Looking for a Hero (8 page)

“If you're going to pass out,” she said, struggling to keep him on his feet, “could you wait and do it inside?”

A touch of laughter rushed from Casey's pirate in a pain-filled gasp. Kate could tell he was trying to smile. She could also tell he was suffering as she ducked under his arm to give him support. God, but he was heavy. Still, she maneuvered him across the lawn and up the stairs, and somehow led him to the couch—and dropped him.

His breathing was raspy, his skin hot and dry, and his one azure eye was now a cloudy blue,
ringed with red. She couldn't just dump him on the sofa, then sit on the stairs with the cutlass held between them until he got better. Someone needed to take care of him, and she didn't see any volunteers lining up for the job.

She let out a deep sigh, knowing what she had to do. “I hate to tell you this, Mr. Farrell, but you need to be in bed, not on the sofa.”

Again he smiled, very faintly. “You are most generous, madam.”

“Don't get too accustomed to my hospitality. As soon as you're well, you're out of here.”

Sliding her arms under his, she pulled him from the couch. “Don't pass out, okay? We've got at least fifteen steps to climb.”

He didn't say a word, but she could hear his deep gasp for air, could feel the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he struggled up each stair. She didn't think twice about putting him in the room that had been Joe's as a boy—the room she'd once hoped to decorate for a second child.

Holding him close, she led him to the small twin bed and somehow managed to rip back the covers before her strength gave out and together they fell on the cool white sheets. She expected some kind of suggestive retort. Instead, his hand slid from her arm, his breathing grew deep and heavy, and his unpatched eye closed in exhausted sleep.

Quietly, Kate lifted his legs on to the bed and removed his boots. She would have removed his socks, but he was wearing stockings that ended
somewhere above his knees, somewhere she wasn't quite yet ready to explore.

Sliding one arm under his shoulders, she managed to lift him just enough so she could slip off his coat. They were close now, her chest against his. His breathing, although heavy in sleep, was even, not raspy any longer. His heartbeat was steady, not too fast, not too slow. She had no medical background, but from all outward signs, she knew he wasn't going to die. He just needed to sleep, and she needed to bring down his fever.

The jacket came off easily enough, but the white linen shirt had to be pulled over his head after she unlaced the front and loosened the buttons at the ruffled cuffs. She tried not to look as she removed the shirt, but his shoulders were so broad and muscular, his chest covered with so much dark curling hair, and his stomach muscles so hard and flat that she couldn't stop herself. No one could fault her for looking. Her motives were innocent. She was nursing a man back to health, not lusting after his body.

Nestled in the hair on his chest was a small gold cross studded with what appeared to be dark red rubies. It was beautiful, a work of art. The gold had been intricately carved in the shape of tiny vines which swirled around at least a dozen small round jewels. The gold chain was just as intricate, and both it and the cross seemed much too delicate to be worn by a man—especially one as virile as Morgan Farrell.

She wondered why he was wearing it. He
didn't look rich, and he definitely didn't act religious. Maybe he'd found it on the island, just as she'd found the emerald ring—and the broken chain that looked so similar to the one he wore around his neck.

He shivered, drawing her attention from his chest to the fluttering of his eyelids, to the frown that wrinkled his brow. And then he whispered, “Melody.” His lips quivered for just an instant, then tilted into the slightest of smiles.

Melody
. He'd spoken the word so softly that Kate wondered if the woman was his lover—or maybe even his wife.

Such a strange man
, Kate thought, as she reached for the sheet and dragged it over his chest. She held it high for just a moment as she gazed at the muscles in his arms, the hard planes of his stomach. God, but he had a beautiful physique.

And it had been so long since she'd had the leisure to look.

A tremor of long-forgotten desire rippled through her, and heat rushed up her neck to her cheeks. The sheet slipped through her fingers and floated down over his chest.

He shivered again. The natural thing would be to cover him with blankets, but she knew she had to cool him down.

She quickly went to the bathroom, soaking two washcloths in cold water and ringing them out. She went back to the bed, sitting down easily beside him. Carefully she lifted his head from the pillow and slipped one cool cloth beneath his hair,
so it rested against his neck. The other washcloth she pressed to his feverish forehead.

He was hot, so very, very hot, and just as she did when Casey had a fever, she gently smoothed damp hair away from his face, wondering what had caused the fever, wondering why he'd come to her instead of going home, wondering why he was dressed like Captain Hook.

She turned the washcloth behind his neck and her fingers brushed over a raised stretch of skin. Moving closer, she lifted his shoulders from the bed, and a chill raced down her spine.

His back was crisscrossed with long, thick scars, fifteen or twenty, at least. Wicked things that slashed from waist to shoulder. Immediately she thought of the story he'd told about the scar on his face. “My hands and legs were bound…he wanted me to know that he was my master….” The scene played out vividly in her mind, sickening her as she saw someone cut his face, then apply a whip to his back. And the whole time she watched the image, she saw his eyes—open, alert, wracked with pain, yet he didn't utter a sound. No scream. No begging for mercy.

She saw only hatred.

She shut off the thought, not wanting to see any more. And then, without thinking, she kissed her fingertips and pressed them softly against one of the scars, swallowing back the heavy knot of compassion that had welled inside her throat.

Gently she lowered Mr. Farrell's shoulders to the bed and sat down beside him, cleansing his
sleeping face with the cloth she'd placed on his forehead, lightly stroking the rapidly warming terrycloth over his whiskered cheeks, the small cut Casey had left at his throat, his temples.

He winced, jerking slightly when her fingers neared his scalp, then drifted once more deeply into sleep. Carefully she parted his hair, nearly sickened by the swollen, blood-crusted gash grazing his head.

Dear God. What else had this man suffered?

She should wake him if he had a concussion, but he was sleeping so soundly she didn't have the heart to rouse him. She should probably call a doctor, but she couldn't afford to pay for his care and she was sure he couldn't either.

Maybe those were excuses to keep him right where he was?

She laughed at herself. Why should she want him around? A man with a multitude of scars and only one eye?

Surely she'd lost her mind.

She rushed down the hall to her own bathroom, peeking in on Casey for a moment to make sure she was sleeping soundly. Rifling through the medicine chest, she gathered up cotton balls, alcohol, and gauze, dumping them into a small plastic pan she could fill with water.

Joe's old razor sat on the glass shelf in the medicine cabinet. Like so many other things, she should have thrown it away long ago, but she hadn't. She started to put it with the rest of the items, then stopped, looking at the blade, wondering
if there were any traces of the dark blond whiskers that had covered Joe's cheeks.

But there were none. She looked into the mirror, hoping she'd see the face she'd loved so well standing before it, shaving as he'd done every morning. But the only face she saw was her own, and in her mind she saw the dark brown whiskers covering Morgan Farrell's feverish face.

She dumped the razor into the pan along with her own can of shaving cream.

Casey's pirate might be burning up. He might be suffering from a severe wound to his head and possibly a concussion, but he was going to lie there close to death with a cleanly shaven face.

Sitting beside him once more, she swabbed the wound with alcohol, jumping each time he winced. It seemed as though hours had gone by before she'd cleaned the gash, but she smiled at her accomplishments when she sat back and studied the now sterile cut that looked as if it had already begun to heal. Thank goodness there was no need to cover it with a bandage, because she didn't have the heart to shave away any of the hair that flowed so gloriously over his shoulders.

His face was another matter entirely.

Applying cool compresses once more to the back of his neck and forehead, she leaned over her patient and whispered close to his ear. “Mr. Farrell.”

He didn't move a muscle.

Shaking the can of shaving cream, she applied a dollop on the tips of her fingers and gently
smoothed it over his cheek, applying even more to his chin and neck, lightly swirling it over the heavy coat of whiskers.

She'd never shaved a man before, and her fingers shook as she held the razor close to the base of his neck, remembering how in old western movies the barber always began there, dragging the razor upward.

She took one light stroke, leaving behind too many whiskers. Again she shaved that very same spot, then ran her fingers over the stripe of soft, bronze skin. She shivered. It had been so long since she'd touched a man. She'd nearly forgotten the wondrous feel of a freshly shaved face.

Wiping the blade on a towel, she worked up the courage to rid his face of the rest of his beard. His neck was the simplest, long and strong, and it looked so much better once the whiskers had been shaved away. Carefully she ran the razor over his square jaw and up his left cheek, trying to keep her mind on what she was doing, rather than on the fluttering behind his eyelid.

Was he dreaming?
she wondered.
Was he ready to wake? How would he feel, knowing that she'd shaved his face?
Maybe he'd been growing the beard for a reason, possibly for a movie role? Well, it was too late now. She couldn't stop halfway through.

Lightly sweeping his hair behind his ear, she allowed her fingers to admire the texture, the silkiness of the waves. It seemed odd, almost sinful, to be touching a man's hair this way, especially
when he was asleep. Especially when he was little more than a stranger.

Touching him made her feel…made her feel things she hadn't felt in a long time, stirrings in her heart, quivering in her stomach. And it made her realize just how lonely she'd been.

His head rolled on the pillow, fully exposing his right cheek—and the scar. She'd wanted to ignore that cheek, afraid of disfiguring his face any further. She'd also wanted to ignore that side of his face because it reminded her that he was dangerous, that she shouldn't have allowed him in her house, near her, near Casey. But it was that side of his face that intrigued her the most.

She took a deep breath, rested the razor near his hairline just above his ear, and slowly dragged it downward, easing it over the scar, until she'd scraped away the last remnants of beard.

She took the razor back to the bathroom and returned with a warm washcloth. Sitting beside him again, she gently bathed his face and throat. She applied fresh, cool compresses to his forehead and neck, studying his face as she worked.

Long black eyelashes curled upward instead of resting on his skin, and dimples at both corners of his mouth softened a face made dangerous looking by the scar. She knew better than to think it, but he really did look like a pirate—a handsome one, now that he was shaved.

The patch over his eye fascinated her nearly as much as the scar. How he must have suffered, if he'd indeed told the truth about someone carving
out his eye. She couldn't begin to imagine the pain, couldn't imagine someone doing something so horrid in this day and age, but the thing she wondered most was if someone had cared for him afterward. If anyone had comforted him. Slowly, she smoothed her fingers over his cheek, lightly caressing the length his scar. It was raised only the slightest bit. Smooth, oh so very smooth, like the rest of his cheek.

Her fingers accidentally brushed the bottom of his patch, and lingered. What would it hurt to take a quick peek? He was asleep; he'd never know.

Swallowing hard, she slid her index finger just under the edge of the patch. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest, and a lump grew wild in her throat.
Don't do it, Kate. Don't do it
. But she'd gotten this close; she couldn't stop now. Besides, it was just a little patch, and so easy to lift.

She expected to see a gaping hole, skin that was thickened and scarred. Instead she saw an eyelid, and curling lashes. She hadn't given any thought to the fact that with his eyelids closed he'd look like a normal man, that the scarring would be hidden from view.

What she was doing was crazy. She didn't need to see any more of his scars, but curiosity pushed her on. Gently she touched his lashes, his eyelid.

It will only take a second, Kate
, she told herself.
Just one second, then you can put the patch down again
.

She took a deep breath and started to lift the
lid. Suddenly it jerked open, and the azure eye beneath it twinkled.

Morgan Farrell winked.

“Damn you!” she sputtered, as a grin slanted across his face. “You are the biggest liar I've ever met, and I want you out of my house.
Now!
”

The grin faded to a softened smile. His eyes closed, and he drew in a deep breath. “I have barely the energy to speak, madam, let alone leave this bed.”

“But you lied! You told me your eye had been cut out!”

“And you said you didn't want me anywhere near, yet you've cleaned my wound and shaved my face. Who's the liar, madam?”