But now she could see the reddened skin at his collar, and she reached out without thinking. He flinched at the contact. “How selfish of me to make a production of my discomfort. What happened?”
He shrugged. “My hat didn’t cover my neck entirely. It’s not a bother.”
But the sight of the inflamed stripe of flesh made something in her chest squeeze unpleasantly. She tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and leaned over, letting the fresh water of the stream soak the cloth. After wringing it out, she turned back to Will. “May I?”
His eyes were impossibly warm as he blinked, then nodded.
Reason told her their proximity was a necessity. The man was in pain, albeit minor, and she could relieve it for him. Simple human kindness, that was all. Perhaps if she put some benevolence into the universe, she could expect some in return.
But she heard his breath stutter when she leaned close, then catch when her fingers lifted the collar of his shirt. She laid the cloth gingerly, covering the reddened skin, then set the fabric back in place. “Does that help?” Her voice was weaker than she wished it to be.
“It does.” His was even raspier. Good to know they were both affected.
She sat back, putting necessary space between them. “What awaits you in Saltford? It must be important for you to go through such trouble.”
His brows furrowed and mouth worked for a moment before he pressed his lips together. “An opportunity to apprentice with someone.”
Why did it seem like he was forcing the words out? She nodded once. No need to bother him any more with her inquiries. “Well, it must be with someone special to embark on a Homeric voyage with me.”
The puzzled expression returned to his face, and she realized what she’d done. Her mother had chastised her often for being too erudite for polite company, and now she had confused the poor man who’d only tried to help her. “Homer,” she said, emulating the tone of her favorite governess, “was the Ancient Greek poet who wroteThe Odyssey, the book I was reading—well, pretending to read, but I have read it many times. He wrote other things as well, Homer, not the people who wrote the magazine, although—“
His expression shuttered. “I know who Homer is.” He pushed to his feet and stepped up to the back on the creek.
Adelaide scrambled to his side, regaining her equilibrium as she watched Will select a stone and toss it. It skipped along the surface, bobbing and spinning at impossible speeds before it gave out and collapsed beneath the rushing water. The muscles in his forearm twisted and flexed as he picked another pebble, turned it in his fingers, then threw it after the first.
“I’ve offended you,” she said, aching with the need to fix what she’d broken between them.
Pish. How could something exist between two people who had just met?
“I’m sorry.” She stepped in front of him. The cool pebbles lining the bank chilled her bare feet. “I made an assumption, and I suppose it was an incorrect one.”
He nodded, but did not meet her eyes. “You made a fair assumption.”
Shehatedthat response with a strength that surprised her. “But you know who Homer is—was. How is that?”
Will leaned down and sifted through the pebbles by her toes, rejecting several before he picked one. He moved to throw it, but stopped. “My father was the vicar in Wilmslow. I had tutors, but—“
He broke off and tossed the stone, but it sank immediately.
Several beats passed before Adelaide grew impatient. “What happened?”
She suspected he selected the next pebble at random, and he threw it with enough force that it missed the creek entirely and tumbled into the tall grass beyond. “He died when I was sixteen. A fever.”
The ache in her chest intensified, spread beneath her ribs until they swelled. “I’m so sorry.”
“No need to be. Too young to go to university, too old to be a ward. I could have gone to a workhouse, but the blacksmith in town took pity on me, helped me support my mum.” He rubbed a palm over his opposite hand, pressing the knuckles one after the other to extend the joint. “I learned his craft and took over his shop. Could have been far worse.”
“Yes, but it could have been far better.”
He turned to face her,finally, and the ache in her chest eased, as though whatever tenuous bond stretched between them had mended, at least in part.
She exhaled slowly to avoid throwing her arms around him and squeezing tight. “But a better opportunity awaits you in Saltford.”
The tips of his ears turned pink, and she wanted to squeeze him even more. “There’s a blacksmith there who’s creating more decorative pieces—custom door hinges, balustrades, fireplace screens.” He smoothed his hands over his thick thighs. She was suddenly jealous of his palms. “Making horseshoes and nails is good work, steady. But I want something…”
“More,” she finished for him, and the corner of his lips pulled up. He was magnetic, and every part of her wanted to be closer to him, particularly his smile.
“Yes. There can be beauty in something utilitarian.” Will pushed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “What awaits you in Barrington?”
