Chapter 5 #3
West’s chest gave an unexpected pang at the thought. He’d noticed the silver flash missing from her bronze waves. Hopeful, he’d attributed it to the notion that she no longer needed to defend herself in her own home.
To this day, that pin was the finest thing he’d ever purchased.
He’d blushed and stammered when he presented it to her.
That she’d used it to defend herself in a moment when he hadn’t been able to had always filled him with pride nearly equal to his fury with Draycott, the recipient of its blade and a permanent scar.
“I didn’t know—”
“He took it from me—Draycott. Eliza stole it back but dropped it when she fled the fire.”
West swallowed. He wanted to purchase another for her, sharper and more deadly. Hell, he wanted to swear to her that all her bits and baubles could remain purely decorative and that his body would be the only defense she needed. But she would not value either sentiment.
“Do you want to learn to use the saw?” The question slipped unbidden from his lips as he bent to retrieve the saw.
Black lashes flicked up to meet his gaze, her expression filled with surprising sincerity.
Her lips quirked up, quick and bright, the lingering darkness vanishing from her eyes. “Obviously.”
“Come here, then.” West tipped his head toward her. She sidled between him and the sawhorses. It was a perfectly respectable amount of space between them, but the distance still had his breath catching.
With one hand, he grabbed hers, then used his other to press the handle of the hacksaw in her grasp and tighten her fingers around it.
Familiarity washed over him, taking him back to more than a decade ago, when he’d wrapped his fingers around her hand on that silver hairpin dagger and demonstrated the best grip.
Her skin was just as soft, as uncalloused as it had always been.
West swallowed before clasping Bella’s graceful waist and spinning her around to face the planks. He had her caged now, between him and the boards, and she knew it—the little catch in her breath all the evidence he needed.
He allowed himself the unearned luxury of dragging his hand along her free arm before setting her palm against the plank to brace it, his resting beside hers. He wrapped his other hand around hers on the saw handle.
“Keep your fingers away from the sharp end.”
“Thank you. I never would have worked that out on my own.”
“You were worried about them earlier. And they are lovely fingers. It would be a tragedy to lose one.”
A sharp breath escaped her nose, but no comment followed. His own breath wound through that loose strand of hair she’d teased earlier, whipping it around the nape of her neck where a trio of tiny freckles lived. He’d kissed them before—just once—and they tasted like hope.
She swallowed and he barely resisted the urge to release another exhale against her skin.
“Drag it along the edge, back and forth. You don’t need a lot of force, just enough to keep it steady.
” He drew their joined hands back, her elbow brushing his side, before pushing them forward.
The saw carved an even line through the plank—Ben kept his tools sharp.
Together they repeated the motion once, twice, again.
“Do you want to keep going on your own?”
She nodded, and he released her, the cool air rushing along his now lonely chest. If Bella noted his absence, she didn’t show it as she dragged the saw back again. She was a little less steady without him.
West contented himself with watching her bicep work as she fought the blade. Physically, all of Bella was soft, curved, and delicate, where he was hard and corded. Inside, they were precisely the opposite. The contrast had always left him fascinated.
With one final draw, the cut piece of the board dropped to the ground, and Bella gave an excited little hop, then whirled around, blade in the air.
“Whoa there, carpenter!” he said through a grin as he plucked the tool from her hand.
“I did it!” She was fighting a smile, hips swishing beneath her skirts.
“You did,” he agreed, reaching for her plank—the cut was jagged and angled strangely, and absolutely perfect.
West had to catch the inside of his cheek between his molars.
“You may do the rest now. I am satisfied.”
“I may, may I?”
“Yes. I am much more suited to painting. I simply—”
“You like knowing how to do things you’re not supposed to.”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. “Precisely.” The word was delivered with less enthusiasm than he wished, and he couldn’t quite account for it.
“I didn’t see any paint in the shed,” he offered.
“It’s in the house. I’ll be back.”
“Is it heavy?”
“Is a singular jar of paint heavy?”
“Fair.” He chuckled as he lined her board up with the next so he could match the length.
“I’ll be back,” she said, a flush blooming beneath her freckles.
“I’ll be here,” he promised. It was an easy vow to make—his heart had always been here at Blackwood, waiting for Bella to slip out of her imposing castle to break the rules for a few hours.
She was going to wreck him again, and God, he wanted to let her. The problem was, as it always had been, he would wreck her too, and he doubted he could bear that any better now than he had before.