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She jerked, her forehead crinkling as she looked to her right arm. She was still stretched out long atop the bed, her fingers clutching the handle of the sword, her knuckles white. And her jaw still hung agape.
Her mouth clamped shut as she cracked open the death grip she had on the sword and poked it back into the chest. “I…” Her tongue went quiet, unable to manifest words for a long second.
“How is your arm—the stitches?”
“It—it is fine.” She shook her head and sat upright on the bed, tucking her legs under her as she looked at Roe. “What was that?”
He took another sip of the brandy before his gaze met hers. “That was Weston. An idiot. An idiot mixed with days of no wind.” He heaved a sigh, his fingers lifting to touch the bruised cut along his right cheekbone. He winced. “An idiot I’m trying to keep alive and on this ship. But the idiot has a hard left swing.”
He continued to prod the throbbing bruise across his cheek, his fingers repeatedly twitching away in shocks of pain.
“My hands are cold.” The words popped out of her mouth, surprising herself.
Roe looked to her, his eyebrows lifting.
She stood from the bed, moving to stand in front of him. “My hands are always freezing.” She lifted her left hand, pushing aside his fingers, and she set the back of her knuckles onto his swollen cheek. The roughness of dried blood rubbed against her skin.
His head jerked back slightly, his eyes suspicious on her. But then he stilled, letting her lay the cold length of the back of her hand along his cheek.
“The cold helps the pain. Or at least it always did with me. And cold is easy to find in Scotland. But I don’t think there’s anything cold on this ship except for my hands.”
“Aye, that one is cold.” He reached out to grab her other hand. “Is this one as well?”
She pulled her fingers out of his grip. “Don’t warm it. I’ll use it next once my left hand warms up from your skin. You’re seeping heat like a smithy’s forge.”
His gaze went up to her face and an odd flicker of curiosity ran across his steel grey eyes.
Curiosity at her own actions that hit her just as hard.
She had seen him wince and immediately jumped to her feet to ease the pain.
It was true that she didn’t like seeing others in pain—she’d lived through too much agony in her own body to see anyone else suffer the slightest malady. But this was different. This was Mr. Robert Lipinstein. The very man she’d sworn would never find a day of comfort in his life.
Yet she was comforting him.
And she didn’t hate it.
Her hand still on his cheekbone, Torrie cleared her throat and looked at the closed door. “Weston is angry—is he a threat to the others?”
“Yes. But mostly to himself. And he’s the best fighter we have on board.” His fingers ran through his dark hair. “He just needs…managing at times. I’m just lucky he’s slower when he’s soused or he would have tossed me overboard. It’s nearly happened a couple of times.”
“Why keep him on the ship?”
Roe shrugged. “Loyalty. He’s saved my life more times than he’s tried to kill me. And I was him once upon a time.”
She stared down at his dark hair. “You were?”
“Aye. Raging at any and every thing that moved.” He lifted the silver tankard to his lips but didn’t take a drink. “I know that feeling well.”
The heat of his cheek had seeped into the back of her hand so she flipped her fingers over, the cold inside surface meeting his bruised skin. “But you’re not like that now?”
“I attempt not to be. I had to stop being that person.” He took a sip of brandy.
Her hand moved with him as his head tilted up with the drink. “When did you realize it?”
“In prison. The beatings I would take because of my temper eventually got old. So I finally stumbled upon the fact that I had to kill the anger.”
She nodded. “I know that—have lived that—not being able to be the person I was.”
