She nodded agreement. “Perhaps I shall sit for a wee moment.”
“And well you should, from the look of it. These stairs can be wicked in the dark.”
“So I discovered.” She touched her head gingerly, as if it ached.
“What are you doing in this old stair?” He sat beside her on the edge of the landing and put an arm around her to steady her from tipping. The twisting fall of the medieval staircase could be dizzying.
“I was looking for the library. Mrs. Gunn mentioned this was a quick way to get there. I thought to look for a book. I could not quite sleep.”
“Ah, understandable. It is very quick if you fall down these steps. The main stair is safer, I vow.”
She laughed a little ruefully. “I did not want to disturb the household that way. But I fear I disturbed you instead.”
“Not at all. I was restless too.” As she glanced up at him, the light from the open door behind them flowed over her face.Aye,he thought. She had to be the girl in the painting. The likeness was uncanny. Smaller and more delicately made in person thanthe girl on the canvas, she was otherwise her twin. Fascinated, he tilted his head to regard her.
Behind wire-framed spectacles, her wide eyes were a clear sky blue ringed in black lashes. Her graceful features, the lush lips, the swan-curve of her neck, the auburn hair spilling from its pins in loops and waves, found their match in the painting. But this girl looked demure and modest, not the tantalizing goddess depicted on the canvas.
And in the moment, he refused to think of the exquisite body of the painted girl, the lush swells of breasts and hips, the long, smooth thighs in tempting veils. Allowing those thoughts invited a burning need that was far more than lust. He craved to hold her, save her, love her. It made no sense, and he leaned back, resisting it.
But as she met his gaze, her breath caressed his face and he wanted to kiss her. He took his hand from her shoulder. He would not act like a damned fool here.
“Oh, I am sorry,” she said, and sat straight. “I should go.”
“Relax. You do not look quite ready to climb these stairs yet.”
“Do forgive me, sir. I only wanted to go down to the library this way. Mrs. Gunn said it would be all right. But there was a mouse, and I tripped and fell and lost the candle, and it was so dark that I could not find my way, and stumbled again. I apologize.”
“Not at all. Had I known, I would have ordered the sconces lit in the stairwell. I am usually the only one who uses these stairs and I know the way.”
“Thank you. I can stand now, I think.” As she rose tentatively to her feet, he stood, bracing her arm. She faltered, wincing.
“You’re in no condition to go up or down, lass,” he murmured, and in one swift movement, scooped her into his arms. Her body felt slender beneath layers of cloth as he stood holding her on the platform.
“Please do not trouble,” she protested. “I just need to rest a bit in my room.”
“No trouble. That must have been a nasty fall.” He shifted her weight and she circled an arm around his shoulders. “Come in here for a moment. Let us be sure you’re not badly injured before you go wandering anywhere else tonight.”
*
Mortified, Christina rodein his arms as he carried her over the threshold into a cozy room in lamplight. Her head ached, so did her shoulder and hip, and though she felt a bit foolish, she was grateful for the easy strength of his arms.
His face was close to hers, his scent a pleasant mix of spice, wine, shirt starch, and subtle, earthy masculinity. Dressed in a collarless shirt and dark vest and trousers, his hard torso pressed against her, his body generated a comforting heat and reassuring strength and calm. She blushed as he carried her to a leather armchair by the hearth.
He set her down there, and she looked around. The room contained a desk littered with papers and open books in the light of an oil lamp. In shadows, bookcases soared on an opposite wall, while beside her chair, the fireplace contained a cozy, fragrant peat fire.
“What a lovely room. But you fuss too much, sir. I am fine.” She rose. Pain sliced through her ankle. She sat.
“Not so fine as she claims,” he said. His nearness, his concern, sent a little thrill through her. This stranger seemed somehow very familiar, as if she had always known him. His air of calm and strength influenced her, and she felt herself relax. But then she stiffened, reminded that she should not be here alone with him, guest and host. Strangers.
“Oh dear, this is your study—your private sitting room,” she realized. Through a half-open door, she glimpsed a canopied bed, covers folded back, pillows plumped. “It is not proper for me to be here.”
“It seems more improper and certainly heartless to send you away limping,” he said. “Rest for a moment. I will leave the room, and you can escape when you feel ready, aye?”
“Please stay,” she said impulsively as he stepped back. She subsided in the chair again. “Just for a moment, as you say.”
He drew a chair closer and sat. Lifting a hand, Christina touched the side of her head and felt a slight bump with trembling fingers. Then she touched her aching shoulder, which surely felt bruised. Feeling foolish, a weak female—a role she disliked in any instance—she felt too shaky yet to venture to her room on those dark stairs.
He leaned toward her. Bathed in firelight, his gaze was earnest and his dark-blue eyes sparkled, reflecting golden light. “Mrs. Blackburn, tell me where you hurt, if you will.”
