8
Mrs. Rumford stared up at him wide-eyed. Her mouth worked for a moment, as if it had sprinted ahead and her brain had not quite caught up to it yet. Finally words emerged, saturated with indignation.
“You give that back this instant.”
He narrowed his eyes, trying and failing to ignore how the vibrant blush staining her cheeks made her colorless features all the more lovely—or how her outrage made her so damn adorable.
“A strangely violent reaction,” he murmured thoughtfully.
“It makes one wonder what could be within this book to prompt it.” Then, ignoring her as best he could—which was, regrettably, not much, seeing as she was hopping about like a small bird trying to reach her property—he held the book out of her reach and flipped the cover open, certain he would discover some type of incriminating evidence against her, perhaps notes on how to infiltrate Lord Durand’s collection.
.? .? .? Only to find page upon page of small, close writing and detailed sketches of plants.
Frowning, he looked closer at the writing.
But no, there was nothing about Lord Durand’s glasshouses at all.
Instead, it was like looking into the inner ramblings of Mrs. Rumford’s very botanically infused mind.
There were observations of plants, how to care for plants, notes on the medicinal properties of plants, all interspersed with illustrations that were accompanied by precise descriptions of those plants.
He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head from the sheer bombardment of information.
Mrs. Rumford, of course, took advantage of his distraction, her legs coiling under her before she sprang up, slender arm reaching for the book.
But though her jump was impressive, he was taller than her by far.
Her fingers just missed the slender leather-bound volume, and she landed against him with a soft “oof,” the entire length of her pressing into the entire length of him.
Which was far more arousing than it had any right to be. Especially when she looked up at him with those huge moss-green eyes, her lips parting on a soft exhale that held hints of?.? .? .? coffee? Tea? Yes, that was it, sweetened tea. And it made his mouth literally water.
But it was the sudden and almost painful urge to bend his head and take her lips with his so he might taste that sweet tea himself that finally jarred him back to his senses.
Stepping back, righting her when she stumbled, releasing her like a hot coal when she found her feet, he held the book out to her, almost like a talisman against the strange things she was making him feel.
She looked at it uncomprehendingly for a moment before, face flaming even brighter, she ripped it from his fingers and tucked it in some hidden pocket in her gown.
“I’ll thank you not to do something of that sort again,” she mumbled through stiff lips, gaze firmly on his chin. Then, bobbing into a jerking curtsy, she spun about.
But she did not walk off. Instead, she paused and turned to face him again, eyes blazing. “No, I won’t thank you,” she declared. “I will tell you. You have no right to take my things.”
Why did seeing that spark of fire in her eyes make his heart pound?
Which just made him more furious. At her?
At himself? Yes, most definitely at himself.
He had never, in all his years of being a Runner, been so affected by a perpetrator.
He had always kept a level head, had never let emotions get in the way, had relied on cold, hard facts and common sense and a sharply honed instinct that had never steered him wrong.
With Mrs. Iris Rumford, however, he felt as if all that had been a mere facade, as if he could not trust himself. And what was he if he could not trust himself?
She stuck out her chin. “I don’t understand why you’re glowering at me. Truly, I have done nothing wrong yet. At least, not unduly wrong. Even so, you have laid hands on me and taken my property.”
The nothing wrong yet should have captured his full attention. What did she mean by yet ? But it was quickly gone in the face of her accusation. “I have not laid hands on you,” he said. “I hardly touched you save to steady you when you would have fallen over.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Do you forget our first meeting then? I recall it well, I assure you.”
Despite himself his face heated. Oh yes, he remembered it as well.
Too well, in fact, though up until now he had conveniently blocked that particular part of their initial interaction from his mind.
“I merely grasped your arm,” he mumbled.
Then, drawing on his outrage: “If you had not been sneaking about Lord Durand’s glasshouses, I would not have had to do so. ”
She planted her hands on her hips. “I am much smaller than you. If I had been any less skilled at self-defense, it could have been very bad for me.”
That made him scowl. “I wouldn’t have harmed you.”
“And I was to know that how? When a large male takes hold of a woman, there is no time to wonder if he is safe. No, to a woman, all men are threats until they prove themselves otherwise.”
She was right. Damn it, but she was right.
Hadn’t he seen firsthand more than his fair share of the atrocities men committed against women?
He looked at her then, truly looked at her, and tried to put himself in her shoes.
He already knew he was a good head taller than her.
But he also outweighed her by eight stone at least. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry for that,” he said gruffly. “I never thought how frightening that might be for you.”
Her eyes widened, her jaw going slack. “You’re apologizing?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” And then she did the thing he least expected: She laughed.
He stared at her. “You’re laughing?”
She paused for only a moment, just long enough to grin at him and say, “Of course I am.” And then she was off again.
His shock was quickly giving way to aggravation the longer those peals of laughter went on. He scowled at her. “I hardly think my apology is something that warrants laughter.”
That, finally, gave her pause. The laughter died out as quickly as it had started, the smile falling from her face. And it annoyed him how regretful that made him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. There was movement by her hands, and he glanced down, only to see her picking at the skin on one wrist.
“I’m forever misconstruing social interactions,” she continued, momentarily drawing his attention away from the quickly reddening spot she was creating with her nervous fingers. “You must have thought I was laughing at you, weren’t you?”
She paused, gazing expectantly at him, and it took him some moments to realize the question had been in earnest.
“Er, yes, I did,” he replied lamely.
“Oh dear.” The agitated worrying of her wrist continued, fingers pinching and twisting the delicate skin, and he had the urge to take her hand in his to stop her from doing damage to herself.
“I can assure you,” she continued, apparently oblivious to what she was doing, “I was not laughing at you. Rather, my response was merely delight in the situation. I have never known a man to apologize for something of that sort—well, I have never known a man to apologize ever, I suppose—and it quite took me by surprise.”
“It is forgotten,” he murmured, unable to tear his eyes away from her wrist. The spot was only getting redder, and with every pull of her nails he felt himself shudder.
But she seemed not to have heard him. “I truly never meant to offend you. I do hope you can forgive me—”
He stepped forward, startling her into silence. But though he ached to take her hands in his, he didn’t. He couldn’t , not after the conversation they’d just had.
“Please,” he said in as calm and soothing a voice as he could manage, “don’t let it worry you a moment longer. I’m not offended in the least.”
That, finally, stopped her agitated movements. “You aren’t?”
“No.”
The breath left her in a rush, and she deflated. “That’s good.”
He tilted his head, studying the new relaxed expression on her face, her easy posture. Why did her relief at his assurance make warmth bloom in his chest? It was as if his feelings actually mattered to her.
To distract himself from this wholly unwelcome reaction, he pointed to her wrist. “Do you do that often when you’re agitated?”
She blinked. “Do what?” She looked down, saw the angry red patch on the pale skin. Equally red spots brightened her cheeks, and she winced and shook her hand. “Oh, that. Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“May I?” he asked, motioning to her wrist before he even knew what he was doing.
She paused for only a moment before thrusting her hand at him.
It was his turn to pause then, no matter he had been the one requesting to see it, before taking it in his own.
It was small and slender, the bones delicate, making him feel as if he held something infinitely precious.
He cradled her hand, gently turning it so he might inspect the aggravated spot on her wrist. It looked angry, darker red lines crisscrossing it where her nails had been particularly brutal on the thin skin, and he winced.
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
She gave him a wry smile and shrugged. “Only when I notice it.”
Like now, after he had brought her attention to it. He silently cursed himself, even as he peered closer at it. “Have you done it long?”
“Nearly all my life. It’s not something I seem to be able to stop myself from doing, though I have tried.”
He continued to study the wound. Her fingers began to tremble in his grip.
In the next moment she pulled her hand from his and cradled it to her chest. He stood frozen, hand extended, feeling the loss of her touch down to his bones before, with a harsh exhale, he curled his fingers into a fist and dropped his hand to his side.
“My apologies,” he muttered.