Page 8 of To Wed an Heiress
“Could you be a little less critical?”
She really did like the way he spoke even if she disliked what he said. If he tried, just a little bit, to be agreeable, he might be excessively charming.
However, his demeanor was none of her concern. In a short while, as soon as Mr. McAdams borrowed his carriage, they would be gone from here. She would never see him again.
For that reason and because she was determined not to say a word no matter what he did, she remained silent when he brought a basin of water back to the table. He pulled out a chair and sat entirely too close to her before taking a few squares of white cloth, wetting them, then blotting her head.
“It’s a good thing you don’t have a mirror,” he said. “You’re bloody.”
“I do have a pocket mirror,” she said, “and I have examined myself, which is why I know it’s only a scratch.”
He didn’t say anything in response, only shook his head.
Lennox Caitheart was an entirely disagreeable man. What a pity he was so handsome.
“I’m truly all right,” she said.
He wasn’t content to simply bathe her forehead. Now he was examining her scalp, a good two inches from where she’d been wounded. When he touched one spot, she let out a gasp.
“That’s what I’m talking about, Miss Mercy. You have another cut here.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, either call me Miss Rutherford or Mercy. You’re not my maid.”
“Indeed I’m not,” he said. “I’m not your servant at all. You might take note of that fact.”
She had closed her eyes in the past minute and now she opened them again. He was still entirely too close. She could feel his breath on her cheek.
“This is really not necessary. As soon as we get to our destination, I’ll have my wound taken care of.”
“That might be too late,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He meant to disturb her, she was certain.
“You need to get the wound stitched,” he said. “Otherwise, it’s going to continue to bleed.”
Without waiting for a response, he stood, went to the other side of the room, and grabbed the handle of the pump. After he washed his hands and dried them, he returned to stand in front of her.
“I’m going to have to cut a little of your hair,” he said.
She would have clamped her hand over the area, but it was hurting now. Just as he’d said, she could feel the wound bleeding more profusely, thanks to his ministrations.
“Well?”
She was proud of her hair. It was dark brown with hints of auburn, thick and easy to manage. Yet here he was, claiming that he needed to cut it. Not just anywhere, but at the crown. She was going to look absolutely ridiculous with a bald spot at the top of her head.
“Must you? Cut my hair, I mean.”
He stared directly into her eyes, his blue gaze giving her the impression that he could see right through her, viewed her vanity, and found her wanting.
“It’s not that I’m vain, Mr. Caitheart. It’s just that I’m on the way to visit my family. My mother’s family. I’ve never met them, except my grandmother and my aunt and it’s been years since I’ve seen them. I’d much rather not be bald.”
“I’ll make you a promise,” he said. “I will only cut what absolutely must go. You won’t be bald, I can assure you.”
She nodded, which he evidently took as agreement. The next thing she knew he was standing even closer.
He really should have warned her about what he did next. He took the whiskey bottle and poured it on the wound. Despite herself, she let out a yelp.
