Maggie stepped forward between his legs. When he was seated, the two of them were of a similar height. It gave her a sense of command over the situation she didn’t entirely feel. “You’re like a great lion with a wounded paw. A wounded paw and a sore head.” She untied his banyan and pushed it off of his shoulders. “You don’t often drink too much, do you?”

“Rarely.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” She moistened her lips. Her mouth had gone dry. And no wonder. He was bared to the waist in front of her. An arresting sight. It made her cheeks heat and her stomach quiver. She forced herself to focus on his arm. To behave in a clinical fashion, not in the manner of a lady on the verge of having the vapors.

It wasn’t easy.

His chest might have been chiseled from a slab of marble. Every hollow and groove of his naked flesh was perfectly defined. As elegant with power as a statue of some Grecian God or hero. All lean muscles and tightly coiled strength.

The Nicholas of her youth had been spare and lanky. Far less intimidating to her senses. She wondered what he’d done to earn all these muscles. Jane had said he was a sportsman, but the smattering of faded scars on his chest and shoulders spoke less of pleasure than survival.

And he had survived.

More than that. Somehow, someway, he’d forged a life for himself—an entirely new identity. He’d become, in these ten years, a completely different man.

Maggie frowned as she examined the wound on his arm. The torn flesh was stitched together rather neatly with black thread. “Enzo’s work, I presume. I trust you cleaned it thoroughly beforehand?”

St. Clare made a hoarse sound of assent.

She touched the edge of his wound. He flinched under the brush of her fingertips, and again when she drew her knuckles down the hard length of his bare arm. She doubted whether his reaction was entirely provoked by pain. Indeed, the more she touched him, the more she suspected that, underneath his taut exterior, he was as dry-mouthed and quivery with longing as she was.

Her gaze met his. “Does it hurt very much?”

He looked steadily back at her. “It’s an agony.”

Her heart thumped hard. “For me, as well.” She slipped her hand into his, gratified to feel his fingers engulf hers. His clasp was hard and firm. Possessive. His head lowered as she leaned into him. “Nicholas—”

His mouth found hers, silencing her with a kiss. There was nothing gentle about it. His lips shaped to hers, rough with heat and want and raw masculine demand. A desperate kiss, far more than a sweet one.

And she melted.

There was no other way to describe it.