He stepped back. “Absolutely not. What would your husband say, Mrs. Milton?”
Her lips thinned. Perhaps it was best he thought Raymond was alive. It would keep him from thinking she was up for a toss. “The man would say, for the good of your own breath, you’d best take off the cravat.”
“Oh, no, he wouldn’t. He would say, ‘If you take anything off in the presence of my wife, you will cease to breathe.’”
She let out an exasperated laugh. “As amusin’ as I find you and this, all omnis cease runnin’ in an hour. Do you want to walk fifteen blocks in the dark? I don’t. Now take off the cravat. Even with it bein’ spattered with blood, it makes you look too much like a gentleman.”
“I should probably point out that I consider myself to be a gentleman.”
She quirked a brow, challenging him. “Really?”
“Really.”
“I thought you were a Salé pirate. Isn’t that what you told Dr. Carter?”
He shifted his jaw and glanced away. “I cannot trust what I do or do not remember.”
“Which is why you’ll have to trust me over yourself, dear sir, because I’m not the one sufferin’ from memory loss.”
He muttered something and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He winced, letting his hand fall back to his side. “Remind me not to touch my head.”
Georgia softened her tone, hoping a motherly approach would get him to cooperate. “We really ought to remove that silk from around your throat. Won’t you take it off? For me? Please?”
Stepping closer, she reached up and forcefully unraveled his silk cravat, trying to figure out how the damn thing was supposed to come off. The fabric kept sliding against her fingers like cool water. Their gazes locked and she paused, trying to steady her breathing.
He jerked outside of her tugging hands and shifted his broad shoulders, stepping back. “I’m not at all comfortable with you touching me. You are, after all, a very attractive woman and I would hate for this to progress beyond anything either of us would be able to control.”
She set her hands on her hips. What a cad. “If I were lookin’ to progress things, Robinson, I’d be goin’ straight for the trousers. Rest assured, a man’s throat never once made me moan and I highly doubt yours will, either.”
He stared at her, his expression strained. “Refrain from talking to me in such crass tones.”
“I wouldn’t have to talk at all if you were cooperatin’. Now cease bein’ so damn stupid. I’m here to help.” She stepped back toward him, reached up and forcefully finished yanking his cravat off. She tossed it, letting it cascade to the floor.
His gloved hand jumped up to cover his exposed throat, his shaven face flushing. “I really don’t understand why—”
“Silk just isn’t somethin’ men in my parts wear. Men there are poor. Some of them are very poor. There’s no need to give them a reason to hate or rob you. You bein’ an uppity Brit is goin’ to be bad enough. Men will probably fist you based on your accent alone.”
“Oh, and you plan on taking me there?” He lifted a brow. “Shall I thank you for your overall lack of concern for me now? Or later? After I get fisted?”
She rolled her eyes. “You needn’t worry. I’ll see to it you fall under the protection of the boys.”
“The boys?” He lowered his chin. “You intend on placing me under the care of your children? I assure you, madam, my mind isn’t that far gone.”
She gurgled out a laugh. He was so bizarrely adorable. “Nah, it isn’t like that at all. Though sometimes I do wonder.” She glanced toward the open doorway and lowered her voice. “They’re men who act like boys, so I call them boys, see? They’re known for havin’ a black reputation, and believe me, they live up to it, but I know how to yank their collars. I’m just makin’ sure nothin’ happens to you prior to my yankin’ those collars.”
“And who are these men to you?” He eyed her. “Are you involved with any of them?”
“Not in that way, no. They’re more like flea-ridden dogs I can’t get rid of.” She scanned his clothes again and sighed. “I’ll have Matthew loan you some of his clothes. You’re about his size. Give or take a few stones.”
He squinted. “Matthew? Who is that? Your husband?”
“No. My son.”
His lips parted. “You have a son my size? You don’t appear to be a breath over twenty.”
She grinned, tilting her face up toward him. “Thank you for that, but I’m well over twenty. I’m two and twenty.”
He scanned her face. “That still doesn’t make you old enough to have a son my size. He isn’t really your son, is he?”
“Not by birth, no.”
“So whose boy is he?” He leaned in, trailing his gaze to her lips. “And why are you taking care of him?”
She stepped back. “Don’t look at my lips.”
He stepped toward her. “I will keep looking at them until you tell me everything I want to know.”
She scrambled back, sensing that he wanted to do far more than look at them. “He’s Raymond’s boy. All right? Not mine. Raymond’s.”
“And who is Raymond?”
She glared at him. “I’m not about to tell my life story to a man who doesn’t even know his own. Now give me your hand.” She pointed. “We can’t have you wearin’ those gloves.”
He set both gloved hands behind his back and eyed her expectantly. “I don’t intend to cooperate until you tell me who Raymond is.”
“The man is dead,” she bit out. “All right? Now cease actin’ like a bogey and give me your hand.” She forcefully grabbed his arm and jerked it out from behind his back, tugging it up toward her. Digging her fingers beneath the cuff of his linen shirt, she peeled the fitted leather glove from his large hand and tossed it toward the desk.
Without any resistance, he quietly watched her strip the glove from his other hand. His large and remarkably smooth hand tightened possessively around her own.
She paused, entranced by the heat of his hand penetrating her skin. Her body seemed to drift, while her mind remained anchored and fully aware of him and that hand. There was something very different about his touch. Whilst incredibly firm and strong, it was also…soft. Slowly turning his large palm upward, she ran the tips of her calloused fingers against the smoothest masculine palm she’d ever encountered. It was as if he had never touched anything with those hands.
Georgia glanced up. “You most certainly aren’t a pirate.”
“And how do you know? I could be.”
She lifted his hand and tilted it palm upward for him to better see. “Look at your hands.”
He hesitated and lowered his gaze to the hand she held up.
She traced her fingers toward the length of his long fingertips and back toward his large smooth palm. “They’re untouched. See? If you were a pirate, you would have handled ropes and crates, which would have covered your hands in calluses. Given their softness, ’tis obvious your only trade is money.” She snorted. “That would explain why you couldn’t remember how to shave or knot a cravat. You had servants doin’ it for you.”
His mouth tightened as he tilted his hand against hers, intently observing it. “They are smooth, aren’t they?” He sounded disappointed.
She gently shook his hand, not wanting him to feel shame in what he was. “I’m sorry.