The McQuoids and Smiths had all finally gone, and she found herself alone with Mr. Smith, as she’d always thought of him in her mind, even now, and the whole truth would at last be brought fully to light.
And yet… A knot formed in her throat—there was but a single observer’s calculating stare she’d felt the whole while. Onlyonegentleman’s inevitable reaction she dreaded when her perfidy was revealed.
Lucy didn’t fear retribution. Nay, she ached over the loss of something—someone—she’d never even had in the first place…
Grief swarmed her.Guid, help her… She’d gone and fallen in love with the life-hardened captain.
“Miss LeBeau, I hit my head.”
Blinking back tears, she cast a watery glance at the gentleman. “Mr. Smith?”
Och. Here she’d gone being selfish again. Lucy hopped to her feet. “Aye! My pardons, sir.” His family’s audience had taken a toll on the gentleman.
She’d also been granted a reprieve. Not that she deserved one. Lucy mentally added “self-serving” to her growing list of sins. “It has been an eventful day for you.”
“I’ll fetch the doctor, Mr. Smith.”
“Please sit, Lucy.”
That “please” only slightly masked a quiet command.
Listless, Lucy complied. She should care far more than she did about the reckoning about to come. Braced for the reckoning she had coming, she averted her eyes and returned to the cobalt club velvet upholstered armchair.
“That wasn’t an order,” he said gently. “I apologize if I made it seem that way.”
He’dapologize? “You needn’t apologize.” A painful laugh formed in her throat. “Most certainly not to me.”
A strong hand covered Lucy’s smaller one.
Her gaze slipped to where Campbell Smith held her.
A wave of wistfulness touched Lucy.
She’d always marveled at his hands, at how different they were than her own. She’d dreamt of him sliding his fingers into hers. His were strong and specked with traces of ink, but in every way, they belonged to a gentleman who hadn’t been touched by life’s greatest hardships.
But here in this McQuoid household, she’d discovered something even more compelling—Arran’s hands. Aye, the gentleman was as noble as King George himself, but instead of living a life of leisure, he sailed the seas and worked. Dangerous work at that. So much so, he carried both the visible and invisible scars.
“Do you know what occurs to me, Lucy?”
Lost in her thoughts, Lucy looked up. “What is that, Mr. Smith?”
“The slight emphasis you placed when you said ‘I’ needn’t apologize, and most certainly not to you.”
“Did I say that?” She tried to think why that might matter.
Mr. Smith brushed the pad of his thumb along her wrist. “You did.”
Where were the fluttering butterflies at his caress? The wild hammering of her pulse? Nay, his touch moved her not at all. Only one man’s did. A man braw as any Scottish warrior.
“Given you saved me, Lucy, I’m clearly the one who needs to be in your debt.”
She protested. “Nay—”
The sandy blond gentleman wasn’t having it. “Which suggests you are not feeling very good about yourself.”
Good about herself. Proud. The list really went on and on.
She stared sightlessly at the light back and forth glide of Mr. Smith’s finger along her flesh.
