Chapter 2 #2
“I can do it,” he told her, his voice surprisingly gentle. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Izzy shook her head, even as her less courageous self told her to let him get on with it. Her gaze drifted to his hipbone, just visible over the waistband of his trousers. An ugly scar marred the perfection of his body there, short but jagged. His handiwork, no doubt.
“I’ve done it before. It won’t be much fun, but I have a tidy hand. Far better than yours, I’ll warrant, if that’s evidence of your skill. It will be such a pretty scar that your lady friends will be all admiration.”
His eyes glinted at her words, a smile playing around the edges of his wicked mouth.
“I cannot wait to show it to them.”
Izzy gave a snort of disgust, finding the comment annoyed her more than it ought, when she knew he was being deliberately provocative. “Then let us begin.”
Ben gritted his teeth as the needle stabbed him for what he swore was the hundredth time.
Nausea swirled in his guts, the brandy doing a poor job of numbing the pain but making his stomach rebel.
Beside him, the vicar’s daughter worked steadily, sewing him back up.
In an urgent bid to distract himself from the moment, he concentrated on her.
She was pale in the lamplight, her flawless skin so fair and fine he could see the faint traces of blue veins.
The spectacles he had once admired, comparing her to a sweet little owl, wise and solemn, gave her a gravity he suspected was ill-placed.
His Miss Honey was a bold chit, courageous enough to go out in the dead of night to save a sorry specimen like him. She really ought not to have bothered.
He knew she fancied him, of course. It was hardly the first time a young lady had cast him as a romantic hero, without understanding the less than glamorous reality of who he was and what he did.
He was no hero. His father was the worst kind of scoundrel—presuming someone hadn’t finally murdered the old bastard—and bad blood seethed in his veins.
Well, what hadn’t seeped out whilst this sweet creature tended his wounds.
She plied the needle again, and he stiffened his spine, sweat slick on his skin, chilling him in the cold attic even as the wound burned.
Swallowing hard, he forced his attention back to her, this earnest young woman who had risked her life for him.
Her father was a good man, a brave one, and one of the best who ever lived, Ben knew.
It hardly seemed surprising that his daughter was made in the same mould.
There was a hint of steel behind that sweet exterior, the way she concentrated on the task at hand told him that.
She wasted no time on sympathy, for which he was glad.
In this situation, it was a useless commodity, better she save her breath and get it done quick.
A lock of golden hair fell forward, the soft curl impeding her view of the wound and she pushed it away with the back of her hand. The irritation behind the gesture made him smile. No, his Miss Honey was not a patient soul.
Not yours, he reminded himself.
That would be a nice way to repay Honeywell for all he’d done, by debauching his beautiful daughter.
She was beautiful, too. Not in an obvious way, either, the glasses saw to that, especially when added to the challenging way she gazed through them, as if daring the world to underestimate her.
He had noted her splendid figure the first time he’d seen her.
Her eyes were blue, though he struggled to put a name to the shade.
There was a hint of green there, an unusual hue that made them appear almost turquoise in the lamplight.
Her eyelashes and brows were a dark gold, and her nose and cheeks were delicately touched with just a few dainty freckles.
They made him smile, wondering if more appeared in the summer, if there were others hidden away in more interesting places.
If she hadn’t been making him feel he had a new use as a pincushion, he’d have enjoyed trying to discover them.
As if reading his mind, she stabbed him again, and he sucked in a breath.
Pain held him suspended for a moment and he took another drink from the bottle.
Don’t think of it, he told himself, forcing his mind away from the pain and allowing it to return to the delicious little innocent beside him.
Not that she moved like an innocent, and she certainly made no attempt at pretending shyness.
She spoke her mind, and he’d noticed that when she walked, there was a sway to her hips that was entirely natural, that made him wonder if she was a sensuous creature underneath those proper, modest gowns she wore.
He liked the way she moved, having studied it, though she would not appreciate knowing he had watched her, hidden out of sight whilst she went about her day.
Not that he had been spying, not on her, at least, but he hadn’t hesitated to study her, to see where she went and who with.
“There.”
Much to his relief, she cut the thread and sat back, regarding her work with satisfaction. Ben looked too, observing a very neat job. “You are right, Miss Honey, a very pretty scar indeed.”
“I’m so glad you approve,” she remarked, but there was no spirit in the retort now and he could see she was almost swaying with fatigue.
Her gaze fell to her hands, stained with his blood, and he saw her swallow hard.
The poor girl was worn to a thread. She’d been unbelievably brave, stupidly so, and she’d got him to safety, tended his wounds, and sewn him up.
And all he could do was vex her with his inane comments.
He reached out, his fingers catching hold of the errant curl that had fallen again.
Twisting it about his finger, he enjoyed the sleek texture, the sensation stirring a long-forgotten memory of playing with his mother’s embroidery silks as a small boy.
She looked up, her eyes wide and startled behind her spectacles as he tucked it carefully behind her ear.
“Thank you.”
She blinked, and he wondered just how much of a rogue he’d shown himself to be that she appeared surprised by his gratitude.
“You’re welcome.”
He smiled at her, exhaustion tugging at the edges of his mind as he dropped his hand. “You’ve done a reckless thing, but I am in your debt. I won’t forget that.”
Her lips quirked, something of the spirit he’d seen in her before sparking to life. “I should think not.”
Ben closed his eyes, his mind becoming hazy.
Reality and dreams blurred together, the effort of staying alive while men hunted him down, of enduring the pain she administered so tenderly, had sapped every last vestige of his formidable will.
He forced his eyes open again, finding her watching him and his voice seemed to come from a long way off, the words slurred and slow.
“Find your bed and sleep, sweet Miss Honey. Dream of me.”
He did not hear what she said in reply, falling into a fathomless darkness to which there seemed to be no end.
A pithy retort rose to Izzy’s lips, but she held it back, seeing his face relax into sleep.
She did not wish to wake him after all he’d gone through.
He looked younger in sleep, the strain that had been visible this night smoothed away.
She fancied she could see the boy he’d once been, cheeky and mischievous she did not doubt, though she wished she knew for sure.
There was so much about him she wished she knew.
She realised she had made assumptions about her handsome smuggler, judging him upon a scanty few moments in his company.
Though she wished it otherwise, she did not know this man, she could not trust him, no matter how much she wanted to. Oh, she wanted to.
She watched him sleep, watched his chest rise and fall, comforted by the steady rhythm.
The lamplight caught the wiry hair on his chest, turning it copper and gold, casting his face, his beautiful face, into something rare and remarkable.
A face like that ought to be stamped on a coin, rendered in marble and paint, recorded for generations to come and marvel at, for surely it’s like would never be seen again.
Izzy’s breath hitched as she realised she’d done it.
She’d set out to save him and, God willing, save for infection or the disaster of discovery, she’d done it.
A chill ran over her, reminding her it was damned cold in the attic, and she reached for the pile of blankets she’d stashed.
Taking care not to wake him, she covered him up, not wanting him to catch a chill on top of all else.
She still needed to put the poultice on the wound, but she had yet to make it.
The knowledge made her limbs feel like lead, but she forced herself to move, making her weary way back to the kitchen.
She found the yarrow leaves she’d left soaking, poured off the liquid and tipped them into a pestle and mortar, then ground them hard to make a paste.
The distinctive scent, grassy and sweet, was soothing to her tired senses.
She wished she had fresh yarrow, which she suspected would be stronger.
Certainly, the odour, herbal with a touch of camphor, was stronger than this, but in January there was nothing to be done.
It was lucky she’d troubled to collect so much of it last summer, God willing there would be enough.
Satisfied she’d ground it sufficiently, Izzy spooned the paste onto a square of clean linen before carefully tidying up the still room.
This was Mrs Mabbs’ domain, though she shared it happily with Izzy.
She’d notice any unusual activity, however, and Izzy dared not leave a trail.
Her father was nigh on omniscient, and it had taken her a lifetime to discover how to keep things from his notice, but a comment from Mrs Mabbs was all it would take to make him curious.
Moving like a sleepwalker, Izzy returned to the attic.
On her way, she slipped into one of the guest bedrooms to find a chamber pot, belatedly realising that all his needs must be attended to, an awkward thought but not one she could ignore.
She was so tired now that she barely noticed the creak of floorboards or bothered to jump when a fox cried somewhere in the front garden.
Kneeling carefully beside Boreas, she lifted the blankets and pressed the poultice against the wound.
He stirred in his sleep, grumbling softly, but did not wake.
It was a tricky business getting a length of bandage underneath him to hold it in place, but she managed by slipping it under his feet and dragging it up under his body.
The brandy had done a good job, it seemed, for he only huffed and snored softly, making her smile.
With care, she covered him up again and sat for a moment watching him sleep.
His hair was long and so very fair. Hers was blonde, but a more usual gold colour, like ripe barley, his was like nothing she had seen before.
Outside, in the dark, it had seemed almost silver, giving him a rather unearthly appearance, a fantasy rather than a flesh-and-blood man.
Except he was flesh and blood, and she knew that for certain now. This man who had haunted her dreams. Though she hardly knew how she dared, she reached out, pushing the hair from his face where it had fallen over his brow.
“Sweet dreams, Boreas.”
Her whispered words slipped into the darkness as Izzy took the lamp and tiptoed back to her own room.