Read Online The Last Wicked Scoundrel by Lorraine Heath - Free Book Online Page B

seemed the way to go. To torment himself further by being near enough to touch her, but refraining. That would definitely qualify him for sainthood.
    He marched up the steps, slipped the key into the lock, let himself in, and locked the door behind him. Within the foyer, all was silent, hushed. A lamp had been left to burn on a table. He had far too many nights where lamps were left to burn for him as he sat vigil, striving to ward off death, but it snuck by him when it was good and ready. Alone in his residence, he mourned the loss of every patient while he analyzed every step of the treatment, striving to understand why sometimes things worked and sometimes they didn’t. There was always more to learn, so much more to learn.
    If he didn’t go up those grand sweeping stairs, if they were correct about the danger, if something happened to her, he would analyze this night until the what-ifs drove him mad.
    Leaving his damp hat and coat on a rack in the foyer, he grabbed the lamp and started up the stairs. He fought to tamp down the anticipation building with each step. He was only going to watch her sleep, nothing more. But he could certainly take pleasure in that.
    Three years before, he’d been awoken in the dead of night to come here. Outside her door, he came to a stop as the images assailed him: her battered face, her badly beaten body. He’d never seen anyone covered in so many bruises, and he’d dealt with survivors of a train wreck. He flattened his palm against the door. Unlike Claybourne and Jack, he’d never had a penchant for violence, but that night, he thought if her husband had stepped into the room, he might have very well killed him. That a man could willingly inflict so much harm on another human being, on a woman, on his wife—Graves was neither innocent nor naive but sometimes he did not understand the minds of men.
    Quietly he opened the door. A weak fire struggling to remain relevant chased shadows around the room. His heart lurched at the sight of the rumpled, but empty bed. Quickly he stepped farther into the room. Rain was coming in through the open windows, pooling on the floor. Then he spotted her huddled in a corner, shivering uncontrollably. He rushed across the room and crouched before her. “Winnie, sweetheart?”
    She lifted a dazed gaze to his.
    Cautiously he cradled her face in his palm. “Did you have a bad dream?”
    Jerkily she shook her head and lifted a shaking hand, pointing with one finger. “I don’t . . . know . . . how they got here.”
    Twisting around, he studied the bed where she indicated. “What precisely?”
    “On the table.”
    Unfolding his body, he strode over to the bedside table. His gut clenched as he picked up the two rings. He knew them well. He’d placed them on a pauper’s fingers. Inwardly, he cursed harshly, but outwardly he gave no sign of his alarm or trepidation. He halfway hoped the blighter was still in the residence. If they crossed paths, Graves would be digging a grave before the night was out.
    But when he turned back to Winnie, he knew he couldn’t leave her, not like this. Nor could he tell her the truth of it. At that moment she was all that mattered. After slipping the rings into his trousers’ pocket, he walked back over to her. “It’s going to be all right.”
    Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over to the bed, gently laid her down, and drew the covers over her. “Would you like me to close the windows?”
    She nodded, and he marched over to them, closing one and then the other. He took a moment to peer through them. Are you out there, you bastard?
    With quickness, he drew the draperies closed. Aware of her gaze following him, he went into the bathing room, snatched up some linens, and returned to spread them over the floor beneath the windows so they could soak up the water.
    As he neared the bed, he tore off his jacket, waistcoat, and cravat and tossed them on a nearby chair. After pulling off his shoes, he sat on the