She rolled her eyes but couldn't stop the small, reluctant smile tugging at her lips. He was bossy, sharp, and impossibly arrogant—but he had fought seven armed men for her last night. That image refused to leave her: his broad back gleaming under the moonlight, his bloodied fists, the way his voice had cracked when he said her name like it meant something.
She sighed again, softer this time, and turned her gaze to the bedside table. The folded clothes waited neatly for her, pressed and spotless.
Daisy touched them as though they might disappear. A simple but elegant cream blouse. Dark trousers tailored for movement. Even underclothes. She flushed crimson at that thought—how on earth had he arranged this in the middle of the night? Did Fabian himself…? No. No, surely not. The man was infuriating but he wasn't about to go rifling through women's things. Still, the fact that someone had thought of her comfort—it rattled her more than it should.
