“Laughter is always a good sign.”
Lenore gasped at the sight of a paler shadow separating itself from the darker ones clotting the chamber’s doorway.
The Highgate Guardian stood in the entrance, holding a basin and pitcher, linen towels draped over one arm. “Don’t be frightened, Miss Kenward. You’re safe.”
“Lenore. I have you, my sweet.”
She blinked. He had called her Lenore, not Miss Kenward and sounded like her beloved Nathaniel. Good God, how hard of a knock to the head did she suffer? “I fell,” she said.
He glided across the room and set his burden on the table by the lamp. “Yes. Fortunately, your quick reflexes saved you from worse injury. Had you struck the headstone, I doubt we’d be having this conversation now. You still managed to strike a tree root when you fell, and you’ve a cut on your scalp. If you will allow me, I’ll tend to your wound.”
“Unfortunately, my clumsiness nearly got me killed in the first place.” She tried sitting up, only to pause as the room swam before her eyes. When her vision cleared, she stared into the Guardian’s porcelain features.
“Peace, Miss Kenward. Let me help you.” He bent and scooped her effortlessly into his arms.
Lenore placed her hands on his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle as he shifted her weight. Unlike the hard black armor he wore when she first met him, he was garbed in the sober apparel of a vicar, minus the brimmed hat or white collar.
He set her gently down on one of the questionable chairs. Lenore waited a few tense moments for it to collapse under her and send her sprawling in a heap of skirts, petticoats and crinoline.
She offered the Guardian a small relieved smile when the chair held, wondering if his kind not only heard the whispers of the dead but the thoughts of the living when he told her in a wry voice “It’s sturdier than it looks.”
He seated himself across from her and waited patiently while she removed the pins from her hair. Lenore’s cheeks burned hotter with every pin she laid on the table, and the silence in the room thickened. The last time she performed this small intimacy in front of another person, she had been standing before Nathaniel in his bedroom, dressed in nothing more than a blush.
The Guardian busied himself with filling the basin with water from the pitcher and wetting one of the towels, his gaze on his task. Yet Lenore felt the weight of his scrutiny, intense and admiring.
The thought made her pause. Did Guardians feel as other men felt? Know affection and passion for another? Or had Dr. Harvel’s gruesome experiments left them so transformed that they retained only the shades of emotion?
“I have you my sweet.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Whatever horrors this Guardian had suffered under the mad doctor’s hands, he still possessed the ability to show kindness and express sympathy. And feel desire. She was certain of it, knew it right down to her bones.
With the removal of the last pin, her hair fell around her shoulders, thick and straight. She’d have a devil of a time taming it back into a neat bun, especially with her scalp hurting the way it did.
The Guardian stared at her, pale features expressionless. “Lean forward, please. I’ll tend that cut.”
Lenore did as he instructed and bent toward him so he could better see the crown of her head. She closed her eyes at the light touch of his fingers parting her hair.
The tree root she struck had left a nasty gash, and she hissed when he applied the wet towel to the wound.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I will do my best to be quick and careful.”
“I know you will,” she replied. “I trust you.” Those gentle hands rested briefly on her head before continuing their work.
To ease the silence and take her mind off her stinging scalp while she stared into her lap, Lenore asked a question. “Did you see them? The resurrectionists? I thought they were like rats and only scurried out at night.”
“They’re either growing bolder or more desperate.”
Her mind raced. Desperate for what? “I think they escaped.”
“No, they didn’t.” The gloating satisfaction in the Guardian’s voice was palpable.
Lenore recalled one of the thieves crowing triumphantly when she fell, its abrupt end followed by a brittle snap. She didn’t ask her rescuer to expound on his statement.
He took up the fallen threads of conversation. “Who is your companion?”
Lenore glanced at the dog from the corner of her eye. It held sentry duty not far from the table, tail thumping when she met its gaze. “Some poor stray. It tried to protect me when the resurrectionists gave chase.”
“Cleaned up and fed, she’d make a fine companion.”
