her in his arms had wakened feelings best left sleeping. Feelings that had been sleeping far too long. How could he…? Perhaps he could rouse her enough to accomplish the task herself.
Please, God.
The last thing he wanted was to be accused again of impropriety with a helpless young female. One allegation of savagery had been quite enough. Leo could easily imagine the fine uproar this one would make if she woke without her riding dress. Shuddering, he turned to go and find something dry for her to use in its stead.
As he closed the door, Leo took the precaution of twisting the key in the outside lock. He was fairly certain that she was too done up to try to escape, but he had not forgotten her earlier ploy of playing dead. No, he could not assume his clever miss was incapacitated. And she had given no pledge which applied to this location.
Leo went to his own bedchamber, down the curving flight of stone steps to the next level of the old house. Rummaging in his sea chest, he extracted a linen nightshirt and, after a moment’s thought, a silk dressing gown richly embroidered in Arabian motifs. Either would swallow her whole.
He quickly blanked out the images of the young woman upstairs clad in either garment—the linen transparent across her high young breasts, the silk clinging to her neat curves, the robe falling open to reveal shapely legs.
Damnation! The job ahead of him would be difficult enough without his fancies intruding. How long had it been since he had held a woman close? And this woman…
Leo smiled. He admired her spunk. She was too young, too small, too inexperienced to be required to deal with this situation, and yet she coped with courage and resolution.
And he, maimed as he was, had no business even thinking about her lovely, fresh body. To her he would surely seem a monster. More important, she was in his care. He owed her protection and safety—even from himself.
Phona did her best to wake to the voice in her ear and the hand shaking her shoulder. “Miss Hathersage. Miss Hathersage, can you hear me?” She shoved at the hand, tried to turn away. The voice and the hand persisted. “You must get out of your wet clothing. Come now. Sit up.”
An arm lifted her, but the darkness around her refused to dissipate. Still, something pulled her relentlessly upward. Now a pounding started in her head. She mumbled, “G’away,” but neither the voice nor the hand nor the pounding obeyed.
She thought she heard a heavy sigh. Someone began to fumble with the buttons of her habit. Lily? Her maid? It wasn’t Lily’s voice. It was a man’s…
A man! Her buttons! She clutched the hand and pushed.
Another sigh. “Miss Hathersage, please. Can you unfasten your own dress? You must take it off. The rain has soaked it.”
She nodded, and the hand moved away. Try as she might, her eyes would not open. Never mind. Blindly, she grappled with the buttons, but she could not prevail.
Her fingers refused her commands. Now her head throbbed with every heartbeat and fire shot through her bones. Someone groaned. Herself? It sounded like her.
“Let me help you.” The voice sounded again. “Do not be afraid. I will only help you.”
The hot skin of Phona’s breasts cooled as her habit parted and the air found her damp shift. Then a hand rolled her from one side to the other, peeling away the wet riding dress.
“Can you remove your shift? It must come off, too.”
Phona tried to nod, but her head hurt too much. She tugged at the ties of the shift. They came undone, but she could go no further. Her hands fell helplessly beside her, defeated by the ache.
She heard a soft whisper. “God help me.” And then her shift was yanked roughly over her head.
Something soft and warm and dry immediately settled over her, and she was allowed to lie back against a pillow. The thunder in her head and the lightning bolts slicing through her bones eased just a bit. A smooth sheet and a warm cover were pulled over her body and tucked under her chin. She grasped them as firmly as she was able.
“Poor child. I shan’t touch you.” The owner of the voice drew the pins out of her hair and spread it across the pillow, running his fingers through the damp, tangled curls. “Not even a hat to protect your head. Such ill treatment for a courageous lady. I’m sorry.”
Phona drifted away again into darkness, trying to remember who he was and why he was sorry.
The scream tore itself out of Phona’s throat, rattling the shutters and setting the drums to throbbing in her head again. A skeleton leaned over her. Pale sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, a hairless head.
Bony hands reached for her.
She shrieked again and tried to roll, clawing her way across the bed. Running footsteps pounded into the room. The Pirate. Hades! He said his name was Lord Hades. Oh, God! Oh, God! Hades and a skeleton. The fire in her flesh. The flicker of a blaze leaping against the wall. The smell of smoke.
She was dead! She was dead and in Hell. Could she not feel the torturous flames punishing her body? Did she not see the fleshless shade?
Lord Hades had brought her to the underworld.
Why had she been sent to Hell? She had tried to be good. She treated everyone kindly. She always obeyed Papa, and she tried to obey Mama. But it was so hard.
Phona always disappointed Mama. She could not attract a husband. She always threw out a spot at just the wrong time. Her hair was too curly, too gingery, her dress too rumpled.
But were these mortal sins? God created her hair. It wasn’t her fault! It wasn’t fair. And it was too much. Far too much.
The wail escaped her in spite of her burning throat. “I want to go home!”
A papery voice responded. “Nay, now, lass. There’s naught to fear.”
The mattress sank as someone sat beside her and stroked her hair back from her face. A familiar voice. “What happened?”
“Like I told ye, me lord, this phiz o’ mine scares women and little children.”
“Not that much. Miss Hathersage…?”
Sobs choked their way out through her parched lips. “I don’t want to be dead. I want to be alive again. I want to go home.”
“Now, now, you are not dead.”
“I am. I know I am.” Phona gazed up into one bright blue eye. “You said you were Lord Hades. I should have known. You brought me to Hell. The Pirate killed me, and you brought me here. There is a skeleton!”
A cold, dry hand rested on her forehead, and the raspy voice said, “Fever dreams, me lord.”
“Yes, she is burning with fever.” A different hand, larger, warmer, cupped her cheek. “You are not dead, my dear, and I am not truly god of the Underworld. While this is my home, and I have brought you here, it is not Hell.”
“I tried to be good. I did try.” The sobs kept coming. Phona lay helpless as tears dripped into her hair. “Why must I suffer forever?”
Strong arms lifted her and cradled her against a hard, shirtless chest. Crisp hair tickled her nose, and she heard Hades’ voice. “Come now, it will not be forever. The fever will go away. You are good and brave.”
“I don’t…” A sob. “I don’t feel brave.”
“Nay, as I know well, it is very hard to be brave when you are so ill, when nothing is as it seems.” The big, warm hand pressed her head against the tickly hair. “Where do you hurt?”
“Everywhere. My head, my arms…” She coughed and croaked, “My throat.”
“I feared this might happen.” Lord Hades spoke to the Skeleton. “She has taken a chill.”
“Aye, a hard ride for a lass.