Chapter Two #2
She stared at his bare, tanned forearms and large, strong hands as he methodically fed small chips of wood into the coals, then larger pieces. He applied a pair of bellows and flames flickered up, gilding his profile, highlighting the bold nose and the hard angles and shadows of his face.
She gazed at the strong column of Mr. Renfrew’s throat and the clean line of his jaw.
His shirt was open at the neck. The flames leapt and crackled.
His face was lit by fire. She shouldn’t be staring, but she had to keep her eyes open to stop from falling asleep, and he was there, right in front of her.
He was not a pretty man, not handsome in the way of the young men Callie had admired as a girl, and yet he was…beautiful in a strange way. Hard and strong and ruthless-looking. A clean-limbed, sculpted warrior, pared down to the essentials. Formidable.
He’d ridden roughshod over her, ignoring her stated wishes completely, and yet, physically, he’d treated her and her son with surprising gentleness. She felt cared for, protected…
He straightened, and she couldn’t help but look at him. He wore high boots and buckskin breeches, which were damp and clung to his long, hard, masculine frame. His legs were long and lean and hard-muscled. He’d told her his thighs were strong, she recalled. They looked…strong.
Rupert’s thighs had been strong too. She supposed all horsemen’s thighs were, but Rupert’s had been somehow…meatier.
He finished stoking the fire and turned to Nicky. “Now, let’s have a look at that leg.”
Nicky pulled back, ashamed. “It’s all right,” he muttered.
“Don’t be frightened. I’m not going to hurt you, but you were limping quite badly before and it doesn’t do to neglect an injury, take it from an old soldier.”
Nicky looked away. “It’s nothing.”
“Nicky’s leg was injured at birth,” Callie said stiffly.
“It’s more noticeable when he’s tired, that’s all.
” Each time Nicky had to explain it, she felt the knife turn in her breast. It was her fault, she knew, that her son had to bear this burden.
She braced herself for what would come next—the embarrassment, or the hearty reassurance, or the questions.
Mr. Renfrew surprised her. “That’s all right then,” he said in a matter-of-fact way to Nicky. “I was worried I’d hurt you, as well as your mother. In that case, how about you fetch me some clean towels from the linen press, Nick—that’s the cupboard over there—and I’ll fetch some hot water.”
Nicky hurried off. Callie gave Gabriel Renfrew a silent look of gratitude. Very few men of her acquaintance made a small, crippled boy feel useful.
He took a paper spill from a small tin on the mantel over the fire, lit it, then stood to light the lantern that hung overhead.
He had to reach to do it and she couldn’t help but stare at the way his shirt pulled tight against his deep, powerful chest. There looked to be no softness in the man at all.
Her cheek had rested against that chest. She’d felt his heartbeat.
He’d treated her son with such sensitivity, respecting his small-boy dignity. And he’d brought them both in from the cold.
Soft golden lamplight poured out over the kitchen, and as she glanced up their gaze met.
“Green!” he said, sounding satisfied. He finished trimming the wick and stepped back.
She frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve been wondering what color they were ever since I’ve met you.”
“What color what were?”
“Your eyes. They’re green.”
She blinked and had no idea what to say.
Nicky came back with a huge pile of towels, and Mr. Renfrew filled a large bowl with hot water. He knelt and placed it at Callie’s feet, then slipped off her remaining slipper.
“What are you doing?” she asked, startled.
“Your feet are a mess. They’re all cut to ribbons; hadn’t you noticed?”
Callie looked. Her toes were bruised and scraped and bloody, as well as muddy. They really were a mess. She’d hardly noticed. Her feet had been so cold, and though she was aware of some discomfort, other, more urgent things had occupied her attention.
“It must have happened when we were coming ashore. I do remember stubbing my toes a few times on the rocks.” And now she thought of it, they did hurt.
“Here, put them in the water. Careful, it’s hot and there’s salt, which will sting, but it’ll help the cuts to heal.”
Gingerly she lowered her feet into the hot water. It burned at first; her feet were half frozen, and the cuts stung, but after a few moments it felt heavenly.
She sat back, soaking up the warmth and the comfort, rubbing her own and Nicky’s hair dry with a towel.
“Better?” Gabriel Renfrew asked after a while.
“Yes, thank you. It’s lovely,” she said gratefully.
“Good.” He smiled. His teeth were white and even. “Now, I’ll just put some salve on those cuts. Mrs. Barrow makes an excellent salve for cuts and abrasions.”
Callie’s mouth dropped open as, in a matter-of-fact way, he began to dry her feet with a towel.
“I—I can do that,” she stammered. It was rather unsettling feeling his big, warm hands caressing her feet so gently through the towel.
He smiled again. “I know, but I don’t mind doing it. Could you fetch me two more towels, please, Nicky.” Her son ran off and a pair of guileless blue eyes met hers.
“I don’t believe this is very proper,” she muttered.
“Don’t you like it?”
She gave him a troubled look. Yes, she liked it. Of course she liked it. And that was the point. She didn’t even know him and he shouldn’t be handling her feet so…so intimately. It made her…feel things, things she had no business feeling with a stranger.
As he dried the last toe, she said, “Thank you. You may now unhand my feet.”
He took no notice. Scooping out a fingerful of aromatic salve, he proceeded to rub it into her feet with his hands, slowly, gently, and with a sensuous rhythm. Her toes curled in pleasure and she felt the tingles all the way up her legs.
She blinked, torn between pleasure and embarrassment. He was merely attending to her injuries, she reminded herself, but try as she might, she could not stop herself from reacting, even though she knew she should not.
“Please, that’s enough,” she said. “Did you not hear me, I asked you to unhand my feet!”
“Oh, unhand—I thought you said hand them,” he explained, looking up at her with a twinkle. “Hand being a foreign term for massage.”
Her jaw dropped. He knew what his touch was doing to her. He was flirting.
The realization astounded her. No man had flirted with her in…forever. She’d gone from being a child to being Rupert’s wife. Nobody would dare flirt with Rupert’s wife. She had no idea what to do.
She said feebly, “That’s a barefaced l—nonsense!” She balked at calling the man a liar in his own house.
“Oh, massage isn’t l—nonsense.” His voice was serious, but the blue eyes danced. “It’s very helpful. Helped many a soldier prevent frostbite, or chilblains. And it’s wonderful for weary feet, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“And in English we don’t say ‘le nonsense,’ we just say ‘nonsense.’” His eyes twinkled. He’d known very well what she’d been going to say.
It was so ridiculous she couldn’t help but laugh. “I know perfectly well what we say in English. I was born here!”
“Were you? What a coincidence, so was I, so already we have something in common. And was Nicky also born here?”
“No,” Nicky chimed in as he returned with the towels. “I was b—”
“No, Nicky wasn’t born here!” She gave her son a warning glance. Nobody, even tall, unexpectedly kind men who flirted, should know who they were. “And, please, sir, my feet will do very well now, thank you.”
“When the salve is absorbed.” His deep voice was completely imperturbable. His long, strong fingers continued to knead and massage. He caressed each toe in turn, rubbing between them and sending tiny, invisible shivers thrilling up her limbs. It felt like her bones were turning to honey.
It was completely improper and utterly heavenly, and it was all Callie could do not to dissolve into a puddle of bliss.
She watched his face as he ministered to her, noting the quiet strength, the deep lines around his mouth, and the faint touch of bleakness that came to his eyes when he wasn’t remembering to flirt. It was suddenly all too intimate.
Callie closed her eyes…
Gabe fetched a pie from the pantry. Mrs. Barrow had cooked up a storm before she’d left to visit her mother.
“I’ll wager you’re hungry, eh, Nicky?” He cut a slice of pie and handed it to the boy. “Get that into you, lad. Cold pork pie; I can vouch for it.”
Nicky hesitated and glanced at his mother. “Mama never eats pork,” he said. “Papa says—said it’s vulgar for ladies to eat pork.”
“I see,” Gabe murmured, noting the tense change. Papa sounded like a bit of an ass.
The boy glanced at his mother, who was three-quarters asleep. “Leave her be,” Gabe said softly. “She’s very tired. Just eat your pie and then we’ll all get to bed.”
Nicky looked dubiously at the wedge of pie. He made no move to touch it.
“Don’t you like pork, either?” Gabe asked. “Well, then, if you don’t want it.” He took it and munched into it.
The boy watched him. “I didn’t say I didn’t want it,” he said after Gabe had swallowed the last mouthful. “I’m very hungry.”
“Right then, cut yourself another slice while I get you something warm to drink.”
Nicky cut himself a small wedge and gave the pie a cautious nibble. His eyes widened. “It’s very good.”
“Told you it was,” Gabe told him. He went back into the pantry and poured some milk into a pan. By the time he returned Nicky was finishing off his slice of pie with every evidence of satisfaction. Gabe heated the milk, poured some into a cup, stirred in some honey and handed it to the boy.
The boy stared at it as if the cup contained a live snake.
Gabe said in mild exasperation. “Is it some foreign custom of yours, to refuse what food and drink is first offered to you? Here, it’s polite to accept the first time, so just drink the milk and don’t make a fuss.”