In its grip was a single red rose.
A startled laugh escaped her throat. Gently, she plucked the stem free from the wooden clamp. As soon as she did so, the machine whirred again. A slender ceramic vase appeared. The pitcher suspended at the top of the device poured a dollop of water into the vase instead of the teapot. A tiny bell gave a little clang, as if signaling that this particular sequence was through.
Elizabeth brought the rose to her nose to inhale its sweet aroma. How very Stephen. She lowered the vase to the floor beside her bed and slid the stem into the ceramic column. There. She could look at her flower whenever she liked.
She gathered strength and pressed the second lever. Sparks lit the tinder, which lit a wick connected to an oil reservoir. The resulting flames were just tall enough to lick the bottom of the teapot.
It would take a few minutes for even a teacup-size portion of water to boil. She propped herself up with pillows to wait and to watch. The cup itself was already in place, from when Stephen had given his explanation of how the device worked.
Hehadbeen trying to help.
“No—be fair,” she murmured. “He did help. Tea is always a good idea.”
She was begrudgingly glad he’d done all this. Which forced her to consider the possibility that him offering help was not the same as calling her useless. It was unfair to ascribe to him any intention of making her feel incapable of taking care of herself, when it was clear that Stephen simply wished to feel useful, too.
While Elizabeth was being charitable, she was forced to admit that Miss Oak had also offered tea—and biscuits—without receivingthis much of Elizabeth’s wrath. But there had been some important differences.
For one, Elizabeth had beenreadyto leave her room when she’d accepted Miss Oak’s offer of tea and biscuits. Here in her strange bed at Castle Harbrook, with her joints still flaring with pain, Elizabeth was far from prepared to mingle with others.
For two, Miss Oak was a relative stranger and could not be expected to know the first thing about Elizabeth. Their limited relationship was one of service provider and client.
Stephen had spent most of his waking moments with Elizabeth for weeks. Talking with her, kissing her, learning her. But the one thing he hadn’t done when she’d needed his understanding the most was to stop andlistento her.
He hadn’t just hurt her feelings. Shecaredabout Stephen’s opinion of her. Viscerally.
She did not want him to think her weak or lesser, or worst of all, a broken thing unable to be fixed.
Elizabeth didn’t just want him to see her as worthy and strong. She wanted him to understand that she was the same Elizabeth she always was, no matter what percentage she was currently operating at. Which was why she had reacted to his poking and prodding by lashing out like a wild creature. By rejecting him before he could reject her.
They would both have to figure out where to go from here.
25
The tea was better than Elizabeth had dared to hope. The water supply indeed lasted all night, then all of the following day and subsequent morning. By then, she was able to collect the pile of hawk-delivered missives that had accumulated on the floor inside her window.
Her brother Graham had tracked down three different associates of the missing earl on the coast of France and was close to finding Densmore himself.
When Elizabeth rose to forty percent, she rang for food. When she reached forty-five percent, she cleaned herself up in the basin. When she reached fifty percent, she could have made tea and biscuits on her own. When she reached fifty-five percent, she brushed her hair and dressed in clean clothing.
When she reached sixty percent… it was time to face the world.
And Stephen.
She selected her sturdiest cane and made her way out of her bedchamber in search of him. Her heart pounded. Stephen wasn’t in the dining room, and he wasn’t in the earl’s study. He was in the Great Hall, tinkering with one of his machines.
He looked as handsome as ever. That much hadn’t changed. The casual deshabille of shirtsleeves, the molded-to-his-muscular-thighspantaloons, the ridiculous leather helmet with its monocle and miniature telescope.
He must have heard her approach. His head swung toward the open doorway, and then he jerked himself upright. He yanked the hat from his head, pressing it against his chest with one hand while the other fingers raked through his brown, helmet-matted hair.
“Elizabeth,” he said hoarsely. “Come in.”
She stayed where she was. “Good afternoon.”
“It isn’t a good afternoon. It’s a terrible afternoon. At least, it was, until I looked up and saw you. Now it’s a great afternoon. Or it would be, ifIdidn’t feel terrible. Let me start over.” He flung the hat aside and strode up to her, his gray eyes soulful. “I’m sorry. That’s what I meant to say. I’m sorry I wasn’t what you needed.”
This was it. Her chance to tell the truth.
“You could have easily been what I needed,” she said quietly. “All I asked of you was to respect my privacy.”
