Page 37 of The Defiant One
His hands were far more gentle than his tone of voice as he caught the ripped edge of her sleeve. "Hold still."
With one sharp jerk, he tore the shirt from elbow to cuff. Celsie, who was beginning to wonder if she was squeamish about seeing her own blood, refused to look at the exposed wound. Instead, she gazed up at his face, grave now as he gave his attention to her arm, and tried to take her mind off what he was doing. Looking at his face made it very easy to take her mind off what he was doing. Did he have that same intense, focused look when he was inventing something brilliant? Did he give that same single-minded concentration to everything he did? And oh, what would it feel like to have that powerful concentration fully directed on her?
In the bedroom?
Now, where on earth had that thought come from?
Suddenly flustered, she forced herself to think of her arm instead. He may not be a surgeon, but he went about his task in a confident, no-nonsense sort of way that was wonderfully reassuring. His hands were warm where they steadied her arm, his touch gentle but firm. All too soon he was wrapping the makeshift bandage around the wound, snugging it comfortably, reassuringly, tight. His thumb holding the ends in place, he neatly tied them off, leaving her feeling strangely bereft as he finally relinquished her arm.
"Thank you," she said, sitting up a bit and rubbing her arm through the bandage. "It feels better already."
"Keep it clean and I doubt you'll even see a scar from it."
His gaze met hers, and something warm and undefinable passed between them. Celsie flushed, a jolt of current leaping through her, its heat settling in her very bones even as Andrew stiffened. They both looked away at the same time, and Celsie decided that it was long since time she got up and removed herself to the safety of the other seat.
She slid gingerly off his lap and took the seat across from him. The space around her felt cold. Empty.
The emotions welled up in her heart again. She wrapped her fingers together and squeezed, hard, trying to divert the sudden sting of unshed tears. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Andrew, who had lapsed back into sullen silence, his gaze, like hers, redirected out the window.
Reality was bad enough. But God help her, this punishing silence, this awkwardness, was downright unbearable.
"Where are we going?" she finally asked.
He kept his gaze directed out the window. "Where would you like to go?"
"Anywhere, except back there. What about you?"
"Anywhere, except the altar."
"You really don't want to marry me, do you?"
"No, I don't."
"Which proves that you really don't want me for my money."
"No offense, madam, but I really don't want you at all."
Though Celsie didn't want to marry him either, no woman wanted to be rejected so bluntly, especially when the one doing the rejecting was without doubt one of the handsomest men in all of England. "Well, I can't blame you there," she said breezily, though there was a hard edge to her voice that she couldn't quite conceal. "I suppose the idea of marrying an heiress must be quite appealing, but even a fortune could never make up for the fact that you'd have a wife with no tits."
His head snapped around. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me. I know you men all like to compare attributes and acquisitions, and my diminutive chest would be a constant source of embarrassment to you, to be sure."
"Your language, madam, leaves much to be desired."
"So does my chest, if most men's opinions are to be believed."
He flushed angrily. "I could care less about most men's opinions. And for what it's worth, I happen to think you are most prettily endowed."
"And you expect me to believe you?"
"And why the blazes wouldn't you believe me?"
"I know what men say about me."
"Do you, now?"
"I do. And I am utterly convinced that I do not measure up, if you know what I mean."
