Her awkwardness was not helped by his curt, “Miss Harrell, your virtue is safe.”
She grabbed his wrists. “It’s not my virtue I’m worried about, but my clothing.”
“Your father will buy you new clothes.”
“But I likethese,” she returned through practically clenched teeth.
“Pardon me then, for it must be done,” he replied and ruthlessly finished tearing her favorite petticoat hem into one long strip. Splitting it into two narrow ones, he bound her wounds, giving her no choice but to accept his ministrations.
Lyssa crossed her arms lest she give in to the temptation to pound him around the ears. Where had her father found such a man? He was high-handed, arrogant…and rather attractive, shaggy hair or not.
There had to be Nordic blood in his ancestry. It appeared in the lean line of his jaw and the planes of his cheeks. His nose was long and straight save for a bump on its bridge, as if it had beenbroken. The bump ruined the symmetry of his face and gave him a masculine, defiant air.
A glance at the size of his knuckles confirmed her suspicions that he was no stranger to fisticuffs. However his long, tapered fingers moved with grace and would seem to have been more those of a swordsman than a pugilist.
“I thought the Irish were more often blond or redheaded,” she said. Her words were a peace offering of sorts. Did she really want to quarrel with him when they were being forced to spend so much time together?
He seemed to have reached the same conclusion. “Some are,” he said not looking up from his task. He slipped her stocking on over her bandaged foot. “But not all.”
She was struck by his contradictions. He spoke with barely a trace of an accent, and yet he could be rude in his bluntness. She had no doubt he was used to rough living…but she also sensed he could be a gentleman if he so desired…
He raised his gaze, and for a moment, they seemed to take each other’s measure without rancor. In the early morning light, she could see his eyes were not completely gray but had flecks of blue around the pupils. He still held her left foot, her arch against the warm palm of his hand.
“What is it?” he asked. “What are you thinking?”
Lyssa couldn’t answer him. She had the strangest sensation that through those extraordinary eyes of his, she was truly seeing him for the first time. Honest, razor sharp…and yet there was passion in their depths, too, as well as a bright, burning flame oflife.Intelligent. Clever. Subtle.She could even recall Madame’s exact inflection as she’d described the Knight of Swords.
Breathing had become unexpectedly difficult. The tarot card was still tucked safe in her bodice and she was never more aware of it than at this moment. “Nothing.” The word was little more than a whisper.
A heartbeat of silence passed between them, a silence she didn’t quite understand. A frown formed between his brows.
Suddenly uncertain, she broke the silence. Wetting dry lips, she said, “Are you done with my foot or do you plan to hold it all day?” Her words came out sharper than she’d intended.
He abruptly released her, and she quickly tucked both her feet under her skirts and reached for one of her shoes.
The Irishman began putting the needle and salve back into his knapsack with great care, deliberately avoiding her gaze.
“You must have everything in there,” she murmured, wanting to amend her brusque words.
“It’s wise to be prepared.” He still didn’t look at her.
She ran a self-conscious hand through her disheveled hair. “You wouldn’t have hairpins in there, too?” It was a small joke, but she owed him something. Already, her feet felt much better.
“No, but I’ve a leather cord if you’d like to tie your hair back.” His glance touched her hair. “I imagine it is a heavy mane.”
She nodded, again feeling that tightness in her chest. She was edgy and too aware of him for her own comfort.
He didn’t seem to suffer the same malady. Instead, he searched in his knapsack and pulled out a foot-long leather cord which he offered to her.
Unhappily, her hair was too much of a tangled mess to tie neatly. She attempted to comb it with her fingers but using the thin cord to hold it in place was impossible.
“Let me help,” he said.
“It’s fine—” she started, but he took the cord out of her fingers.
Rising on his knees, he held her hair up with one hand and wrapped the cord around it several times with an expert’s touch. He concentrated on the task at hand, oblivious to how close they were…whereas her senses seemed full of him.
The man was rock solid. With his looks he’d probably charmed more than stockings off of many women, and the idea that she might be just as susceptible to his charm was sobering. After all, he was completely unacceptable. Her father would rather see her dead than in this man’s arms.
