He watched her, eyes wary.
“Water, Sir John?” she asked, nodding toward the jug and glass on the side table.
He slowly reached out his hand, elbow propped on the bed.
She poured a glass with trembling fingers and held it out to him, but he did not take it. He only looked at her, arm upraised. He moved his hand away from the glass, yet left it extended toward her.
“No?” She set down the glass and nervously eyed him. She recalled holding his glove found after the wreck, and wondering if she’d ever held his hand. Tentatively, she slid the fingers of her good hand over his and gave them a gentle squeeze. She waited anxiously, but he did not grab tight or pull her into his bed. Nor repeat his request that she join him there. For a few moments more they remained as they were, she standing, he lying, gazes touching, fingers entwined.
Then she said, “I shall sit here by the fire and keep you company until you fall asleep, shall I?”
With a slight nod of resignation, he released her hand and lowered his arm.
She sat in the cushioned chair near the fire, angling the chair to better see Sir John. She gathered a lap rug over her legs and settled back. “You sleep now, Sir John.”
“That’s all I do is sleep...” he murmured, but already his eyes were drifting closed.
She awoke with a start many hours later, surprised to see dim dawn light seeping in between the shutters. She looked over at the bed and found Sir John watching her, an extra pillow propped under his head.
Self-consciously, she straightened in the chair, wincing at her stiff neck and numb arm. She glanced down at herself, relievedto find her nightclothes were not askew, and still covered her modestly.
“I ... didn’t intend to sleep here all night.”
“I’m glad you did,” he said. “I liked having you here, though it cannot have been comfortable.”
In more ways than one, she thought, rising gingerly.
He added, “I’ll have that water now, if you don’t mind.”
She hesitated. If he had managed to place a second pillow under his head, he could likely slide over and help himself to a glass of water.
She walked forward slowly. She didn’t mind helping him, but she was wary of his motives. Or was he simply accustomed to being served?
She handed him the glass, and this time he took it and sipped. His eyes dropped to her hands. Only then did she realize she was unconsciously rubbing one hand with the other, trying to restore feeling and dispel the prickling numbness. Her efforts were somewhat hindered by the rigid bandage.
He handed back the glass and she returned it to the side table.
“Sit,” he commanded.
“What?”
“Just sit.” He nodded toward the bed. Nervously, she obeyed, sitting on the edge, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.
“Your hand.” He laid open his palm to receive it.
Thankfully, she was not wearing his wife’s ring. Even so, she hesitated. Did he simply want to hold it again, as he had the night before? It seemed childish to refuse him when she had complied once already, but somehow in the light of day, the act seemed more awkward and forward.
She swallowed and tentatively laid her numb hand in his. He raised his other hand as well and began gently kneading and massaging her palm and fingers.
Needles of pleasure and pain shot up her arm. Embarrassmentfollowed. “Sir John, you needn’t do that. It had only fallen asleep. I—”
“Hush. It is the least I can do after all your ministrations to me.”
She wanted to pull her hand away. Knew she should. But the pleasure, the relief, were too sweet, and she failed to do so.
So that was how Mrs. Turrill found them when she came in with the breakfast tray. Hannah sitting on the bed, her hand in Sir John’s. She felt embarrassed at being caught so close to him, and tried to pull her hand away, but he held it fast.
Mrs. Turrill smiled a closed-mouth smile, dimples in her cheeks. For a second, Hannah saw the scene as though through the housekeeper’s eyes. What a sweet domestic picture they must make. Husband and wife, hand in hand. If only she knew the truth of it. How her smiles would fade then.
