Connor’s eyes narrowed. “This has happened before, has it nae?”
“Daenae.”
He held her gaze for another breath, then took the cup before her hands could betray her further. He set it on the table and tore a piece of bread, placing it beside the tea.
A knock sounded at the door.
Violet pulled the linen higher around her chest. Connor crossed the room at once and opened the door only wide enough to take another towel and wave the servant away. No face appeared in the gap as he locked the door again.
When Violet rose from the tub, he turned his head away and held out a dry linen without looking. She reached for it, but her wet foot slipped against the wooden floor. His arm caught her around the waist, hard and quick.
For a moment, she stood wrapped in damp linen against him, cold water running down her calves, her hair clinging to her cheek. Connor stared at the wall over her shoulder. His jaw worked once. He released her as soon as she could stand on her own and stepped back.
His restraint cut deeper than teasing would have. She could fight arrogance. She could fight command. This carefulness left her with wet eyes and no enemy to blame.
Connor draped her gown over the chair and turned away. “Wrap yerself. I will leave ye to dress.”
He moved toward the door.
Violet looked at the gown folded over the chair, the cooling tea, the angelica on the table, and the locked door he had guarded like a wall between her and the world below. If he left, the room would hold only the bitter taste in her mouth and the old memories.
So her fingers closed around the linen at her chest, and she forced her lips to part and one word to escape them.
“Stay.”
Connor stopped with his hand on the knob.
22
He did not turn at once.
Violet stood by the chair with the linen clutched high against her chest, damp hair sticking to her cheek, cold water still running in small rivulets down the back of her calves.
At last, Connor turned his head.
“Why?” he asked.
Violet gripped the linen tighter. “Because I said so.”
His eyebrow lifted. “That is usually me answer.”
“Then ye should appreciate it.”
“I appreciate clear answers. That wasnae one.”
She hated him a little for asking. She hated him more for standing there in his shirtsleeves, coat discarded over the screen for her modesty, his hair wind-whipped from the road and his face unreadable.
He had not washed the market dust from his boots. He had brought her here, ordered water, guarded the door, turned his gaze away, and handed her linen as if her pride mattered even while she shook too badly to stand on her own.
She could not tell him that.
“The room is cold,” she said.
Connor glanced at the fire. “It isnae.”
“Well, the tavern is loud.”
“It is quieter with the door closed.”
