She traced the bumpy but small stitches over the spine that kept the first three pages intact. They were not sewn like a seamstress would sew a garment, in continuous stitches, but as a surgeon would sew a wound, with urgency, with precision, battling to keep the blood within.
“You did this yourself?” she asked softly.
The muscle in his jaw worked. He gave a brief nod.
With her heart in her throat, Leena had sudden images of St. Silas in his study, setting aside the endless tasks always demanding his attention to do this. His brows would have been furrowed in concentration as he bent over the pages ofA Guide to Botany,weaving the small needle in and out with his large hand, before cutting the thread with his teeth.
“Where did you learn to sew?” she asked through the lump in her throat.
He gave her the first smile of the evening. “You and your questions.”
She smiled back. “You and your non-answers.”
He huffed out a laugh. “If you must know.” He stepped back and did yet another unexpected thing. He removed his jacket and began to unbutton his waistcoat. As he did so, Leena’s eyes widened with his every movement, unable to tear her gaze away.
“What…?”
He freed his white linen shirt and pulled it from his trousers, revealing the rigid expanse of his abdomen. He seemed carved from stone, all hard, brutal muscles, causing the long and irregular scar that stretched across his right ribcage to appear more startling. “Before Mrs. Van, there was only Arthur and I. There were some fights that did not require any suturing. And some that needed to be donein the darkness, with nothing but a small candle and a sharp needle to stem the flow.”
“You did this yourself?” She found herself asking the same bewildered question twice, almost reaching out for him, barely stopping herself in time.
His eyes followed her hand, and it took him a long moment to answer. “Yes.”
“You are a man of many talents, Lord Avon.” It took all Leena’s self-control to place her hand back in her dress pocket, where she clenched it into a fist.
His eyes moved from her face and landed on the large bed behind her. His color heightened, and he tore his gaze back to the falling snow outside the window.
Fire scorched her veins.
For the first time since knowing St. Silas, it was a marvel to realize that, here in her bedchamber, they both saw the same thing,imaginedthe same thing, and were caught in the same impossibleness ofit.
He did not say anything further as he righted his clothes.
“Do not give yourself cause,” Leena finally said hoarsely, “to bleed again.”
His only answer was silence.
Then St. Silas took out his pistol. “One last thing.”
Her nerves caught in her chest; there was too much uncertainty tonight for Leena to be able to reason her way throughit.
She remembered the last time she had held his pistol and what the result of that had been.
So much had changed since the Festival of Demons. In regard to Leena. In regard tohim.
“You remove the safety like this. Be mindful of the jar to your shoulder when it fires. Hold your stance firm so you do not fall back. You have two bullets before you have to reload.”
Her mind swam at the surreality of the night—at the fact that St. Silas was teaching her how to shoot.
“I will not need—” she began, but he grasped her hand and clasped it firmly around the pistol, holding it tightly there for a moment. Lightning coursed through her at his touch, almost painful in its intensity, but she did not pull away. “When you aim, make sure you aim two inches above your target for best accuracy. If you can, toward the heart.”
Next time—if you ever desire to kill someone, not merely deliver a flesh wound, aim here.
She tried not to sound afraid. “It is as if you’re saying goodbye.”
He gave her another slow smile. “Don’t aim the revolver at me.”
Reluctantly, he let go of her hand.
