Page 23 of A Taste of Miss Honey

Chapter 8

Unwelcome Visitors

The Vicarage, Little Valentine, 24th January 1816

“Are you done?” Izzy called up the stairs to Boreas. At his insistence, she had brought him soap and hot water, for he’d said he smelled like a dead horse, and he could not stand it even if she could. She had offered to help, an idea he had stamped on despite her having cared for him during his illness.

“For now.” His voice was weary, and she shook her head, cross that he’d pushed himself. He was proving to be a very stubborn man and a difficult patient now he was out of danger.

“If you make yourself ill again, I shall murder you,” she told him, making her way up the last steps. She set down the bowl of soup she’d brought and turned to look at him. He lay back against the pillows, and their fresh white linen covers only highlighted his pallor. Lord, but he was still beautiful, his broad shoulders and powerful arms proving a most invigorating sight. Though she had tended to his needs while he was out of his head, that had been different. Seeing him now, awake and bared to the waist, made heat rise beneath her skin. The lamplight glinted upon the golden hair scattered over his chest and Izzy forced herself not to look, aware of him watching her. His eyes were alert, if shadowed, and when she had last changed the poultice, the swelling had almost gone.

“Stop fussing, sweetheart. I’m strong as an ox.”

She snorted at that. The arrogant lummox. “As an elderly mouse, possibly. Stop trying to run before you can even stand, never mind walk.”

“Yes, Miss Honey.” His mouth ticked up as she stood looking at him, her arms folded. “My, but you are bossy.”

“I’m nothing of the sort, but I saved your sorry life, and you owe me the decency not to undo all my hard work.”

“I owe you a good deal more than that.”

Izzy picked up the bowl and knelt beside him. “No, you don’t. Just try not to get yourself killed again. That is thanks enough.” She sniffed the air, the scent of the soap lingering. Bergamot and citrus, it was very pleasant. “You smell nice.”

He laughed at that, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches. “A good deal better, at any rate. That was very fancy soap. The reverend is a dandy at heart, I perceive.”

Izzy snorted. “Not at all. My sister’s husband left it when they were last here.”

“Ah, Lord Beaumarsh. That makes a deal more sense. He’s a peacock if ever there was one.” He nodded with a smirk.

“You know Lord Beaumarsh?” She stared at him in surprise, wondering how a smuggler knew such a man. But then he was not like the other smugglers in Little Valentine. Whilst she could not say he was a gentleman, there was something about him. He seemed far more educated than one might expect.

“By reputation only. We are not members of the same club,” he replied smoothly, one eyebrow quirking and a cynical glint flickering in his eyes.

He took the bowl she offered, and she watched as he lifted a spoonful of soup to his mouth. It was thick and rich, redolent with herbs and studded with hefty chunks of potato and carrot. His hand shook, but he managed it well enough. A low sound of pleasure rumbled through his chest as he swallowed. “Lord, but I’m famished.”

“I know. But you’d best go slowly. Your body has been through an ordeal. You can’t go overloading it with steak and potatoes, I’m afraid.”

“I’m fine,” he said, devouring the soup before her eyes and handing her back the bowl a short time later. “Still hungry though.”

Izzy laughed. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. I’ll bring you something else as soon as I can.”

She watched as he smoothed his hands over the bedcovers. Suddenly, he seemed ill at ease. “When I was out of my head, did I…say anything?”

Izzy studied his face. He gave nothing away, little more than mild curiosity in his gaze, but she sensed his anxiety.

“No,” she said with a smile. “Nothing that made any sense, anyway.”

Though he had spoken of someone dying, of wanting to kill someone, there had been such anguish in his voice, such pain, she knew he would be uncomfortable with her having that part of him.

He nodded, apparently satisfied, and ran a hand over his chin, grimacing at the beard that had grown. “I need a shave,” he grumbled.

Izzy reached out and touched it, smiling. “I rather like it. It makes you look like the rogue you are.”

His blue eyes sharpened, the atmosphere changing in an instant. Her skin prickled, suddenly intensely aware of the fact that he was barely dressed, and rumoured to be a devil for the ladies if the local gossip was anything to go on. Too late, Izzy remembered he was a dangerous man, not some tame creature she could pet and tease as she wished. She would be a fool to trust him an inch.

She snatched her hand back, realising how far she had overstepped the mark. Somehow, in caring for him so intimately the past days, she had let down her defences and forgotten how to act with a man who was little more than a stranger to her. In her mind they shared a bond, forged in fire, but he was not a young woman with a romantic streak a mile wide. No doubt he’d forget her the moment he left this space and never spare her another thought.

A slow smile curved over his wicked mouth and Izzy felt heat climb the back of neck, settling upon her cheeks like sunburn.