“Where have you been?” “Out,” he growled. “I know we’re feigning an elopement, but you’re not my wife yet.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” She rolled over and sat up. “Have you been drinking?” “Yes, but not nearly enough.” “What’s wrong? Why are you so angry?” As she’d done earlier that night, she reached out to touch him with a hand that would be cool on his fevered skin, a hand that would make him yearn for more than this ridiculous fantasy they’d embroiled themselves in. But this time he flinched and she withdrew, her fingers tacky with his blood. “You’re hurt—again.” She sat up, throwing her legs over the side of the bunk. “One would think you seek out trouble.” He sank back on the bed, closing his eyes. “I was managing fine until someone we know took a board to my skull.” “So you just happened to be in that alley, David St. Leger? Or should I call you . . . Monster of the Mews?” He opened his eyes to see her staring down at him, hands on her hips.
