The two men rejoined her on her side of the tree. Bannister’s face was flushed, his jaw set. He inclined his head. “I apologize for laying my hand on you, Miss Lynton. I can assure you it will not happen again.” And without another look at them, he spun on his heel and marched away.
Eleanor blinked. “What did you say to him? I’ve never heard Edgar Bannister apologize before. And he’s had ample reason to.”
“What I said isn’t important.” Mr. Rollins took her hand, his fingers flicking the pearl button open at her wrist. He began to roll her sleeve up her arm.
Her heart picked up its pace. “What are you doing?” She tried to pull away to no avail.
“Checking to see if he left bruises. I made him a promise if he left bruises,” he muttered.
“I’m fine.” She pushed at her sleeve but it was too late.
His fingers tightened around her wrist, his muscles hardening. “What is this?”
The back of her throat felt thick. She blinked. “You know what it is.” The ugly red streaks could only be nail marks. It didn’t take a detective to see that.
“Who,” he said, the softness of his voice its own special emphasis, “did this?”
“It was an accident.” She finally managed to remove her arm from his hold and rolled her sleeve back down. “She becomes agitated at times, especially in the evenings. She didn’t mean to hurt me.”
“Your mother?”
She nodded, focusing her gaze over his shoulder instead of on his face.
“How often does your mother accidentally hurt you?”
She stifled a sob, willed her breathing to remain even.Too often. There were times she didn’t even recognize her mother. And then there were times when her mother was all sweet smiles and gentleness.
Those times were almost harder to bear. It made the contrast between her other moods more perverse.
“As I said, I’m fine. We’re fine, but I thank you for your concern.”
“Look at me.”
It was beyond her strength to refuse. She met his gaze, held it. The concern she found there was almost her undoing.
“Do you have no one to help you?” he asked. “No other family of your mother’s?”
She shook her head. Taking her mother to the country, away from society, would likely be the best option, but they had never purchased another estate once they had means again. Perhaps it was time to start looking, at least for something to lease.
He cradled her cheek, his palm warm against her skin. He looked up and down her body then angled her head, his gaze assessing as he inspected her, as though he could see beneath her clothes, beneath her skin, straight to her broken heart. “Do you have any other injuries?” he asked.
“No.” Nothing recent, nothing but some fading bruises. Besides, most of the hurt her mother caused her was internal. It couldn’t be healed with cold compresses and soothing teas.
She closed her eyes and just let the moment wash over her. The warm sun. A delicate breeze. A kind man’s gentle touch, his thumb tracing along her cheekbone.
“Miss Lynton.” His voice was like crushed velvet, soft yet full of texture.
She opened her eyes, her breath catching in her throat. She saw the same uncertainty in his gaze that she felt. The same want. She swayed closer.
A furrow creased his brow. He blinked once. Twice. Then stepped back, dropping his hand and smoothing his features to a businesslike concern.
He cleared his throat. “If your mother isn’t well,” Rollins said carefully, “if she is prone to violence—”
“She didn’t kill Lady Richford.” Her body cooled. How silly of her. In her stupider moments she dreamed of a savior, someone who would come to take away her troubles, to rescue her. And how nice would it be if that savior came in the shape of a man like Mr. Rollins, someone who would not only offer help, but love.
But those were the dreams of a child. She had no protector, no guardian angel. Her mother was her responsibility and hers alone. A part of her still wanted to tell him everything, lay her burdens at his feet. His shoulders seemed broad enough to carry them.
But he was an officer of Bow Street. His primary objective was solving the murder, not giving assistance or sympathy to Miss Eleanor Lynton.
