Page 9 of To Wed an Heiress
“It’s just a little whiskey. Do you want something to chew on while I do the rest?”
“Is it going to be worse than that?” she asked.
“It’s entirely possible. How brave are you?”
Up until this moment, she’d honestly thought she’d demonstrated a fair amount of courage. After all, she and Ruthie had crossed the Atlantic Ocean by themselves. They had traveled from Inverness. This had been a grand adventure and it had taken some amount of bravery to attempt it, but he was challenging her ideas about herself.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly.
“Well, then, I guess we’ll have to see.”
He shouldn’t have teased her, but he found it almost irresistible to do so.
He’d been wrong. She wasn’t simply beautiful; there was something different about her. Her face was an oval, her lips a perfect size. Her eyebrows seemed to be designed to call attention to her wide-set brown eyes and their long lashes. As he watched, her camellia-like complexion turned rosy, and her lips firmed in irritation.
He liked the way she spoke, her accent one of sharp corners and crisp consonants.
If he could have avoided it, he would have, but he was going to have to hurt her. His question about her bravery had been sincere. Her answer had startled him because she’d considered the matter for several seconds.
She was a stranger to his country, to his home. Once this act of charity, and expiation of guilt, was done, he would never see her again. He found himself strangely remorseful about that fact and gave a fleeting thought to asking for her address. Perhaps he could write her.
About what? His desperation to keep a roof over his head? His need to find the answer to flight? His loneliness? What in hell could he tell her, that he was worried about paying Connor’s and Irene’s wages next quarter? Could they discuss his lack of a vegetable garden? His vigil on sleepless nights as he walked from one room to another in his castle?
He was feeling out of sorts. The carriage accident had reminded him of another, that’s all.
The sooner he was done here, the sooner she would be gone, and he would banish her memory as quickly as he could.
Chapter Five
Lennox parted her hair with his fingers, pressing down on what felt like the edges of the wound.
Mercy kept silent only through force of will. The very last person she wanted to whine in front of was this man. He would label her weak. Or something even worse.
He reached into the bag again, withdrawing something that looked like a sewing kit. She closed her eyes and vowed not to open them again until he finished.
She heard something liquid being poured into a bowl and couldn’t help but open her eyes again.
“What’s that?”
“Whiskey. I’m soaking the thread in it.”
She closed her eyes again.
“Do you sing?”
“Do I sing?” she asked.
“If you do, I certainly don’t mind if you occupy yourself by singing.”
“While you stitch my wound closed?” she asked. “I have quite a good voice.” She slitted open one eye to find him glancing down at her. “You’re going to say that you do, too, aren’t you?”
He shook his head. “No. I can’t carry a tune. Now close your eyes again.”
She took a deep breath and did exactly as he asked.
She heard him cutting her hair, each snip sounding as loud as a thunderclap. True to his word, however, it didn’t feel as if he was cutting very much. At least she hoped he wasn’t.
She was going to have to come up with some kind of explanation for her grandmother, something that didn’t include having an accident. She could just imagine the lectures she was going to receive.
