The Last Debutante by Julia London Page A

his, and her eyes widened slightly.
    Jamie did not speak; he could not trust himself to speak civilly.
    “Ahem.” She stepped into the room. Her eyes skated over his bare chest and arms and his hair, which had felt matted and rough when he’d touched his head earlier. She was holding a bowl and some rags, both of whichshook. And tucked up under one arm was a rather large knife.
    He smirked at that, which seemed to unnerve her; she suddenly moved and put everything down on a small table, then grasped the knife, holding it down by her side, her fingers curling around the hilt. “I have come to change your bandages,” she announced grandly.
    Jamie couldn’t help a small smile or the cock of his brow.
    She lifted her chin. “And I will not tolerate any foolishness.”
    An interesting thing to say, given that he was the one who had suffered all the foolishness in this house.
    She stood as if she were expecting him to agree to her terms, and when he did not, her grip on the knife tightened. “Why do you not speak?”
    Jamie could see every frayed nerve in her, every quiver, every shortened breath. He looked pointedly at her knife, then lifted his gaze to hers again. “Do you fear me, then, lass?” he asked quietly.
    Color began to seep from her cheeks. “It’s rather a big knife,” she said, as if he hadn’t noticed. “Should you not fear me?”
    Foolish chit. If Jamie ever had a daughter—and God help him if he did, for he found females to be the most exasperating and confusing creatures on earth—he would explain in no uncertain terms that if a man wishes to subdue a woman, he will. There is nothing—no knife, no club—that will stop him. Not even a one-legged man with a hole in his side and a wee bit of renewed strength could be stopped from subduing her if necessary.
    “I mean only to change your bandages,” she added, asif he might believe she was accosting him. “The wounds must be kept clean.”
    Jamie shrugged. “Then change them.”
    The chit pressed her lips together and frowned at his bandages. The witch had wrapped them around his torso and his thigh, knotting the ends together. This one would have to crawl onto the bed to change them, since he was sitting up. He could see that she’d worked that out for herself, and he almost chuckled at her expression. An English rose, as fresh as the morning dew, unhinged by the sight of a man. “I’ll no’ bite, if that’s what gives you pause.”
    Her gaze flew up to his; her cheeks were stained an appealing shade of pink.
    “Come, then. Have done before I expire.”
    She drew a breath so great that her shoulders lifted with it. She moved hesitantly to the edge of the bed and stood, clearly expecting him to move, to put his legs over the side and give her room to work. But Jamie was in no mood to help her. To her credit, she did not demand it. She put the knife on a pillow—just beyond his reach but well within hers—then hiked up the hem of her gown to give her a bit of leg room and put one knee on the bed. Then the other. She still wasn’t close enough—she tried to lean over and untie the ends of the cloth, but she couldn’t leverage her body at that distance. She sat back on her heels, her hands on her knees, examining the situation.
    Jamie smiled.
    “Don’t you dare smile at me as if this is some sort of game,” she said, her voice low and full of warning. She shifted closer, studiously avoiding his gaze as she gingerly worked the ends of the bandage free.
    Jamie couldn’t take his eyes from her. Her skin was remarkably smooth, unmarked by the effects of childhood illness or even a single freckle. Her wine-colored lips looked especially full against her pale skin, and Jamie felt a faint stirring deep in his groin. He thought of Isabella, and wondered if he’d ever seen her as clearly as he was seeing this English rose.
    His gaze fixed on her lips. He remembered that hazy kiss, the plump, firm flesh of her lips, the moist warmth against his