Until Meade lifted his gaze to her with pleading eyes.
But a moment.Gathering her dress, she swept back into the hall and approached his already closed door. Her hand was unsteady as she touched the knob. What could she do? What did she know?
Nothing.
Not of his injuries, nor the note in his trouser pocket, nor of him.
But she pushed the knob anyway. Too many candles were lit inside, and although she had expected to find him on the pallet on the floor, he leaned with his arm over his head at the window. The smell of night and chimney smoke wafted in.
“May I see the letter?”
He did not react to her voice. His voice was pain-laced. “Another time, lass.”
“This is not because of …” The words failed her when he turned.
In the candlelight, he was no more shadow and memory. Every detail of his features was visible—the lacerations across his smooth forehead, the white cheekbone peeking through a swollen and jagged cut.
In the strangest way, he appeared stronger.
Taller.
His gaze steadier, more mesmerizing, even blood-matted. “What are ye doing here?”
“Meade came to the coaching inn. He inquired after the doctor.”
“He shouldnae have asked ye to come.”
“He didn’t.”
Disbelief raised his brow, but he did not question her. Instead, he moved to the other side of the room. With a surprisingly steady hand, he poured water from a chipped pitcher into a mismatched bowl.
“Let me help you.”
“Not afraid I’ll hurt ye?”
“I deserved that, I suppose.” She pulled a linen rag from a peg on the wall, then slid next to him and dipped the cloth. The warm water calmed her uncertain hands. She had done this before, had she not?
“I can do it.” Tom stopped her before she touched him.
A jolt passed from his fingers to her wrist.
This close, he was taller than she had realized. He smelled like his blanket.
“Look toward the window.” When he did not obey, she used one finger to angle his chin, then pressed the rag to his cheek. The white soaked red. Her heart flipped every time he did not wince but she knew he should have.
“Dr. Bagot shall sew this. You may be scarred.”
“I dinnae spend much time with the mirror anyway.”
The village girls would be disappointed, perhaps. “Are you injured elsewhere?”
“No.”
“You are lying, sir.”
“Ye’ve not called me that before.”
She dipped the rag back into the water, wrung it, then swept it at his split lip. Unbidden thoughts heated her cheeks. These same lips pouring over hers. Tasting strange and confusing and frantic. He’d been as out of control, as reckless, as the Tom who had just barged into Joanie’s room and rubbed her entire face—but just as loving.
