Page 19 of The Silversmith

“Smyth,” I corrected her.

“Whatever,” she murmured. “He scared the hell out of me the moment he walked in the door. Didn’t bother saying hello. Burst in, looked around, demanded to know where you were, and was back outside before I could tell him. I’m grateful that he found you before that wolf could do you in, but I don’t trust him.”

“He saved my life.” The words spilled out before I could stop them. Despite hardly knowing him, I felt the need to defend him.

“Yes,” she conceded. “But something’s off with him. He just spent the last hour pacing back and forth in front of the fire, ignoring me like I was nothing more than a throw pillow. I finally gave up trying to figure out what he was doing and came in here.”

“What?” My stomach burned with nervous excitement.

“Yes, and he’s probably still at it.”

I laid beside her and listened for those strong, swift footsteps. Was he still pacing? It took all my restraint not to check for myself.

Chapter six

Just before sunrise the next morning, I heard three solid knocks on the bedroom door. Gemma rolled toward me and groaned. The smooth, heavy footsteps informed me of our visitor’s identity.

I nudged Gemma and whispered, “I think it’s Smyth.” That was enough to get my snarky sentry up and standing in front of me.

“Come in,” she called warily.

Smyth ducked, almost too tall for the doorframe, and nodded at my right arm. “Your bandage. It’s been twenty-four hours.”

Gemma offered to help, but he ignored her as he sauntered to my bedside, waiting for me to offer up my arm.

“Gemma, can we have a moment?” I scrounged up the courage to ask. Day by day, I would get better at speaking up for myself.

“No!” she snapped. “I’m not leaving you alone with him.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’ll just be in the other room.”

Her eyes darted skeptically between us. “Scream if he touches you anywhere but that bandage.”

Smyth bid her farewell with an annoyed grunt.

He knelt down on one knee beside the bed, careful to give me space. While he unwrapped the bandage, I stared at his scars. The one over his right eye, reaching down across his cheek. Another on his thick neck beneath his ear. A third at the top of his forehead receding into his hairline.

When he caught me staring, a flicker of shame passed through him. Did he think I was afraid? The scars were brave, not ugly. He had something to show for his pain. Ridges, like a map through his past. He had a story, memories, a life, even if it was violent. I couldn’t even remember how I’d gotten mine.

“I, um…” I cleared my throat. “I never really thanked you for saving me.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

His deep timbre lifted the hairs off my neck. Goose bumps textured my forearms while confusing heat crawled from my chest to my belly, leaving a strange exhilaration in its wake.

I swallowed hard. “But I do… Thank you.”

Smyth stood and reached for the cloth bandages on the chair in the corner. I shivered at the sight of the muscles in his neck and shoulders flexing. I hadn’t known a man could be so intimidating. How would my mother feel about him here? Like Gemma, she’d probably be wary. Their distrust was likely one of the only opinions Gemma and my mother would ever share.

As for my trust in him? I hadn’t really decided yet.

“Did Alistair Winterton and his grandson send you along with the others?” I asked. “To fetch me?”

“I don’t answer to the Wintertons.” His voice was curt.

“Simeon then?”

Smyth turned to face me. “I don’t answer to him, either. But,” he winced, “he and I have an agreement of sorts.” He tore a piece of cloth wrapping.