Page 78 of The Truth Serum
Rather than say that, she focused on Nate. “You should be resting. How painful are your ribs? Are they hot to the touch?” That would indicate infection.
“They’re healing,” he said. “No infection. And I’m not leaving until I know you’re safe.”
“I am fine tonight,” she reassured him. “Go rest.”
He shook his head. “Tomorrow has other tasks. I want to talk about this now, Becca, away from everyone else. So you can tell me the truth.” Then he gingerly reached behind him as he stretched out on her bed. “But I will lie down, if you don’t mind. My ribs do ache.”
She watched him settle back, his bare feet lifting onto the counterpane as he sighed in relief. She remembered his feet from years ago when they’d gone swimming in the creek. Large, masculine feet. Hers had been tiny beside his, but now she realized how unformed they’d both been. Stupid to see so much in feet, but she did. He had calluses now that had never been there before. And could feet show weight? If so, his had been softer then. Now they were narrowed with hard sinew.
“Have you gone barefoot often?” she wondered aloud.
“Hmmm? We never wore shoes aboard ship.”
She saw the fine ridges of cuts along his soles. She saw now that it was his calluses that had saved his life. If he hadn’t had all that protection, the wounds on his feet would have gone deeper, bringing infection to his blood.
Her gaze returned to his face, seeing anew that he was a man now and not the boy she remembered. And the man was so much more impressive.
“I’m so proud of you, Nate,” she whispered. “You are so much more than I ever thought you could be.”
His eyes widened and a slight pink crept into his cheeks. “You believe me now.”
“I have since the bookstore. It just took some time for the truth to get past Fletcher’s lies.”
She’d always known Fletcher shaded the truth for his own agenda. She just hadn’t wanted to believe he would outright lie. Or that he would trade her away to a traitor—a man who sold guns to Napoleon—as if she were no more important than a bale of hay.
“Becca, how dangerous is Fletcher?”
She shook her head, but before she could form words, he gripped her hand.
“Do not try to pass me off. It is not a problem for tomorrow. It will not go away, and neither will I.” He reeled her closer to him until her leg bumped up against the bed. “You would always brush things off when you were younger. You’d say, ‘It’s fine. It’s not a problem now.’ And I let you.”
“Itwasfine.”
“You had bruises. I remember them now. We would be… I would touch…”
“When we were kissing,” she said.
“Yes. You flinched every now and then. There were bruises on your ribs. Sometimes your legs.”
She swallowed. “They weren’t from Fletcher, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Then who?”
Her father. It had been part of life. This was how men interacted with women in their families, or so she had been taught.
His eyes darkened the longer he looked at her. “Who hasn’t hit you?” he wondered aloud.
Nate. Henry. Well, not exactly Henry. He’d taught her how to fight back. He’d shown her how to defend herself, and they’d occasionally sparred so she could learn. That had been done in secret, far away from anyone.
“I know how to protect myself from serious damage,” she said. “And I know how to hide.”
“I will kill him.” The strength and power of his vow startled her.
She sighed. “He is my brother.”
“And he is supposed to protect you! Good God, when did this begin? Your father? Your grandfather?”
She looked away. “It wasn’t so bad. They never—”
