“Goodness no. Not this stuff. This is for you.” He took Mr. Willingham’s handkerchief, dipped it in the glass, then sopped the cloth across my palm.
“Ouch. It burns, you fiend.”
He held my arm, kept my hand from slipping away. “Easy. It will clean the wound and keep the soreness from festering.”
“Oh. Thank you, I think.”
He closed my fingers, then spread them. “Do that a few times. Tell me if you feel anything. I want to make sure there is nothing more.”
There was plenty to be felt, with the warm, rough feel of his skin on mine, the short puffs of heated breaths from him blowing on everything that stung.
My heart gonged. Could he hear the cymbals banging in my chest? “You.” I swallowed. “You act as if you care, Lord Ashbrook.”
“Is that such an improbable thing?”
“I wish you weren’t so confusing.”
“Well, ma’am, if you understood me, you’d find I’m rather dull. But you? I’ve pondered your letters. The anticipation of what you’d write next crossed my mind more than I care to admit. Made me actually hope to hear you say you forgave me.”
“Are you asking to be forgiven? That would mean that you heard my objections and acknowledged them as facts.”
“Cute. Legal talk. But you are right.” He stroked my palm along the red veining. “I am sorry. The physicians said you must remember on your own. Nothing forced. I could say I was swayed by them. That would be a cowardly admission and mostly not true.”
He stopped in midswirl of his finger, right on the lifeline vein. “I wanted to protect you. I know what I lost on theMinerva. If I could spare you that pain, any pain, I would.”
His voice became a warm whisper, easy and soothing to my ears. “I don’t want you sad, or aggrieved. Forgive me, Jemina St. Maur?”
It was affectionate, even passionate, the way he asked. To say yes, did that mean I’d lose my power? I had to be powerful, to engender such words.
I shrugged and moved to the lilies. “These flowers should have water.”
“That doesn’t sound like you are ready to consider my apology. Should I return another time?”
“You’re forgiven if you will tell me more about the ship. Do you know how many nightmares I’ve had that now make sense?”
“No. Tell me about them.”
My throat felt a little dry.
Ashbrook closed the distance between us. “You remember being on theMinerva? Tell me all about it, Mrs. St. Maur. I’m listening.”
“I’m confused, but that’s a common occurrence when I think of my past.”
His lips pursed. His eyes darted. Of course, he liked me this way.
I went to the door and opened it. “You may leave. Thank you for the flowers and the doctoring. And the pomegranate. It looks ripe.”
He crossed his arms and didn’t budge. “It is ripe, with its flesh taut and ready for you. The seeds should be bright red, red like your cheeks when you blush. Please close the door. I wish for a few more minutes.”
With such a description of a pomegranate, how could I refuse? I yielded and closed the door, this time without a splinter.
The earl played with a button on his coat. “Mrs. St. Maur, I hadn’t ever expected to speak of theMinervaagain. I want to forget losing . . . so much. I apologize. I remember the anticipation of counting the days for my Phoebe to arrive, then waiting for weeks to see the mast and flags of the ship. The crowds in Portsmouth . . . I wore lignum vitae pinned on my waistcoat for her. So she’d see it and know me.”
His powerful voice dimmed. The wave of sorrow in his words rushed at me like a hurricane.
This man was still in mourning. I hurt for him. “I’m sorry.”
“I suppose it’s silly to hear me speaking of such. It’s been two years . . . feels so fresh.”
