Braden swayed on his knees. “See that Dodd and the Russians are securely held, Quentin. I’ll deal with them as soon as I—” Only Quentin’s grip kept him from falling. “Bring my clothes, Telford.”
The valet moved off, and Braden concentrated on keeping himself conscious long enough to get dressed and back to the house.
“Help me up,” he ordered Quentin. “See that Cassidy…”
His command was never completed. Strong, slender arms wrapped around his chest; the sweet scent of Cassidy’s hair filled his nostrils. Her lips moved in the hollow of his shoulder, and tears wet his skin.
“You’re all right,” she said. “Thank God.”
“I couldn’t restrain her any longer,” Rowena said. “Braden?”
But he had no attention to spare for his sister. Cassidy’s hands were flying over his body, touching him everywhere as if she had to convince herself that he was whole. Braden had no strength, and no desire, to repel her. Her touch was healing as nothing else in the world could be.
“I’m all right,” he said, stroking her hair. “All right.”
Quentin took his arm and lifted him to his feet. Cassidy supported him on the other side, chattering out a steady stream of soothing words like the rush of crystal-clear burn.
If ever he’d needed all his resolve, it was now. The Cause was still dangerously fragile. A single misstep could shatter it.
He had put off settling Cassidy’s future. Today proved that he could wait no longer.
“Lord Greyburn will see you now, Miss Holt.”
Cassidy jerked up in the chair Telford had brought her, blinking the sleep from her eyes. The hallway outside Braden’s room was dim, but she knew it was early afternoon. Braden had been recovering in his suite for more than eighteen hours; to Cassidy, the wait was endless. She was completely unaware of what had been happening at Greyburn since the duel.
She looked at Telford’s gaunt and weary face. The valet hadn’t slept, either, and his usually immaculate clothing was creased and smudged. “He’s still all right?” she asked.
“Yes. Miss Holt—” He stopped and shook his head. “Please go in.”
She wanted to ask Telford a host of questions; he alone had been tending to Braden since the fight. She’d hardly even had a chance to talk to the valet. He was like Braden’s shadow, imposingly reserved, appearing when he was needed and then vanishing back into the woodwork.
If he’d wished to speak to her, he’d since thought better of it. He held the door open for her with a slight bow. Cassidy stepped into the darkened room.
She’d never been in Braden’s suite before. The door opened into a sitting room; a bed was just visible in the adjoining chamber. It was immense, set in a richly carved frame and hung with tapestried curtains. Yet, in spite of its grandeur, there was something intimate about it. It was the place where Braden slept. He lay there at night, perhaps dreaming, as she did, of not being alone…
“Telford said you wished to speak to me,” he said behind her. “I have only a short time to spare you.”
Braden sat in a chair beside the window fully dressed in coat and trousers, an untouched meal on a small table beside him, his face and shoulders bathed in sunlight. Cassidy hurried to him and pulled up short a foot from his chair.
“You weren’t hurt,” she said. “Quentin told me you healed yourself—”
“I am perfectly well.”
She wanted to fling herself on him, hold him tight, kiss his mouth and his hands, whisper how glad she was that he was safe and alive. Last nights anger had made her bold, but that anger deserted her when Braden nearly lost his life. She stood where she was, drinking him in with all her senses.
“You saved my life,” he said.
“It was luck,” she said. “I had the rope in my room. I couldn’t find anything else. When the other wolf attacked you, I… didn’t think. I just lassoed him.”
He stood up and turned his back to her. “While John Dodd held a gun on you.”
“All I knew was that you were in trouble. I saw a chance, and I took it. I wasn’t afraid.”