The Prisoner by Karyn Monk Read Free Book Online

melting heat. The liquid chill dribbled in silvery rivulets down the sides of his face, into his hair, through his papery lips, into the dry parchment of his mouth. A splashing of water in a basin and the cloth was back, making slow, sure movements across the battlefield of his broken body, swirling and caressing, like gentle waves lapping over him. Slowly, the fire blazing through him began to wane. Finally he sank deep into the softness upon which he lay, his breath shallow but steady, his chills all but vanquished.
    Perhaps he was not dead after all.
    He dozed a while, vaguely aware of the sweet graze of the cool cloth across his burning skin. Along his chest and down his stomach it moved, then gingerly up the sides of his waist and ribs. Its touch was sure yet strangely tender, as if it sensed the injuries hidden beneath, and knew just how much pressure he could withstand. Again and again it traversed him, lulling him with its rhythmic caress, making him feel cool and clean and cherished, although he could not imagine who might think him worthy of such regard. A whisper of music filled the air, fragile and hushed, as if it was not meant for him to hear. He forced himself to lie utterly still, tried to even quiet the weak sigh of his breath so he could hear the lovely singing drifting like a feather on the air around him. It filled him with pleasure, wrapping around him in an ethereal embrace; tender, absolute, forgiving.
    His sleep deepened.
    Time seeped by. When he awoke it was by slow degrees, a languid peeling away of the hazy layers of confusion and weariness. Fresh, cool air filled his nostrils, tinged with the smoky, sweet scent of firewood burning. The mattress beneath him was soft, the sheets covering him, clean. The faint ticking of a clock lulled him, its quiet, perpetual song tapping lightly at his senses, speaking of reason, order, and logic. He sighed, taking immense comfort in the distilled quiet around him. He could not remember where he was or how he had come to be here, but one thing was utterly clear.
    He was no longer rotting in a foul cell with death looming over him.
    With enormous effort, he opened his eyes.
    Dark shadows veiled the room, indicating it was still night. A low fire cast ripples of apricot light into the darkness, spilling across the carpeted floor, flickering over the rumpled plaid blanket covering his bed. He followed the shifting ribbons to the chair beside him, where they danced up a white nightgown, then dappled the creamy pale skin of the soundly sleeping Miss MacPhail.
    She had curled herself into the padded constraints of the chair as best she could, tucking her legs up beneath herself and leaning over so she could use her slender arm as a pillow. Her coral and gold hair spilled lavishly over the snowy linen of her nightgown, setting it afire with strands of silken color. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and her gown was copiously water-stained and wrinkled. It was she who had tended him through the night, Haydon realized, glancing at the porcelain water basin and abandoned cloths resting on the table beside her. The lines of her brow were deeply etched, and wine-colored shadows stained the delicate skin below the fringe of her lashes. Exhaustion had dragged her into a heavy sleep, too absolute to permit her to be roused by the cool breeze gusting through the window, or the discomfort of her position, or the fact that her patient had awakened. He studied her with reverent fascination, watching the slow rise and fall of her sweetly rounded breasts, the slight shifting of her slender body, the nearly imperceptible deepening of the lines between her brows as she buried her cheek deeper into her arm.
    He could not remember a woman ever staying by his side to watch over him so.
    He was unaccustomed to being helpless—especially before a female he scarcely knew. And it seemed he truly was helpless. The savage beating he had received at the hands of his assailants some two