His gray gaze measured her a moment. His voice took on the coaxing gentleness one used with a skittish horse. “Aye, I’m certain you can. However, I’ve a bit of experience from mydays in the army. So, if you’ll allow me…” He didn’t wait for permission but pulled her right foot to him, and she let him. Maybe because she was tired. Maybe because she was a bit susceptible to that fabled Irish charm.
Either way, she didn’t argue. Instead, she watched as he deftly untied the laces of her shoes. The morning breeze ruffled his hair. It wasn’t as dark as she’d first thought it was. It was sleekly straight and as feathered as a bird’s wing with brushes of red on the tips as if he’d spent hours in the out-of-doors.
He needed a haircut. By a good barber. She wondered if there would be some curl…
He pulled off her right shoe and shook his head. “What kind of socks are these to wear for walking?”
“They’re French,” she protested as he drew off her other shoe. “Nor was I planning to walk.”
“They should be wool or good cotton.”
“I always wear silk—”
Before she realized what he was about, he reached up her skirt and untied her garter, his fingers tickling the tender skin behind her knee.
Lyssa slapped her skirt down before he could go for the other leg. “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded. No one had ever taken such liberties before.
“Don’t worry, Miss Harrell,” he cooed. “ ’Tis only a garter.”
“Located in a place where a gentleman shouldn’t be placing his hands,” she responded crisply. Even now her skin still tingled from the brush of his fingers.
He grinned, completely unrepentant, the slightly lopsided expression giving him a younger, more carefree appearance. “And what are you going to do now? Slap my face at the indignity?” He laughed. “Relax, Miss Harrell, I have sisters. Garters are no mystery to me, nor shall I go rabid and ‘attack’ you over the sight of one.” He rolled the stocking down over her ankle with a journey-man’s attitude.
Lyssa didn’t know if she should be relieved by his words or insulted that he obviously didn’t find her attractive. Of course, she was three and twenty and the duchess had been warning her she almost in her dotage…but surprisingly, this minute was the first time she’d ever cared about her age.
“I don’t imagine most women,includingyour sisters, let you untie their garters?”
“Some have,” he disagreed without looking up but his mind obviously wasn’t on the conversation. Instead, he frowned at the angry blisters on her toe and heel.
His attitude changed, and he looked up at her. “These must be treated immediately,” he said. “I can’t believe you were walking on them. Take off your other stocking.” He took his knapsack off his shoulders, dropped it to the ground, and began rummaging inside until he found a tin and a small sewing kit.
Holding the stocking she’d just pulled off her other foot, Lyssa frowned as he pulled a sharp needle from the kit. “What are you going to do?”
“The salve in this tin will cure anything.” He unscrewed the lid and set it aside.
“And the needle?”
“If you are squeamish, close your eyes.”
“Why—?” she started to ask and then gasped as without a moment’s hesitation he lifted her foot and slid the needle into the base of one of her blisters.
Lyssa struggled to be brave but the truth was, she’d never been a good patient, especially after years of watching the doctors treat her mother. However, the Irishman moved quickly, doctoring one foot, then the other. It was all done before she realized it.
He covered the last blister he worked on with the warmth of his hand. “Didn’t hurt, did it?”
She shook her head, mortified into silence, her hands gripping the edge of her stone seat for courage.
If he noticed her distress, he gave no indication but went about his business applying salve.
Slowly, she began to relax—
“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.
