Page 6 of A Taste of Miss Honey

She glanced at him, noting his indignant expression, and softened her voice, making it soothing and gentle, the way she might speak to little Caspar if he grazed his knee. “No. Indeed, you’ve been very brave.”

He looked even more disgusted by this observation. “I’m not five.”

Izzy bit back a grin, but he realised she was teasing him and snorted.

“I’m afraid you will need to be a brave little soldier for a bit longer. I need to sew the wound shut.”

Izzy’s stomach clenched at the words. She’d done it once before, when their gardener George had sliced his leg on a scythe and the doctor had been occupied attending a birthing. She’d hated every moment, and that had only needed a few stitches. This was far worse.

She swallowed down the uneasy feeling in her belly, looking up at him when he said nothing. His gaze was penetrating, considering her in such a way that she felt he saw right through her. It was disconcerting, and she did not like it above half, especially not when she had indulged in too many nighttime fantasies about him.

“I can do it,” he told her, his voice surprisingly gentle. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Izzy shook her head, even as her less courageous self told her to let him get on with it. Her gaze drifted to his hipbone, just visible over the waistband of his trousers. An ugly scar marred the perfection of his body there, short but jagged. His handiwork, no doubt.

“I’ve done it before. It won’t be much fun, but I have a tidy hand. Far better than yours, I’ll warrant, if that’s evidence of your skill. It will be such a pretty scar that your lady friends will be all admiration.”

His eyes glinted at her words, a smile playing around the edges of his wicked mouth.

“I cannot wait to show it to them.”

Izzy gave a snort of disgust, finding the comment annoyed her more than it ought, when she knew he was being deliberately provocative. “Then let us begin.”

Ben gritted his teeth as the needle stabbed him for what he swore was the hundredth time. Nausea swirled in his guts, the brandy doing a poor job of numbing the pain but making his stomach rebel. Beside him, the vicar’s daughter worked steadily, sewing him back up. In an urgent bid to distract himself from the moment, he concentrated on her. She was pale in the lamplight, her flawless skin so fair and fine he could see the faint traces of blue veins. The spectacles he had once admired, comparing her to a sweet little owl, wise and solemn, gave her a gravity he suspected was ill-placed. His Miss Honey was a bold chit, courageous enough to go out in the dead of night to save a sorry specimen like him. She really ought not to have bothered.

He knew she fancied him, of course. It was hardly the first time a young lady had cast him as a romantic hero, without understanding the less than glamorous reality of who he was and what he did. He was no hero. His father was the worst kind of scoundrel—presuming someone hadn’t finally murdered the old bastard—and bad blood seethed in his veins. Well, what hadn’t seeped out whilst this sweet creature tended his wounds.

She plied the needle again, and he stiffened his spine, sweat slick on his skin, chilling him in the cold attic even as the wound burned. Swallowing hard, he forced his attention back to her, this earnest young woman who had risked her life for him. Her father was a good man, a brave one, and one of the best who ever lived, Ben knew. It hardly seemed surprising that his daughter was made in the same mould. There was a hint of steel behind that sweet exterior, the way she concentrated on the task at hand told him that. She wasted no time on sympathy, for which he was glad. In this situation, it was a useless commodity, better she save her breath and get it done quick.

A lock of golden hair fell forward, the soft curl impeding her view of the wound and she pushed it away with the back of her hand. The irritation behind the gesture made him smile. No, his Miss Honey was not a patient soul.

Not yours, he reminded himself.

That would be a nice way to repay Honeywell for all he’d done, by debauching his beautiful daughter. She was beautiful, too. Not in an obvious way, either, the glasses saw to that, especially when added to the challenging way she gazed through them, as if daring the world to underestimate her. He had noted her splendid figure the first time he’d seen her. Her eyes were blue, though he struggled to put a name to the shade. There was a hint of green there, an unusual hue that made them appear almost turquoise in the lamplight. Her eyelashes and brows were a dark gold, and her nose and cheeks were delicately touched with just a few dainty freckles. They made him smile, wondering if more appeared in the summer, if there were others hidden away in more interesting places. If she hadn’t been making him feel he had a new use as a pincushion, he’d have enjoyed trying to discover them.

As if reading his mind, she stabbed him again, and he sucked in a breath. Pain held him suspended for a moment and he took another drink from the bottle. Don’t think of it, he told himself, forcing his mind away from the pain and allowing it to return to the delicious little innocent beside him. Not that she moved like an innocent, and she certainly made no attempt at pretending shyness. She spoke her mind, and he’d noticed that when she walked, there was a sway to her hips that was entirely natural, that made him wonder if she was a sensuous creature underneath those proper, modest gowns she wore. He liked the way she moved, having studied it, though she would not appreciate knowing he had watched her, hidden out of sight whilst she went about her day. Not that he had been spying, not on her, at least, but he hadn’t hesitated to study her, to see where she went and who with.

“There.”

Much to his relief, she cut the thread and sat back, regarding her work with satisfaction. Ben looked too, observing a very neat job. “You are right, Miss Honey, a very pretty scar indeed.”

“I’m so glad you approve,” she remarked, but there was no spirit in the retort now and he could see she was almost swaying with fatigue. Her gaze fell to her hands, stained with his blood, and he saw her swallow hard. The poor girl was worn to a thread. She’d been unbelievably brave, stupidly so, and she’d got him to safety, tended his wounds, and sewn him up. And all he could do was vex her with his inane comments.

He reached out, his fingers catching hold of the errant curl that had fallen again. Twisting it about his finger, he enjoyed the sleek texture, the sensation stirring a long-forgotten memory of playing with his mother’s embroidery silks as a small boy. She looked up, her eyes wide and startled behind her spectacles as he tucked it carefully behind her ear.

“Thank you.”

She blinked, and he wondered just how much of a rogue he’d shown himself to be that she appeared surprised by his gratitude.

“You’re welcome.”

He smiled at her, exhaustion tugging at the edges of his mind as he dropped his hand. “You’ve done a reckless thing, but I am in your debt. I won’t forget that.”

Her lips quirked, something of the spirit he’d seen in her before sparking to life. “I should think not.”

Ben closed his eyes, his mind becoming hazy. Reality and dreams blurred together, the effort of staying alive while men hunted him down, of enduring the pain she administered so tenderly, had sapped every last vestige of his formidable will. He forced his eyes open again, finding her watching him and his voice seemed to come from a long way off, the words slurred and slow.

“Find your bed and sleep, sweet Miss Honey. Dream of me.”