He’d ridden roughshod over her, ignoring her stated wishes completely, and yet, physically, he’d treated her and her son with surprising gentleness. She felt cared for, protected…
He straightened, and she couldn’t help but look at him. He wore high boots and buckskin breeches, which were damp and clung to his long, hard, masculine frame. His legs were long and lean and hard-muscled. He’d told her his thighs were strong, she recalled. They looked…strong.
Rupert’s thighs had been strong too. She supposed all horsemen’s thighs were, but Rupert’s had been somehow…meatier.
He finished stoking the fire and turned to Nicky. “Now, let’s have a look at that leg.”
Nicky pulled back, ashamed. “It’s all right,” he muttered.
“Don’t be frightened. I’m not going to hurt you, but you were limping quite badly before and it doesn’t do to neglect an injury, take it from an old soldier.”
Nicky looked away. “It’s nothing.”
“Nicky’s leg was injured at birth,” Callie said stiffly. “It’s more noticeable when he’s tired, that’s all.” Each time Nicky had to explain it, she felt the knife turn in her breast. It was her fault, she knew, that her son had to bear this burden. She braced herself for what would come next—the embarrassment, or the hearty reassurance, or the questions.
Mr. Renfrew surprised her. “That’s all right then,” he said in a matter-of-fact way to Nicky. “I was worried I’d hurt you, as well as your mother. In that case, how about you fetch me some clean towels from the linen press, Nick—that’s the cupboard over there—and I’ll fetch some hot water.”
Nicky hurried off. Callie gave Gabriel Renfrew a silent look of gratitude. Very few men of her acquaintance made a small, crippled boy feel useful.
He took a paper spill from a small tin on the mantel over the fire, lit it, then stood to light the lantern that hung overhead. He had to reach to do it and she couldn’t help but stare at the way his shirt pulled tight against his deep, powerful chest. There looked to be no softness in the man at all.
Her cheek had rested against that chest. She’d felt his heartbeat.
He’d treated her son with such sensitivity, respecting his small-boy dignity. And he’d brought them both in from the cold.
Soft golden lamplight poured out over the kitchen, and as she glanced up their gaze met.
“Green!” he said, sounding satisfied. He finished trimming the wick and stepped back.
She frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve been wondering what color they were ever since I’ve met you.”
“What color what were?”
“Your eyes. They’re green.”
She blinked and had no idea what to say.
Nicky came back with a huge pile of towels, and Mr. Renfrew filled a large bowl with hot water. He knelt and placed it at Callie’s feet, then slipped off her remaining slipper.
“What are you doing?” she asked, startled.
“Your feet are a mess. They’re all cut to ribbons; hadn’t you noticed?”
Callie looked. Her toes were bruised and scraped and bloody, as well as muddy. They really were a mess. She’d hardly noticed. Her feet had been so cold, and though she was aware of some discomfort, other, more urgent things had occupied her attention.
“It must have happened when we were coming ashore. I do remember stubbing my toes a few times on the rocks.” And now she thought of it, they did hurt.
“Here, put them in the water. Careful, it’s hot and there’s salt, which will sting, but it’ll help the cuts to heal.”
Gingerly she lowered her feet into the hot water. It burned at first; her feet were half frozen, and the cuts stung, but after a few moments it felt heavenly.
She sat back, soaking up the warmth and the comfort, rubbing her own and Nicky’s hair dry with a towel.
“Better?” Gabriel Renfrew asked after a while.
“Yes, thank you. It’s lovely,” she said gratefully.
