7. A lot of people are mean to me #2
My eyes flashed down to her legs, and I frowned at the large bruise I hadn’t noticed there. Before I could think better of it, or in fact, think anything at all, my hand came up and I traced my fingers along the edge of the discolouration without actually making contact with her skin.
“How did this happen?” I asked.
“W-what?” She shook her head, her voice breathy now, and she looked dazed rather than scared.
“The bruise on your leg, love,” I said softly.
She shook her head again. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
Her chest rose and fell on a deep breath, and she pressed her lips together in a thin line. Clearly, it wasn’t nothing, but she didn’t trust me enough to tell me about it. Suddenly not having Vicky’s trust felt very, very wrong.
I swore under my breath as I pulled my hand back. “I really am sorry for what I said, Vicky.”
“It’s not?—”
“Do you forgive me?”
“I… there’s nothing to forgive.”
I decided to let that lie for the moment and move on to my next line of questioning.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
Her eyebrows went up. “It’s not currently a mealtime. In fact, there are…” her eyes flicked to a clock on the wall, then back to my ear. “Three hours and thirty-eight minutes until the next mealtime. Approximately.”
I smiled again. “Approximately?” I teased.
“Well, yes,” she said with a small frown.
“I only have the wall-mounted clock to estimate with. I’ve tried to convince the Hardings to install digital clocks in their house, but my half-brother is resistant to the idea.
So, I have to rely on inaccurate, often very old analogue devices.
The one over there is two hundred years old and loses three minutes and thirty-eight seconds every year.
I adjust it every six months, or however often I’m here if the frequency is less, but in general, the Buckingham Estate is running on inaccurate timings. So that was an approximation of the?—”
She broke off as my hand came up to her delicate jaw, tilted her head back slightly, and my mouth closed over hers.
In my defence, she looked so gorgeous with the sunlight still shimmering off her hair, and tiny freckles that must normally be hidden under make-up across the bridge of her nose, that her adorable little clock accuracy rant simply tipped me over the edge.
Given how dilated her pupils were, how rapid the rise and fall of her chest was, and how I knew that she found me “extremely attractive”, her instant reaction was unexpected.
My lips were only on hers for a fraction of a second, enough to feel how unbelievably soft they were, and enough to notice the sharp, indrawn breath she took before suddenly wrenching away from me.
Blocked by the table at her back, she scrambled to the side until she was clear of it, backing away, her hand up in front of her as if to ward me off. Her eyes were wide, her breathing was way too fast, and her hands were shaking.
What the fuck was going on?
“Christ, Vicky, I’m sorry,” I said, taking a step towards her, but halting in my tracks when she took another one back. I held up my hands in surrender. “It’s okay. I’m not going to touch you again. I promise. I would never have kissed you if I didn’t think you’d be right there with me.”
Her lips were pressed together, and her hands had slowly crept up to her ears—not to cover them, but to sort of rest near them under her hair.
And I noticed that she was rocking. It was a tiny movement, and I only caught it because I was watching her so closely, but she was very slightly rocking backwards and forwards.
My chest tightened as real concern shot through me.
What had I done?
“Vicky?” I said, taking another tentative step towards her.
She was so wrapped up in her own world that she didn’t seem to notice.
“Baby, are you okay?” The endearment seemed to break through.
She blinked a couple of times and made very brief eye contact before focusing back on my left ear.
I was within touching distance now, but I kept my hands by my sides.
She swallowed, and her hands came down from her ears almost as though she was forcing them to. After a few moments, she held onto the table that was now by her side, and she stopped rocking as if using the solid wood to anchor herself.
“I have to—” she started to say, but her voice broke off. Her eyes closed briefly, and she swallowed before she spoke again. “I have to have warning.” She was whispering now, as if she was telling me something deeply shameful.
I frowned. “Warning? Before I kiss you?”
She cleared her throat. “Before any physical contact.”
I nodded. “Right, okay. Warning.”
She was shaking very slightly now. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the slight breeze going through the orangery, or whether she was still scared, but something deep in my psyche seemed to sense what she needed.
“Would it help if I… held you?” I asked, then held my breath for her answer.
“I… yes, but…” she paused for a moment. “It has to be a tight hug.”
I smiled as I closed the distance between us. “Got it. Tight hug.”
Then she was in my arms, her softness pressed tightly to me, my chin resting on top of her head, and my arms enclosing her small body completely.
At first, her body was stiff with tension, and there were small tremors running through her, but after a few moments, she relaxed against me, her hands flattening against my chest, and her face burrowing into my skin.
As I gathered her even closer, I felt like I’d scored a massive victory.
This was significant—that my embrace could comfort her meant something.
I have to have warning.
I can be extremely irritating.
A lot of people are mean to me.
There’s nothing to forgive.
I wasn’t sure what the fuck was going on with this beautiful woman who seemed to think it was okay for people to treat her like shit, who freaked out at a closed-mouth kiss, who’d told me she found me extremely attractive, but at the same time, seemed to be totally terrified of me, but I was sure as fuck going to find out.