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He leaned over her, very tall and overwhelming, his
eyes on her face.
“Did it hurt badly?”
She forced a wavering smile. “No, not at all.”
“You’re crying!” He somehow made that sound like an
accusation and she felt, again, anger in him.
“I got some dust in my eyes on the road,” she said
quickly.
He washed her face delicately, wiping her eyes with
wisps of cotton wool. She felt like a child again, sheltered,
cherished, vulnerable. Why was it so pleasant to have
one’s face washed for one? she thought vaguely, enjoying
the sensation.
He took her chin in his long fingers and turned her face
up to him. The savagery she had felt in him had all gone
now. A warm indulgence lay in his eyes.
“What a silly child you are,” he murmured, smiling
quizzically. “You looked like a little girl, with your eyes
screwed up tight, and your lip between your teeth. How
do your hands feel now?”
“Much better, thank you,” she said, very pink. In a
way, he was more dangerous in this mood.
He lifted them in his and then bent suddenly and
kissed them briefly. They quivered in his grip, then were
pulled away.
He straightened, still smiling. “What else does one do
with a hurt child but kiss it better?” he teased.
She turned blindly and stumbled out of the bathroom.
In a moment she was in her own room, the door safely
shut. She leaned against the door, heart pounding.
