“I still think you’re a scoundrel.”

Hunt grinned and shifted her more comfortably in his arms. “Obviously illness hasn’t impaired your judgment.”

“Why are you helping me after I just told you to go to the devil?” she whispered.

“I have a vested interest in preserving your health. I want you to be in top form when I collect on my debt.”

As Hunt descended the steps with surefooted swiftness, she felt the smooth grace with which he moved— not like a dancer, but like a cat on the prowl. With their faces so close, Annabelle saw that a ruthlessly close shave had not been able to disguise the dark grain of whiskers beneath his skin. Seeking a more secure hold on him, Annabelle reached farther around his neck, until her fingertips brushed the ends of hair that curled slightly against his nape. What a pity I’m so sick, she thought. If I wasn’t so cold and dizzy and weak, I might actually enjoy being carried like this.

Reaching the path that extended along the side of the manor, Hunt paused to allow Daisy to skirt around them and lead the way. “The servants’ door,” he reminded her, and the girl nodded.

“Yes, I know which one it is.” Daisy glanced over her shoulder as she preceded them on the path. Her small face was tense with worry. “I’ve never heard of a sprained ankle making anyone sick to her stomach,” she commented.

“I suspect this is more than a sprained ankle,” Hunt replied.

“Do you think it was the willowbark tea?” Daisy asked.

“No, willowbark wouldn’t cause such a reaction. I have an idea about what the problem might be, but I won’t be able to confirm it until we reach Miss Peyton’s room.”

“How do you intend to ‘confirm’ your idea?” Annabelle asked warily.

“All I want to do is look at your ankle.” Hunt smiled down at her. “Surely I deserve that much, after I take you up three flights of stairs.”

As it turned out, the stairs were no effort for him at all. When they reached the top of the third flight, his breathing hadn’t even altered. Annabelle suspected that he could have carried her ten times as far without breaking a sweat. When she said as much to him, he replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “I spent most of my youth hauling sides of beef and pork to my father’s shop. Carrying you is far more enjoyable.”

“How sweet,” Annabelle mumbled sickly, her eyes closed. “Every woman dreams of being told that she’s preferable to a dead cow.”

Laughter rumbled in his chest, and he turned to avoid bumping her foot against the doorframe. Daisy opened the door for them, and stood watching anxiously as Hunt brought Annabelle to the brocade-covered bed.

“Here we are,” he said, laying her down and reaching for an extra pillow to prop her to a half-sitting position.

“Thank you,” she whispered, staring into the thick-lashed sable eyes above her own.

“I want to see your leg.”

Her heart seemed to stop at the outrageous statement. When her pulse resumed, it was weak and far too brisk. “I would rather wait until the doctor arrives.”

“I’m not asking for permission.” Ignoring her protests, Hunt reached for the hem of her skirts.

“Mr. Hunt,” Daisy exclaimed in outrage, hurrying over to him. “Don’t you dare! Miss Peyton is ill, and if you don’t remove your hands at once—”

“Settle your feathers,” Hunt replied sardonically. “I’m not going to abuse Miss Peyton’s maidenly virtue. Not yet, at any rate.” His gaze switched to Annabelle’s pale face. “Don’t move. Charming as your legs undoubtedly are, they’re not going to incite me to a frenzy of—” He broke off with a sharp intake of breath as he lifted her skirts and saw her swollen ankle. “Damn. Until now I’ve always thought of you as a reasonably intelligent woman. Why the hell did you go downstairs in this condition?”

“Oh, Annabelle,” Daisy murmured, “Your ankle looks terrible!”

“It wasn’t that bad earlier,” Annabelle said defensively. “It’s gotten much worse in the past half hour, and—” She yelped in a mixture of pain and alarm as she felt Hunt reach farther beneath her skirts. “What are you doing? Daisy, don’t let him—”

“I’m removing your stocking,” Hunt said. “And I would advise Miss Bowman not to interfere.”

Frowning at him, Daisy came to Annabelle’s side. “I would advise you to proceed with caution, Mr. Hunt,” she said smartly. “I am not going to stand by passively while you molest my friend.”

Hunt sent her a glance of scalding mockery, while he found the ridge of Annabelle’s garter and unfastened it deftly. “Miss Bowman, in a few minutes we’re going to be overrun with visitors, including Mrs. Peyton, Lord Westcliff, and your hardheaded sister, followed soon thereafter by the doctor. Even I, seasoned ravisher that I am, require more time than that to molest someone.” His expression changed as Annabelle gasped in pain at his gentle touch. Deftly he unrolled her stocking, his fingertips feather-light, but her skin was so sensitive that even the softest stroke caused an unbearable sting. “Hold still, sweetheart,” he murmured, drawing the length of silk from her flinching leg.

Biting her lip, Annabelle watched as his dark head bent over her ankle. He turned it carefully, taking care not to touch her more than necessary. Then he went still, his dark head bent over her leg. “Just as I thought.”