“You need not thank me,” he murmured. “I am glad to be useful.”
She set the medicines aside and folded her hands. “Did anyone question your purchases?” she asked quietly.
“Only a little. I said I was restoring the Admiral’s supplies.”
A small breath escaped her, whether relief or weariness he could not tell.
He hesitated, then ventured, “Mrs. Larkin… forgive me if this is impertinent, but may I ask how you came to be at the fishing hut this morning?”
Her eyes flicked towards him—alert yet guarded. He had struck at precisely the place she did not wish him to tread.
“It is a path I take from time to time,” she said evenly, “for the freshness of the air.”
“Ah.” He smiled gently, hoping to ease rather than trap. “Then it appears we share the same habit.”
Her expression flickered.
He continued lightly, “I walk most mornings before breaking my fast. It helps to clear my thoughts.”
She studied him with suspicion softened by uncertainty.
“And this morning?” she asked.
“This morning,” he said, “I saw you take the cliff path. I meant only to greet you, but when I reached the hut, I heard the sounds of distress. That is all.”
He saw the moment she accepted this—at least partly. Her posture eased somewhat, though her eyes remained wary.
“You should not have involved yourself,” she murmured.
He almost laughed. “A man was bleeding to death, and you—alone—were trying to lift him. You needed assistance, whether you wish to admit it or not.”
She turned slightly, as though the weight of the truth made her uncomfortable.
He softened his voice. “Mrs. Larkin… I am not your enemy.”
Something in her expression changed—very slightly, like the shifting of a curtain revealing only a sliver of what lay behind.
She looked at the folded blankets. “Blake is resting now.”
“Blake?” Edmund repeated.
Her silence stretched for too long.
He pretended not to notice. “Nevertheless, he will need care. And you, Mrs. Larkin, have a school to run, lessons to teach and two dozen girls to mind.”
Her lips parted, ready to refuse him; he saw it before she spoke.
He held up a hand. “I am accustomed to nursing men with injuries far worse than these and I have the strength to move him should he worsen. Allow me to assist. You may check how he does as your duties permit.”
She shook her head. “It is not your duty.”
“Perhaps not,” he said gently, “but it is practical.”
Her eyes lifted to his, storm-grey and striking in their reluctance.
He continued softly, “I give you my word I will keep my involvement discreet.”
She looked away, her thoughts clearly in conflict. He had no desire to push her—only to help her, and perhaps learn who had inflicted such cruelty upon the poor soul she was struggling to protect.
