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Groans sounded behind her, resulting in a brief twisting sensation in her chest. Before she could return and help him up, he grasped the door frame, pulling himself upright, then hobbled inside.
With each press of his right foot to the floorboards, he winced and muttered a curse.
“Is it . . . is it broken?” Her whispered question breached the eerie stillness of the abandoned cottage.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. A twisted ankle more like it.” He glared at her. “If you would beso kindto assist me to a chair and help me with my boot, I will assess the injury.”
Was it a trick? He certainly appeared to be in pain. She took several tentative steps toward him.
A lopsided smile crossed his lips. “You need not worry. I’m in no condition for ravishing today.”
The gall of the man!
She squared her shoulders and strode forward, this time with more assurance. In front of him, she glowered. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Ha! You have a strange way of showing your courage.”
That decided it. She didnotlike this man. Nevertheless, he had been injured. Not to mention he brought her more quickly to Mr. Thatcher’s cottage than she would have arrived on her own.
He lifted his arm, motioning toward her shoulders. “With yourpermission,” he said, the last word uttered like a profanity.
She shifted her weight under his arm, finding it easier when she wrapped her arm around his waist, then assisted him to a wingback in the front parlor.
Muscles in his jaw tensed, each step a strange arrhythmic motion like a clumsy dance.Ta-dum. Ta-dum. Ta-dum.
He plopped in the chair, sending a tiny dust cloud into the cold air. “My boot.” He held out his foot.
Did the man always speak so rudely? “I amnota valet, nor a maid, sir. Take off your own damn boot.”Oh, dear. If Mama had heard that!
She braced herself for his censure, and, for a moment, his brows drew down, drawing her attention to his incredible eyes. Were they the color of moss or more like the dark leaves of an oak in summer? She couldn’t decide.
The debate ended when he gave a hearty laugh, and she wondered if he’d been possessed by an entirely different person.
After watching him struggle dramatically with his boot for more than she deemed necessary, she acquiesced. “Very well. Since you seem incapable of managing without assistance.”
“My feet are wet. I think they’re frozen inside,” he said, and to her ears, he sounded—sincere.
Her first attempt to remove the offending boot proved unsuccessful, her own wet gloves making it difficult to grasp the leather. So she stripped off the gloves, the action itself taking great effort.
His eyes trained on her as she pulled each finger free. Something hot burned in those green depths, and a shiver—not generated from the chilly air—raced up her spine.
Grasping the heel and rise of the boot with her bare hands, she tugged again, falling on her bottom—without the boot.
His lips quirked upward in one corner.
She scowled at him. “Stop laughing.”
He drew a hand over his face as if to erase the smile. “Perhaps if you approach it from a different angle?” He demonstrated with a circular motion of his finger. “My valet usually straddles my leg, his back facing me.”
So, he does have a valet? Although she should have guessed from the quality of his greatcoat and fine woolen scarf.
The prospect of having her rear end facing him did not appeal, yet she had seen the suggested action performed on her father.
“Very well.” She huffed, pulling herself from the floor. “But this is most improper.”
After lifting her skirts enough to step across his extended limb, she tugged at the boot again. It didn’t budge. Something pressed against her bottom, and she froze.
“What isthat?”she asked, the horror in her voice clear to her own ears.
