Page 29 of Mending the Baron's Sins
“You have to move from the ground,” she pleaded.
“No, I do not.” He shook his head, still bending forward. “Orla, if I am sick, I do not want you to see.”
“Oh, aye, because we women are so weak and feeble that seeing a man be sick will surely make us swoon!”
There was a single laugh from him. It was weak, but enough that she could hear it.
“I know what it is like to be sick,” she assured him in a whisper, her hands still on his shoulders. “The fresh air will do you good. Now, breathe from your stomach.”
“My stomach?” he said in alarm, lifting his head.
“Straighten yourself a little.” She steered him up a little with his shoulders. “As you breathe in, inflate your stomach with it, then expel and let your stomach fall. It stretches your stomach and forces it to relax.”
She breathed with him, their sounds filling the air around them. They competed with the distant hoot of an owl, then all fell quiet again.
“The feeling has softened,” he said after some minutes.
“Good, now. Let me help you to a seat. It will be far more comfortable than the gravel.” She was relieved to see he accepted her aid without question on this occasion, allowing her to steerhim away from the gravel and to a bench nearby in the garden. At one point, he staggered to the side, but she was there, holding him up.
“I’ll squish you if I fall on you,” he muttered.
“I’m stronger than I look.”
He sat down heavily on the bench, and she sat beside him, one hand still on his shoulder, a soft touch between them.
“Keep breathing into your stomach.”
He nodded and rested back, placing his head on the rear of the seat and closing his eyes. Gradually, color returned to his cheeks. It was no fast thing, and the cold air around them kept bristling them, making them occasionally shiver, though neither of them issued any intention to leave the garden.
“My lord.”
“Don’t call me that,” he begged.
“Oh, aye, that’s a grand idea. For me to call you Horace.” She chuckled and shook her head, but he opened his eyes, turning to look at her on the bench. The moonlight shone on the chiseled chin, accenting his handsomeness so strongly that her laughterdied fast. “You look tired. You should not overexert yourself for the sake of Mr. Gladstone.”
“He is my friend,” he reminded her, his voice earnest.
“That man?” She tried to keep the surprise out of her voice, but from the way she saw the baron’s eyebrows rise in the moonlight, she clearly failed. “You must be freezing.” She tried to change the subject and reached forward, flicking up the lapels of his tailcoat and pulling them tight around his chest and neck.
“What is wrong with Walter?” he asked, the trace of a smile on his lips.
“Why do you like him so much?”
“I ask my question first.”
“You must know enough of me by now, my lord, to know that I am not good at acting obediently,” she countered, bringing another soft laugh from him. He seemed infinitely more at peace now, folding his arms across his chest and breathing into the neckline of his tailcoat as he stared at her.
“Walter and I have been friends for many years. I cannot remember a time when we were not friends.”
“Aye, for it’s usual to argue so boisterously with friends that you throw glass about, isn’t it?” she said, taking off the shawl she had been wearing and wrapping that too around his shoulders.
“It’s not my color,” he said with wit.
“It will keep you warm.” She insisted, tying it fast around his shoulders.
“Friends who will always forgive each other do argue. It’s how you know you can trust each other.”
She was not so convinced. She avoided looking him in the eye as she finished with the shawl.
