A Kiss To Remember | Herophine

Chapter Six - The Prisoner

Hero

You were always such a perfect angel....

Hardin Scott had a temper.

He learned that about himself around teatime of the following afternoon when the bedchamber door creaked open for what seemed like the hundredth time in that endless day only to reveal someone else who wasn’t his fiancée.

It seemed that the elusive Miss Langford had decided he was best left to the ministrations of whoever happened to wander past his room at any given hour. John had even paid him a brief visit that morning, smelling of sheep and glowering like a death mask. The man had informed Hardin that he was on his way to London to visit the livestock market. He had crumpled his broad-brimmed hat in his hands and bitten off a curt apology for nearly impaling Hardin with his pitchfork, all the while assessing him with beady black eyes that made Hardin feel as if he were being measured for a coffin.

Josephine's brother had appeared next, bearing a tray of kippers and eggs and wearing a sullen scowl. When Hardin had inquired as to the whereabouts of the lad’s sister, Anthony had mumbled something noncommittal and fled the room.

When the door had swung open a short while later, Hardin had sat up eagerly in the bed, ignoring his lingering dizziness. He had a thousand questions, most of which only Josephine could answer. But to his keen disappointment, the white mobcap sitting askew on grizzled curls had belonged to Maggie. He had wrested the basin, soap, rags, and razor from the maidservant's chapped hands and insisted upon bathing and shaving himself, having no desire to repeat yesterday’s performance.

As she was taking her leave, he had not been able to resist blinking innocently, and saying, “You needn’t hurry away, Maggie. I doubt I’ve anything under here that a woman like you hasn’t seen a hundred times before." Arching a mocking eyebrow, he had peeked beneath the blanket. “Or at least once."

Maggie had flushed scarlet, then buried a girlish giggle in her apron. “Go on with you, sir. You're a right naughty gent, you are.”

“That's not what your mistress tells me,” he had murmured after she was gone, his grin fading to a pensive frown. The yellow kitten nestled in the crook of his knee had given him a quizzical look. Despite his repeated efforts to shoo the bothersome creature away, the little cat refused to leave his side for more than a few minutes at a time.

As the hours lengthened and his temper shortened, he began to feel less like a patient and more like a prisoner. If he had his trousers, he could at least get up and pace the room. The throbbing in his head had subsided to a dull ache that was annoying, but not unbearable.

Shortly before teatime, just when he was settling into a iitful nap, the door began to inch open again. When Josephine failed to materialize, his first instinct was to hurl something breakable at it. All he could see from his reclining position was a mass of brown curls bound by a lopsided pink ribbon. It seemed his latest visitor was crawling on hands and knees.

A small hand with plump fingers and blunt fingernails crept over the side of the bed and began to grope about in the bedclothes dangerously near to his hips. When it failed to locate what it sought, the curls began to rise like a gilded fountain. As Katie peeped over the side of the bed, Hardin narrowed his eyes to mere slits, watching her through his lashes.

“There you are, you naughty beast," she hissed, reaching for the cat that was napping at his side.

“That’s not a very nice way to address the man your sister is about to marry,” Hardin drawled, propping himself up on one elbow.