another brother. Moreover, Jasper and their other brothers would have given the poor man a drubbing and then sacked him. Although Caro and her sisters were not unfamiliar with the seedier matters of life—thanks to living in a gaming hell—the Suttons made certain they were protected.

  Caro shook her head. “Of course I am not bedding Randall. Our brothers would never allow it. Are you bedding Lord Aidan?”

  Pen scowled. “Of course not. We are friends, Caro.”

  Caro did not bother to point out the most unusual nature of such a friendship between a girl from the rookeries and the third son of a duke who was known for his wild ways.

  She shrugged, then returned to the task of cleaning her work table. “I suppose I shall have to accept your word on the matter, just as you shall have to accept mine.”

  He was growing impatient. The four walls surrounding him were cruel mockeries. This morning, he had risen and dressed on his own. He had eaten the hearty meal Randall had brought him. He had waited for Caro to appear.

  And he was still waiting.

  Pacing did nothing to take the edge off the irritation rising within him. He had regained his strength. The time had come to emerge from this bloody room. But because of his indebtedness to Caro, he would not leave without first making her aware of his decision.

  He needed to face her siblings. He did not cower and hide. He faced his demons.

  At least, he instinctively felt as if he did. The hell of it was, he did not know. And the longer he remained trapped in this room, the more damning the emptiness in his mind became. After he had first arisen and his mind had been lucid enough to understand that he had lost all memories of the man he had been, he had hoped that in time, a few days, with some rest, all would return to him.

  But that had not happened.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Fucking finally.

  “Enter,” he called, stalking across the chamber, feeling much like a cat about to pounce on a bird.

  And there she was at last, with wisps of auburn curls framing her face, her hazel eyes wide as she took in the sight of him, a beast who had been too long kept in his cage.

  “You’ve dressed,” she announced as the door closed at her back.

  He inclined his head, itching to sweep past her and cross the threshold into whatever world awaited beyond. “Aye.”

  She was bearing a tray once more, he noted, and it was laden with more pots and vials and instruments. He stepped forward and took it from her, using only his uninjured arm.

  “You mustn’t,” she protested, trying to wrest the tray back from him, “you’ll hurt yourself.”

  “I’m strong,” he protested, proving the truth of his words as he pulled the tray from her grasp with ease. “I’m not an invalid any longer, Caro. It’s time for me to get out of this bloody room.”

  Demonstrating further veracity, he easily walked with the tray and deposited it upon the bedside table.

  “I need to remove the stitches from your wound,” she said, following him.

  He turned back to her, drinking her in. She was such a diminutive thing, and he had not realized it entirely until now, with his strength regained and her standing before him near enough to touch.

  Touch.

  Suddenly, he could not control the need to experience the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips. A wisp of a curl had fallen on her cheek. Her fresh scent hit him, lush and fragrant in stark contrast to the closed-up chamber before her arrival.

  He reached out, gently tracing the curl with the tip of his forefinger first. She held still, her eyes pinned to him. So much gray, a hint of green, and golden-brown in her gaze. He did not think he had ever seen eyes so distinctive on a woman, but he supposed he would have no notion of whether or not he had.

  “You are disheveled,” he observed.

  She caught the plump fullness of her lower lip in her teeth and studied him for what felt like a dozen heartbeats but must have only been one. “I am certain I mu
st look a fright. I was in my work room, attempting to perfect the unguent for your wound.”

  He was clumsy at this. Had he been a charming man before the knock he’d taken to the knowledge box? A rogue who could charm ladies with ease? He somehow doubted it. Here was a slip of a woman, lovely and so much smaller than he, and yet, she intimidated him. He felt as if he were surrounded by darkness, grasping at slivers of light, but each time he reached, the light slid from his grasp.

  “You could never look a fright,” he managed to say, still touching that lone curl.

  It was silken, exquisite.

  What would her cheek feel like? Smooth and soft, like the finest velvet? Caro could seduce a man without trying. She was wearing a pale muslin gown today that was simple enough in construction, with a modest bodice. And yet, she was so damned gorgeous, he ached just looking at her.

  His cock rose in his trousers with renewed determination.

  Not now, you devil.

  “You are being too kind,” she said, then bit her lip once more.

  Such sweet torture, watching her mouth. Wanting it beneath his. Wanting more than this tiny moment of intimacy between them, yet not knowing how to have it. Not knowing if he could have it.

  He cleared his throat, trying to chase some of his conflicting feelings away. “I ain’t certain I’m a kind chap. I could be a monster.”

  Sweet Jesus, what if he was? For some reason, the worry had never occurred to him until now. He stared at his hand, so near to her pale cheek, so large and strong, and suddenly from the murk of his memory surged remembrance. He recalled swinging his fist, the crunch of bone, the bite in his knuckles. He knew the way it felt to hit a man, he thought.

  The realization was enough to make him drop his hand away.

  “Are you feeling ill?” she asked, worry furrowing her brow. “You’ve gone pale.”

  “I…am well.” He struggled to make sense of the dark and jagged pieces of his mind. “I may have had a memory return just now, but I…I don’t know.”

  “A memory?” Her brows rose, her voice infused with hope. “What sort of memory?”

  He did not want to admit the truth to her, but neither did he want to lie. “Hitting someone. Forming a fist, swinging a punch. I remember how it felt, I think.”

  Unless he was deluding himself? He’d had many dreams over the course of the past few days as well, but it was impossible to determine what was real, if anything, and what was merely his slumbering mind’s madness or attempts to create a history for himself to fill the hollow.

  “You remember punching someone?” she repeated, voice hushed, as if she had entered a church and was afraid to speak too loudly.

  “Hell.” He ran his right hand over his mostly healed face, confusion settling in, battling the desire that blanketed him whenever Caro entered the room. “For a moment, it seemed real, as if it were something I’d done. But now, I don’t know.”

  She was watching him with a stricken expression, those beautiful eyes of hers wider than ever. “Were you remembering the day you were attacked, do you suppose?”

  “Mayhap.” A dull ache thumped to life in his head, almost as if to remind him he was working himself too hard. “It doesn’t matter, does it? Not if I can’t recall the rest.”

  This time, it was she who touched him, her small, work-reddened hand brushing over his arm in a tender caress. “You will remember. Have faith. You mustn’t force yourself. It will return to you in time.”

  But that was the devil of it. Would his memory return?

  Frustration rose within him, and he wanted to shrug away from her gentle concern. But he also never wanted her to take her hand away. He wanted the brand of Caro upon him forever, to wear like a shirt.

  “I may never remember,” he said, trying to keep the fear accompanying that undeniable fact at bay.

  And failing.

  He gave himself away by trembling. She felt it. He knew she did.

  The worry on her countenance tucked itself into his heart. And he wanted to wear her sweet apprehension, her caring, there too. To keep it always, this closeness they had in the cozy confines of her room, when the vastness of the world beyond had yet to reach him. As much as he wanted to leave this chamber, he also recognized it as a haven in that moment.

  “You will remember,” she repeated, as if he would by her decree.

  Her hand was still on his arm. He moved subtly, withdrawing until their bare palms pressed together. His fingers laced through hers.

  “I need to leave this room, Caro,” he said softly. “I need to speak to your brothers. To earn my keep here if they will have me. I’ll not be your burden any longer, nor will I keep you from your bed.”

  Her fingers tightened on his, concern furrowing her brow. “You cannot. You are still healing.”

  “I’m healed.”

  Except for my empty goddamn head.

  “I need to remove your stitches,” she pointed out.

  “Do it now.”

  “But—”

  “Please,” he interrupted, entreating her as best as he could. “I can’t stay here like this, like a lion in the cage at the Royal Menagerie.”

  “Have you visited the menagerie?” she asked.

  He blinked, sifting through his mind for the answer, and finding none. “I don’t know.”

  Her thumb traveled over his inner wrist in a caress that sent new heat snaking to his groin. “Come and sit by the hearth. I’ll remove your stitches.”

  Damn, he wished the invitation she was offering him was a different one entirely. But he nodded, because his head was aching and because he needed the blasted stitches gone.

  And he needed to leave this infernal room.

  Chapter 4

  In the sanctity of her work room, Caro exhaled a deep, shaking sigh of relief. One day had passed since Gavin had confronted her with his need to flee her chamber and face her brothers. But whilst she had removed his stitches and applied an unguent to his still-healing wound, she had persuaded him to wait another day. The salve she had applied to his wound had not been the same as what she had spilled all over the floor the day before, but it had sufficed.

  Her guilt, however…

  That was gnawing at her steadily, like an attic mouse chewing up everything it could find.

  She had attempted to speak with Jasper this morning before breakfast to persuade him that Gavin needed to emerge from the room and at least be permitted to go about the private quarters of The Sinner’s Palace. However, her brother had been in bed.

  The muffled female giggles traveling to Caro through his chamber door—belonging to no less than two different women, unless she was mistaken—had proven a strong deterrent. As had her brother’s half-hearted urging to return in three hours.

  Jasper had once fancied himself smitten with Genevieve Winter, the sole female in the Winter family. But as the Winters were sworn enemies—and the greatest competition—to the Suttons, his attempts at wooing had not gone well. Ever since Genevieve Winter had refused his suit, Jasper had been bedding every lightskirt in the East End, or so it seemed.

  There was nothing for her to do this morning save spend the next few hours of solitude working on her medical stores. Unguents and tonics were always in need. And as Caro’s hands went to work, she tried to turn her mind away from thoughts of the handsome stranger who didn’t know his name. The man she had come to know and care for during his impromptu stay at The Sinner’s Palace.

  She was fortunate enough to have her small garden of herbs which she could tend and harvest to aid in her endeavors. Fortunate she had this room, where she was free to work on the experiments most important to her. Fortunate for the shelf of highly prized—and dear—books stacked on the corner of her work table.

  There was much to concern herself with outside of the troubling matter of Gavin Winter. Beyond his vibrant-green eyes and dark, tousled hair, his towering height, decadent muscles, handsome face, and slashing cheekbones and jaw. Beyond that beautiful mouth, t
hose big hands that touched her with such tenderness. Beyond the confusion in his eyes, the desperation edging his deep voice.

  No. You must not think of him, Caro. There is naught you can do for now. Concentrate on your work, girl.

  She forced herself to tamp down the longing rising within her, telling herself it was foolishness. Perhaps something wrought by the length of time she had been tending to Gavin, which was longer than she had ever nursed another. Moreover, he was not one of her brothers, nor one of the guards she considered in the same vein.

  She turned her attention to her remaining stores, which were growing thin. Her ability to grow her own herbs only took her so far. She inevitably needed to replenish them and other items at the apothecary. Taking up her quill, she set her pen to the paper awaiting her on her table and began to make a list of supplies she would need to purchase soon.

  Purslain for coughs.

  Chamomile oil to relieve swelling and other pains.

  Ointment of yarrow for wounds.

  Lavender and oil of spike.

  Horehound, fennel, asparagus.

  “Caro.”

  The voice, deep and familiar, and so very unexpected, made her shriek and upend her inkwell.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

  As she frantically took up one of her laundered rags and attempted to blot up the stain growing over her list, he was suddenly nearer than ever. His heat and strength burned into her back as his massive hand covered hers.

  “Allow me to clean this mess. ’Tis of my own making.”

  She was frozen. Frozen with a combination of awareness at his nearness, his hand atop hers, his touch making her weak. And too, the knowledge that he had emerged from her room. That he had wandered about The Sinner’s Palace on his own, where he could have been recognized. That Jasper would be furious when he discovered what had happened.