He froze, neither jerking his hand free nor pushing her away.
Virginia was frozen, too. She had not meant to cover his fingers with hers. It somehow felt a thousand times more intimate than redressing a wound or tugging off a boot. Possibly because it was bare skin against bare skin.
Her winter gloves were over in her coat pocket. Gentlemen’s gloves either interfered with Mr. T’s ability to manipulate the wheels of his chair, or he saw no point in cleaving to such formality in the private solitude of his guest quarters.
She had never realized how soft her hands were until she had his to compare them with. Hot and large and calloused, his were the sort of hand her fingertips itched to explore. Not just the finger trapped beneath hers, but all the other fingers. Virginia longed to feel the skin on the back of his hand, to trace the muscle of his arm. She jerked her fingers from his as if scalded.
He did not move away.
She forced her hands to steady so that she could remove each boot without disturbing his injured knee.
“What are you doing?”
His voice sounded as gravelly as her heart felt. As if something had kicked loose. She was not yet certain if the missing pin was the piece that held everything together.
“Stretches,” she managed to respond.
“I can’t put weight on it,” he reminded her.
“You don’t have to.” She gently lifted his foot onto her lap and began to massage the tight muscles.
“My knee is the problem.” He gripped the arms of his chair. “Why are you rubbing my foot?”
“Your knee will relax if the rest of you does.” She continued to massage in slow, firm patterns. “Do you like how it feels?”
Even without lifting her eyes, she could feel the heat of his gaze consuming her.
He waited until she glanced up before responding. “Yes.”
Her cheeks heated. She returned her focus to her task. “This is how I like to be touched. Slow and firm. Not so hard as to hurt, and not so soft as to make the flesh crawl.”
“I’ll be certain to remember that,” he muttered. “Probably for the rest of my life.”
Virginia clamped her teeth together before she could say anything else.
She could not help but feel they shared a similarity with wild birds. His plumage, bright and colorful and magnetic. Hers, dull and gray and forgettable.
He was the most beautiful stray she had ever seen. She needed to concentrate on his well-being, not the butterflies he put in her belly.
“How did you learn to do this?” Mr. T asked.
She slowly moved her massage from his foot to his calf. “I’ve seen muscles atrophy from disuse. Exercise is ideal, stretching is second-best, and massage will do in a pinch.” She worked her hands higher, toward the cut hem of his breeches. “Mr. T?”
“For the love of…” He let out a sigh. “Just call me Theodore.”
“Let me know if I hurt you. I don’t mean to.” She slid her fingertips beneath the gaping cut in the hem of his breeches. “Theodore.”
She was no longer massaging his muscles but mapping the terrain. His knee was swollen and tender, but not grossly misshapen. She suspected its current condition was due as much to its owner trying too hard as to lingering effects from the original injury.
“Are you done?” he asked through obviously clenched teeth.
She stilled her hands in alarm. “I said to tell me if I hurt you.”
“You’re not hurting me.” He gestured to her hand inside the leg of his breeches. “This might be worse.”
She lowered her hands back to his calf. “What is your favorite soup?”
He stared at her. “My favorite what?”
