Page 46

Christopher loosened his choking hold on the single flower, tucked it beside the others in the tin cup, and took the three steps that brought him to her side. Close enough to touch. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to stop himself from doing so, certain that if he did, Sofia would realise the door she’d left cracked open for him and slide it closed.

“Still, my childish heart searched for a means to earn her love. I thought that if she never had to be troubled with my hair, she might come to like me more, so I fetched her sewing scissors and ran out of doors. I was getting ready to cut off my hair when my brother found me and wrestled the scissors from my hands. I exploded. Told him everything. From that night until I learned to do the task on my own, Oliver plaited my hair before bed.”

Sofia looked up, her dark eyes wide. “And he didn’t rush me, nor was he silent. He laughed and asked questions, even about the parts of the day he’d been with me. He listened like every story was new. Like there was nowhere else he wanted to be and no one else he would rather listen to.”

Christopher was certain his heart would never be the same again, cracked wide open by his sadness for the little girl Sofia had been and by his tenderness for the woman before him. A woman who was desperate to bring back some of the brother who had shown her love when no one else had.

He pressed his lips together, unsure how to respond. He wanted to hold her. To reassure her that she was perfect and loveable and that he would do anything to protect her heart from ever being hurt again. To beg to be the one who heard her stories about each day as she readied for bed. But he understood how difficult it must be to accept those kinds of words when love had been so cruelly withheld at an age when it should have been abundant. So he swallowed his promises, rusty in his throat, and kissed her instead. Softly. Gently.

“Let’s go and get that brother of yours.”

Seventeen

Christopher found Oliver to be astonishingly compliant, though perhaps resigned was a more accurate description. His wound was healing without issue and Dr Higgins was pleasantly surprised by his lack of fever. The bruising, though still significant, was fading from a violent red to an equally disturbing purple. Still painful, however, if Oliver’s grunts as he refused the dog cart and trudged along the winding path to the cabin were any indication. Upon arrival, Oliver strode directly for the bedroom.

“I’ll sleep on the settee in case you—” The door slammed shut. “Need me.” Kicking off his shoes, Christopher stretched out the best he could, grateful for his smaller stature when he pictured Hamish trying to find comfort here. He flipped open a novel, attempting to lose himself within its pages.

Christopher awoke with the corner of his book squashed against his cheek. Outside the window, it was still dark, but a hazy pink had begun to diffuse the blackness along the tree line. He rubbed the stinging imprint of the book and pulled the blanket back to his chin, pausing when he noted the sudden absence of snoring. Tossing the blanket to the side, he stood and listened at Oliver’s door. Oliver groaned.

He cracked open the door. “Oliver?”

“Go the fuck away.”

Christopher ignored him and entered, feeling about for the candle that he knew would be on the bedside table. He lit it, then sat down in a chair well beyond Oliver’s substantial reach.

Oliver’s lip lifted in a snarl. “Figured you wouldn’t be the sort to listen if you’ve stuck around long enough for my sister to fancy you.” His grumbling was interrupted by a wince, then he pressed his fingers into his temples.

Christopher found a length of flannel bandaging and moistened it with water from the pewter pitcher. “Hit me and I will dump the entire contents of this over your head,” he warned, pressing the cool cloth onto Oliver’s forehead.

With a groan, Oliver took the cloth and then stilled.

Returning to the rickety chair, Christopher stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “To save time, perhaps we can skip past the part where you bluster and break things and get to the bit where you realise there’s nothing you can do to run me off, and that I’m not such a terrible fellow to have around anyway.”

Oliver grunted, which could translate in any number of ways. None of them particularly warm or polite.

Christopher ignored that as well. “Your sister stocked the cabinets with willow bark tea. That should help at least a little.”

“If my head hasn’t split in two before the pot comes to boil.” Oliver’s declaration proceeded a string of what Christopher guessed was Italian profanity. Clearly, Oliver had received more than his fair share of the dramatics in the family.

With the stifling summer air hanging thick inside the tiny cabin, and without the convenience of a kitchen range, Christopher retreated out of doors to heat water. Working as swiftly as possible, he prepared the tea and returned to his prickly patient. He half expected Oliver to have squeezed through the open window in search of a drink, but he remained largely unmoved. A sheen of sweat had collected on his neck and bare chest.

Christopher’s surprise at finding Oliver still abed must have been evident on his face.

Oliver shot him an irritated look. “I told Sofia I would stay. I’m not going to skulk out the door and into the wine cellar at the first twinge of discomfort.”

Christopher didn’t bother pretending that wasn’t precisely what he had been thinking. “Good, because I don’t fancy chasing after you. Here.” He handed Oliver the tea, then shifted closer to help the massive man sit upright when it became clear he was not up to the task on his own.

“It’s just a headache, but it will get worse. I’ve stopped before.” Christopher checked his expression at the unexpected bout of honesty and nodded.

“She’s scared of me. I fucking hate it.” Oliver took a sip, bearing the bitter flavour without expression, then took another.

“Understandable. Hell, I’m scared of you and I have significantly more meat on my bones than your sister.”

Oliver sputtered into his mug of tea, then laughed. For the first time, Christopher could see a glimmer of why Sofia fought so ferociously for this man.

“That hardly signifies. You’re pint-sized.” Oliver followed the jab with a pitying look.

“It’s rather a skewed comparison around here. This estate has a preternatural number of massive men, but even you will feel petite next to Hamish.