AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She rose and waited for him to climb to his feet. She resisted the urge to help him when he all but lost his balance and tumbled down again. But he slapped a hand on the wall and levered himself up. “Which way?” he asked.
“Follow me.”
He did, leaning one shoulder on the wall. The house was small, and they reached the bedchamber she shared with Alex quickly. “Two beds,” he said from the doorway. “Which is yours?”
“You may lie down here,” she said, giving him Alex’s bed. Alex might complain later, but Honoria didn’t want him in her bed. She didn’t want the scent of oranges and sandalwood to linger and enter her dreams.
He sat heavily on Alex’s small bed, then all but fell onto his side. Honoria didn’t know whether to divest him of his shoes or see to his wound. Since his feet were still hanging off the bed, she went to the pitcher of water on the washstand and poured it into a bowl. Taking several cloths with her, she crossed to him and set the bowl on the floor beside the bed.
She lifted his head, ignoring his groans, and put one cloth under it to protect the linens. Then she turned his head so she could see the wound and began to wipe up the blood.
“What happened?” she asked as she worked, cleaning the extraneous blood and working her way closer to the wound itself.
“One of the revolutionary mob hit me with a spade.”
She winced.
“I should actually thank the dirty sansculottes. The blow sent me to my knees and I was kicked out of the way. My head would be on a pike at the moment if not for that spade.”
“You are fortunate indeed.” But his comment had sent her mind racing. Who was this man that the peasants would wish to parade his head on a pike?
He hissed in a breath as she dabbed at his wound.
“I apologize. I’m afraid I am not a very good nursemaid.”
“You’re too pretty for such menial work,” he said through clenched teeth. Honoria felt her cheeks heat again. She hated when men commented on her appearance. She hated when women did it as well, but no good had ever come of a man noticing her.
The water in her bowl was red with his blood, but even if it hadn’t needed to be thrown out, she would have done so. She needed a moment to collect herself. Honoria went to the window, and after checking no one was watching them on the street, she threw the water out and poured fresh from the pitcher.
“You haven’t asked my name,” he said. She could feel him watching her, even though she made a point of keeping her gaze on the stream of water flowing into the bowl.
“It is probably best that I don’t.”
“And what is your name?”
“Bernadette Deschamps,” she said without hesitation.
She carried the water back to him and knelt beside the bed. When she put the cloth to his wound again, cleaning the last of the blood, his hand wrapped around her wrist. “What is your real name?”
“It is probably best that I do not tell you.”
“You are English?”
Her hand trembled slightly in his, and she did not dare answer. Was it best to deny it or better to admit it? How had he known? Her accent was not Parisian, but she had worked on her pronunciation so much it was almost indistinguishable.
Instead of answering, she looked at his hand, then those eyes that saw far too much. “Release me,” she said in English.
He did so. She dipped the cloth in water again and dabbed at his wound. Strangely enough, she could still feel his touch on her wrist.
“You did not flirt with me, that is how I knew,” he said in strongly accented English.
“I don’t flirt.” She wiped away the last of the blood.
“That is...how do you say? A tragedy?”
“I’m sure it is.” She plopped the wet towel on his face. “Your face is dirty. Clean up while I see if I might find you unsoiled clothing.”
He pulled the cloth off his face. “I doubt you have anything as fine as these.” He glanced derisively at the room.
