He stopped, so suddenly her hand slipped from his arm. “Mrs Reynolds, I cannot condone this path.”
Hell and damnation, why was he being so difficult? “It will be over before two shakes. Don’t worry yourself.” She made to continue forward.
He caught her arm. “Alice, no.”
Surprise stilled her more than his hand on her arm. Her gaze flew to him, and she found he regarded her with brows drawn.
Such a look made her rush to explain, though it were ludicrous she did. “It will be quicker.”
“I don’t care. I won’t risk your safety for the sake of a few minutes.”
The sudden turn from fool to protector astonished her. Dark eyes held her, impressing upon her his intent and his will. She should protest—no one told her what she ought to do—but she knew he didn’t mean such a thing.
Moments stretched. Her heart thumped, and though its usual mechanics went most times beyond her notice, in this moment the organ refused to be ignored.
Then he blinked, and the moment broke.
Time rushed back, becoming the minutes and seconds of a regular-faced clock. He let go of her arm, and stepped back, looking as dazed as she felt. She needed anchoring, something to hold her on her feet, and the wall behind her seemed a handy option. Slumping against it, her hands fell to either side to brace her against the rough wood.
Pain streaked through her left hand.
With a cry, she pushed away and brought the afflicted limb up. Red bloomed beneath the white cotton of her glove. Glancing at the wall found the culprit in the form of a nail jutting from the wood.
“What is it?” His expression creased in concern, he stepped forward as if he could offer some opinion on the subject.
“I’ve hurt my hand.” She scowled down at the offending appendage. And the damn thing had ruined her glove besides.
“Let me see.” Stepping even closer, he attempted to appropriate her injured limb.
She snatched it back. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t be foolish.” Stealing her hand, he hastily unbuttoned her glove to expose the damaged flesh.
Angry red scoured a line from the knuckle of her littlest finger to wrist, but the flow of blood had already stopped. It stung more than anything else. Holding up her hand, she said, “See, I told you. Nothing but a scratch. It was the shock, more than anything.”
Gently, he traced the skin surrounding the scratch. “It looks like it hurt.”
“Well, I’m over it.” With one glove off, the other needed removal. Ignoring the shiver his touch gave, she extracted her hand and attempted to undo the buttons of her other glove. Pain bloomed. Exhaling, she tried again but couldn’t get purchase on the tiny buttons lining her wrist without pulling at the wound.
She could almost feel his gaze all amused and annoying upon her. “Do you require assistance?”
Setting her jaw, she attacked the glove again. Goddamn, but that hurt! Finally, she admitted defeat. “Yes, I require assistance.” Glancing up, she scowled at his expression. “Don’t smirk. It’s unattractive.”
Still wearing a smirk, he stripped himself of his own gloves and set to undoing hers. He frowned as he undid them, his elegant fingers dancing easily over the tiny buttons as his other hand supported hers.
A lock of black hair fell over his forehead, but he ignored it. She couldn’t. It looked amazingly soft without the pomade, and her fingers itched to discover for herself if such a thought was true.
Slowly, the closure widened, her wrist displayed. As he reached the last button, his thumb brushed her skin, and she bit her lip to contain a gasp as his slight touch burned through her.
God, this was all so stupid. He put in her head all sorts of thoughts she shouldn’t be entertaining. She shouldn’t be thinking of his hand on hers, and the heat that went through her as his touch danced over her skin. She shouldn’t be thinking of dark eyes and the flash of something deeper behind them. She shouldn’t think of whiskey and words, and the way he’d looked as if he’d wanted to devour her when she’d put the glass to her lips.
She shouldn’t be thinking of him and all that pale skin in her bed.
One by one, he tugged the fingers of the glove. Each pull of the fabric against her skin dragged through her, travelling up her arm and across her chest, finding an answering tug low in her belly.
She didn’t even know where these thoughts were coming from. Hell, there was no reason on God’s green earth why she should be thinking them. It was only… They’d talked some, and most of it had been nonsense, but every now and then she reckoned it was the real Llewellyn peeked through. Every now and then, it was as if he were daring her to discover his ruse, daring her to play, and…and, well hell. He was just so damn pretty.
Mouth dry, she watched as he gently dragged the glove from her. His fingers curled slightly around her hand. For an eternity, he stared down at her glove. Then, he raised his gaze to hers.
