chapter 12

This—this was not supposed to happen.

Clearing his throat, Damien adjusted his grip, mindful of the dampness seeping into his clothing. With deliberate steps, he carried her toward the chamber, his expression one of sheer exasperation.

Trouble itself, he thought once more, his lips pressing into a thin line. And now I am carrying it back to my own bed.

He placed her carefully in the farthest corner of the bed, ensuring that there was ample distance between her and the infant. Yet, now that the task was done, he found himself at a complete loss.

The night air was frigid, a chill creeping into the chamber despite the heavy curtains drawn across the grand windows. He had already ensured the babe was safe, but even she would require warmer garments come morning. That, at least, could be easily remedied—his household was well aware of the child’s presence, and it would not be questioned should he request proper woolen attire for her.

But Kara…

Damien exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze lowering to the drenched state of her clothing. The sheer fabric clung to her form, revealing far more than was appropriate. The sight was entirely improper, so much so that he forcibly turned away, setting his jaw as he paced the room.

Foolish woman. Reckless, insufferable, utterly impossible, he grumbled inwardly, though the irritation lacked true malice.

He strode back and forth, each step measured, his mind racing through possible solutions. Yet none presented themselves. After five minutes of fruitless deliberation—and a fair amount of barely restrained cursing—he at last turned toward his bookshelf.

Surely, within the vast collection of knowledge housed in his personal study, some tome of wisdom would provide an answer to his predicament.

A ridiculous notion, in hindsight.

Damien scanned the spines of his books, fingers trailing over their worn covers. Politics, philosophy, military strategy, classical literature—nothing even remotely relevant to his current plight. What, precisely, did I expect to find? he thought dryly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

After another moment of pointless searching, he released a sigh and turned back toward the bed. His gaze fell upon Kara once more, still unmoving, still clad in her drenched nightgown. The cold would set into her bones soon if he did not act.

There is no other choice.

With the resolve of a man condemned, he strode toward his wardrobe, retrieving one of his own shirts. The garment was, of course, far too large for her—where he stood over six feet in height, she barely reached his shoulder. It would be more akin to a nightgown on her, but at the very least, it would serve its purpose.

Damien placed the shirt upon the bed, taking a steadying breath before kneeling at her side. “Miss Winter,” he called, his tone firm.

No response.

He tried again, pressing a light touch to her shoulder. “Miss Winter, you must awaken.”

Still nothing.

She was wholly unresponsive, lost in the depths of slumber.

Damien exhaled through his nose, running a hand down his face. Of course, she would choose now, of all times, to sleep like the dead.

His gaze flickered toward the window once more, where the howling wind pressed against the glass. There was no alternative—if he allowed her to remain as she was, she would wake with a fever, or worse.

Tightening his jaw, he strode toward the fireplace and lit it, watching as the flames slowly grew, casting warm golden light across the chamber. Then, with one last glance at the unmoving woman upon his bed, he reached for a strip of cloth and tied it securely over his eyes.

Whatever else may come of this night, he would not be accused of impropriety.

Blindfolded, he extended his hands, carefully reaching for her form.

And so, with all the dignity he could muster, Damien Blackwell prepared to undertake the most mortifying task of his life.

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