“From you. You sent it to me.”
“No.” She shook her head vehemently and regretted it at once. The sharp movement magnified the ache behind her eyes and for a moment her vision blurred. She pressed the fingertips of one hand against her temple, closed her eyes, and took a shallow breath. Quietly she said, “No, I did not. I never sent this.”
Jane heard, rather than saw, Morgan’s chair being set back in place. It hit the floor hard enough to send a tremor under the bed. His boots dropped next, thumping in quick succession, and then the photograph was plucked from her nerveless fingers. Jane opened her eyes, shielding them against the glow of the lamplight with her hand. Morgan was already on his feet and bending over her. She was startled into rearing back. Her head knocked against the headboard. At any other time, the bump would have been insignificant. Now it triggered pain that made her cradle her head in both hands and squeeze her eyes shut. She sucked in another breath and held it.
She felt one of Morgan’s hands come to rest at the back of her head, supporting her without adding pressure. The other hand worked carefully between her splayed fingers to remove pins from her hair. They made a faintly tinkling sound as he dropped them on the plate. When they were all removed, he carefully loosened the tightly wound coil just above her nape and let her hair spill down her back. Jane was not so numbed by pain that she was unaware of the intimacy of the gesture. A thread of tension pulled her shoulders taut as his fingers combed through the strands of her braid.
Morgan paused, his hand resting lightly against her back. “Would you rather I get Dr. Wanamaker?”
Jane did not hesitate. “No.”
“All right. Then let me help you.”
Wasn’t that what she was doing? She supposed he felt her apprehension. “There are headache powders in one of the valises. Small packets. I just need one.”
“I’ll get it. Lean back. Careful.” He supported her so she did not bump her head again and then left her side.
Jane eased the fingertip pressure on her scalp but did not remove her hands. She kept her eyes closed. She heard the clasp on one of her bags being released. “I think the packets might be in the valise that was on the chair.”
“Don’t talk. I’ll find them.”
Jane wished she had asked him to bring the valise to her. It was not lost on her that perhaps the more intimate gesture was not allowing Morgan Longstreet to sift through her hair, but permitting him to sift through her belongings. She imagined the packets had slipped to the bottom of the valise by now; she had not needed them once during the journey. That meant he would have to look through everything.
“If you would just give me the?—”
Morgan cut her off. “Found them.”
Jane’s stomach stopped clenching. She heard him approach the bed and remove the half glass of water from the table. He walked away again before she could tell him that what remained in the glass was sufficient. She let him go, heard the tap running, and then his second approach. He did not have a heavy tread, but his rolling stride was distinctive in its rhythm.
She eased her eyes open when she heard him preparing the powder but continued to look straight ahead. She carefully lowered her hands from her head and held out one for the glass. When he placed it against her palm, her fingers closed over it and brushed his. Jane brought the glass to her lips, but before she drank, she asked, “Do you dance?”
He was standing too far to one side for her to see how he reacted to her question, or if he reacted at all. “Do I?” he asked. “Or can I?”
Jane thought she heard amusement edge his words but that, she was coming to appreciate, was more difficult to identify than his walk. “Answer either,” she said. “Answer both.”
“Drink first.”
Jane saw two fingertips appear at the bottom of her glass. There was a nudge, gentle but firm. Her lips parted and she drank, tipping her head back to get the last bitter dregs of the medicine. Wrinkling her nose and pressing her lips tightly together, she blindly held out the glass for Morgan to take.
He did, setting it aside before he sat on the edge of the bed. “Is it all right for me to sit here?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then let me help you lie down.”
“All right.” Distress had made her unnaturally compliant. “This is not who I am,” she said.
“The photograph can wait.”
“No, I meant…” She did not finish. Morgan was tugging at the bedclothes, making a nest for her under the covers instead of on top of them. She pushed at the hem of her gown when it was trapped by the blankets and began to climb up her legs. He withdrew immediately, for which she was grateful, and let her finish arranging the covers herself. When she was done, he only held them up so she could ease under them. She patted the mattress, searching for the pillow she’d put aside earlier. Morgan reached it first. He plumped it once, slipped an arm under her shoulders, and lifted her just enough to put the pillow in place. When she lay back again, the world righted itself.
She smiled faintly as she closed her eyes. “Thank you.”
Morgan reached for the lamp and turned back the wick until the light was no brighter than it had been when he entered the room.
“You did not answer my question,” she said.
“You’ll have to remind me.”
