Chapter Five #2
“Do you mind?” was the only warning he gave before he reached for the edge of her petticoat and began tearing the hem.
Lyssa grabbed his hand. “Now what are you doing? Ripping my petticoats off my person?”
He didn’t even look up. “We need to wrap your feet with bandages, or you’ll have even worse problems. Silk stockings provide no protection, and we must make do with what we have.”
“You’re leaving me nothing to wear.” Her words sounded as if she were being petulantly ungrateful or suggesting something not quite proper, neither exactly what she’d meant to say.
Her awkwardness was not helped by his curt, “Miss Harrell, your virtue is safe.”
She grabbed his wrists. “It’s not my virtue I’m worried about, but my clothing.”
“Your father will buy you new clothes.”
“But I like these,” she returned through practically clenched teeth.
“Pardon me then, for it must be done,” he replied and ruthlessly finished tearing her favorite petticoat hem into one long strip. Splitting it into two narrow ones, he bound her wounds, giving her no choice but to accept his ministrations.
Lyssa crossed her arms lest she give in to the temptation to pound him around the ears. Where had her father found such a man? He was high-handed, arrogant…and rather attractive, shaggy hair or not.
There had to be Nordic blood in his ancestry. It appeared in the lean line of his jaw and the planes of his cheeks. His nose was long and straight save for a bump on its bridge, as if it had been broken. The bump ruined the symmetry of his face and gave him a masculine, defiant air.
A glance at the size of his knuckles confirmed her suspicions that he was no stranger to fisticuffs. However his long, tapered fingers moved with grace and would seem to have been more those of a swordsman than a pugilist.
“I thought the Irish were more often blond or redheaded,” she said. Her words were a peace offering of sorts. Did she really want to quarrel with him when they were being forced to spend so much time together?
He seemed to have reached the same conclusion. “Some are,” he said not looking up from his task. He slipped her stocking on over her bandaged foot. “But not all.”
She was struck by his contradictions. He spoke with barely a trace of an accent, and yet he could be rude in his bluntness. She had no doubt he was used to rough living…but she also sensed he could be a gentleman if he so desired…
He raised his gaze, and for a moment, they seemed to take each other’s measure without rancor. In the early morning light, she could see his eyes were not completely gray but had flecks of blue around the pupils. He still held her left foot, her arch against the warm palm of his hand.
“What is it?” he asked. “What are you thinking?”
Lyssa couldn’t answer him. She had the strangest sensation that through those extraordinary eyes of his, she was truly seeing him for the first time.
Honest, razor sharp…and yet there was passion in their depths, too, as well as a bright, burning flame of life.
Intelligent. Clever. Subtle. She could even recall Madame’s exact inflection as she’d described the Knight of Swords.
Breathing had become unexpectedly difficult. The tarot card was still tucked safe in her bodice and she was never more aware of it than at this moment. “Nothing.” The word was little more than a whisper.
A heartbeat of silence passed between them, a silence she didn’t quite understand. A frown formed between his brows.
Suddenly uncertain, she broke the silence. Wetting dry lips, she said, “Are you done with my foot or do you plan to hold it all day?” Her words came out sharper than she’d intended.
He abruptly released her, and she quickly tucked both her feet under her skirts and reached for one of her shoes.
The Irishman began putting the needle and salve back into his knapsack with great care, deliberately avoiding her gaze.
“You must have everything in there,” she murmured, wanting to amend her brusque words.
“It’s wise to be prepared.” He still didn’t look at her.
She ran a self-conscious hand through her disheveled hair. “You wouldn’t have hairpins in there, too?” It was a small joke, but she owed him something. Already, her feet felt much better.
“No, but I’ve a leather cord if you’d like to tie your hair back.” His glance touched her hair. “I imagine it is a heavy mane.”
She nodded, again feeling that tightness in her chest. She was edgy and too aware of him for her own comfort.
He didn’t seem to suffer the same malady. Instead, he searched in his knapsack and pulled out a foot-long leather cord which he offered to her.
Unhappily, her hair was too much of a tangled mess to tie neatly. She attempted to comb it with her fingers but using the thin cord to hold it in place was impossible.
“Let me help,” he said.
“It’s fine—” she started, but he took the cord out of her fingers.
Rising on his knees, he held her hair up with one hand and wrapped the cord around it several times with an expert’s touch. He concentrated on the task at hand, oblivious to how close they were…whereas her senses seemed full of him.
The man was rock solid. With his looks he’d probably charmed more than stockings off of many women, and the idea that she might be just as susceptible to his charm was sobering. After all, he was completely unacceptable. Her father would rather see her dead than in this man’s arms.
“Do you do this for your sisters, too?” She’d meant her tart words as a set down. Instead, they conveyed an alarming amount of feminine interest.
He ignored both sullenness and possible interest to answer honestly, “Occasionally.” Then, as if she’d asked, he explained, “I have two sisters. One older, one younger. And a niece who enjoys being prettied up.”
“Prettied up?”
“She’s five.” He let go of her hair, allowing it to cascade down around her shoulders but free of falling in her face.
“I also have two nephews,” he volunteered. “My sisters and their children live with me.”
“And your wife?” The question sizzled the air between them. She told herself that, again, she hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, but held her breath for his answer.
His sudden grin turned cocksure.
She almost hated him and could blame no one but herself.
“I’m not married,” he said.
“Oh.” She infused in that single word complete disinterest. She knew how to do it with mastery. She’d learned that lesson protecting her own feelings in the drawing rooms of the ton.
And the impact on the Irishman was like a slap in the face.
The humor vanished from his eyes.
Rocking back on his heels, he stood with easy grace.
“Here, you are probably hungry.” He took several pieces of dried beef from the knapsack and dropped them in her lap.
Taking a tin cup out next, he said, “Let me see if I can find water.” He didn’t wait for her answer but walked off into the forest bordering the opposite side of the road.
Lyssa watched his broad, straight back until he disappeared from view. She lowered her gaze to the three strips of beef and felt guilty. She told herself she’d done nothing wrong. Society had a pecking order and it would not be wise for her to become too familiar with Mr. Campion.
Mr. Campion.
For the first time, his surname came readily to her mind…and she was ashamed of herself for not using it earlier, because she of all people knew what it was like to be treated as if she didn’t matter.
Still, he was only an Irishman…
She put her shoes on. The bandages he’d tied around her feet prevented the still wet leather from rubbing the blisters, and she found she could move reasonably well.
After taking a moment to seeing to her needs, she returned to the rock and chewed on the salty beef while waiting for him to return with water, which he did presently.
He offered the cup to her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, not meeting his eyes and yet knowing she could not avoid this unpleasant task forever. So, she took a sip, forced herself to look at him and said, “Thank you for your doctoring. And I’m sorry for my”—she paused for the right word—“my earlier churlishness, Mr. Campion.”
The apology was not so hard to speak aloud as she had feared. However, instead of being gracious, he grunted a response.
Grunted.
Like some hack driver.
After she’d apologized!
Lyssa had rarely apologized to anyone in her life. Of course, she’d never had a need to until this moment, another crime she could lay at his arrogant Irish feet.
She stood abruptly. It was either do that or throw the cup of water in his face—which she was very tempted to do.