“Starch.” He hesitated, thought harder. “The lemon in your hair. I like it.”
Her chest shifted beneath his hand. “Thank you. What do you hear?”
“Ye, Violet.” The words escaped in a flood of unexpected gratitude and he pressed his free hand over hers atop his chest. “Yer voice. Keep talking to me, will ye?”
“I will.”
If he was asked later what she’d said, he wouldn’t have been able to recall a word, only the soothing cadence of her voice, the edge of huskiness that he’d noticed the first time they spoke and now warmed him like whisky. He did not know how he breathed with her, only that she was still there, unmoving, uncompromising. His broken pieces pressed back into place by her mere presence.
When the bands that had pulled tight over his chest finally released, he opened his eyes—when had he closed them? She was watching him, and her mouth tilted into a slow, cautious smile. “There you are,” she breathed, her voice deliciously soothing.
He flattened his lips but made no move to pull away from her touch. He wasn’t ready yet. “I apologize.”
“For what?”
He chose to avoid answering that question. Her hand was still over her heart, and his palm over hers. He had no intention of reminding her. “How did ye ken how to do that?”
“My youngest sister Fern sometimes becomes overwhelmed and trapped in her mind. We learned how to ground her again, to bring her back to us.” Her smile faltered for a moment, and her eyes dropped to his hand on her heart.
He removed it and shame flooded in. “Thank ye. Ye shouldnae’ve had to see me like that.”
She huffed and took her hand from his chest. Its absence felt like a cavity beneath his lungs. “Why? Because showing emotion makes you seem weak?”
“Aye.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It is no’.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Itis—”
“Blast this bloody door and its bloody knob!”
They both froze at the voice on the other side of the door. Before they could react, it flew open, revealing a wide-eyed woman in a drab gray dress. Violet whirled so her back was to his front, her backside pressed against his thighs, and he wrapped his arm around her waist in the foolish need to protect her from the unknown assailant.
“Mrs. Cullwick?” Violet’s voice sounded like that of a scolded child, and, given the glowering expression on the woman’s face, he could see why.
“Miss Violet,” she gasped. “What in god’s name are you—” Her gaze traveled up to meet Callum’s; his spine withered under the power of her glare as it melted his arm off Violet’s chest. With him adequately cowered, her attention turned to Violet. “What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”
“I—we got stuck.”
The woman huffed and grabbed Violet’s arm, tugging her into the hallway. Mrs. Cullwick glared at Callum until he followed her, his proverbial tail between his legs.
“Go back to your rooms and dress for dinner,” she hissed. “I won’t tell his lordship about this—” She brought her attention back to Callum and scowled. “Unless you want me to have this scoundrel tossed out onhis—”
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Cullwick,” Violet interrupted. “I appreciate your discretion.”
The woman took a handful of towels from the closet and walked backwards down the hall, keeping them in sight until she turned the corner.
Callum released the air from his lungs in a rush. “Who was she?”
“Mrs. Cullwick has been the housekeeper here since I was a girl. She’s caught me in trouble more than once.”
“Trouble with a man?” He hoped he delivered those words with nonchalance.
Judging by the bemused expression on her face, he’d failed. “No, with my sisters.”
He didn’t allow himself to stop and examine why that was such a relief. “We’re not ruined?”
