She was watching him closely, and as soon as she asked, she saw it hadn’t even occurred to him how Lord Chester might feel. Which was all well and good, because Lachlan didn’t owe Lord Chester a thing.
Butshedid. She owed him her friendship. It was as simple as that. To her, it made all the difference.
“He would have been dreadfully embarrassed. Shamed and humiliated. Don’t you see, Lachlan? Lady Joanna tried to make a fool of Lord Chester tonight, just as she did me—she was as cruel to him as she was to me. If I’d gotten angry with him, or cried out, or walked away, it would have hurt him terribly and, well…I daresay Lord Chester’s feelings are more sensitive than my toes.” She looked away, down at her hands twisted in her lap, and added quietly, “I don’t call hurting my friend standing up for myself. If it is, then I suppose I won’t ever be able to stand up for myself, after all.”
She continued to pluck at the folds of her gown with nervous fingers, avoiding his eyes, but when he said nothing, and the silence had stretched so long she’d nearly ripped a hole in her skirts, she risked a glance at him.
His dark gaze met hers, and the look in those hazel depths made her breath stop in her chest.
* * * *
This woman. God in heaven,this woman.
When he’d first seen Hyacinth Somerset, he’d thought she looked like an angel. After she’d accused him of murder, he’d thought her mad. Then he’d believed her sane enough, but too fragile to be of much use to anyone, and he’d decided they’d all be better off once her grandmother took her away to Brighton.
But then he’d caught a glimpse of all she kept hidden. Cleverness. Determination. And a hesitant sort of bravery she’d only just begun to understand.
And when he looked at her now…
Lachlan gazed into her wide blue eyes—eyes that were pleading with him to hear her, to understand—and he found he couldn’t say a word. His mouth was dry, his breathing labored, and his heart…it was shuddering and jerking and swelling inside him as if it were about to crash through his ribcage.
He’d been right, all those weeks ago. She was an angel.
Not because of her beauty. No, he’d been wrong about that. Her blue eyes, golden hair, and soft, smooth skin would distract any man, but dozens of ladies in the ballroom tonight had golden hair and blue eyes, and not one of them made his heart swell. None of them made him want to sink to his knees.
Not a single one of them was the angelshewas.
Her eyes and her hair, her skin and her smile—it caught people’s eyes, and turned their heads, but her beauty didn’t end there.
It didn’t begin there, either.
It began in her heart.
Her pure, true kindness was rarer and more precious than any gem. Her kindnesswasher strength. He thought of her feet—of the blood staining the white satin—and of her face as it had been in the ballroom, when every dancer in the set was laughing at her.
She’d looked into Lord Chester’s face and smiled at him. She’d finished the dance, her head high.
Thatwas strength, and it came from the deepest part of her.
And her smile...dear God. She had the sweetest smile he’d ever seen.
After the trouble in Scotland, he’d vowed he’d never put faith in loyalty or kindness again. They were lies, nothing more. People liked to pretend they existed, but they didn’t. Not really.
But here they were deep inside the heart of this little English lass, with her timid stammer and sweet smile, and her wide, anxious eyes.
She was waiting for him to say something, but Lachlan had no words for her. Nothing he said could explain how he felt at this moment. He’d never been the sort of man who could magically spin his feelings into pretty words. He was rough and hard and more likely to scowl than smile, but he did know how make his actions say what he couldn’t.
He reached for her slowly, and then, as gently as his big hands would allow, he wrapped his fingers around one of her slender ankles. She stiffened at once as if to pull away, but he stopped her with a soft murmur. “Let me see your feet,aingeal. I won’t hurt you.”
She hesitated, then gave a brief nod.
He shifted closer to her, slid his hand under the hem of her skirts, and carefully drew out one of her feet, then the other, and laid them both gently across his thighs.
Lachlan had seen more than his fair share of bloody noses. He’dhadmore than his fair share of them, as well, along with the usual gashes and punctures and a variety of other gaping, seeping wounds one would expect of a boy raised in the Scottish Highlands. His body was a roadmap of nicks and scars.
He’d never in his life recoiled from the sight of blood.
Not until it washers.
