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That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. “No, it still be injured from your net.”
She wasn’t sure if he hadn’t picked up on her pointed words, or if he’d simply chosen to ignore them. “If ’tain’t worse, why don’t ye prove it to I by standin’?”
“’Cause I ain’t done watchin’ the waves yet.”
“Do ye know ’ow to speak without lyin’, Miss ’Ollow?”
“Do ye know how to speak to others without expectin’ the worse of them, Mr. Honeysett?”
He released a heavy sigh, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. “This arguin’ be pointless.” He dropped his hand and faced her head-on. “I’ll be frank with ye, Miss ’Ollow. I know ye’ve injured your foot again. So, to avoid another lashin’ from me mother, I’ll ’elp ye back. Will ye accept me offer? Or are ye willin’ to risk further ’arm to your foot?”
Morvoren mulled the options over in her mind. Uncle told her she was too stubborn for her own good. But Mother had always admired Morvoren’s tenacity.
“Ye don’t let anyone push ye anywhere ye don’t wish to, Morvoren,” she’d said. “’Specially no fisherman.”
But then, Mr. Honeysett was giving her the options as her own. Should she really snub his offer of help when she wasn’t entirely certain she’d be able to make it down the cliffside again without resorting to crawling or shuffling down on her backside?
Swallowing her pride as best she could, she gave a single nod. “Very well, Mr. Honeysett. I’ll accept your help.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes, but he nodded it away, reaching his hand toward her.
She moved her leg from its place on the boulder, clenching her teeth to avoid showing any sign of weakness at her still-throbbing ankle. Then she scooted forward across the boulder until she was close enough to accept Mr. Honeysett’s hand.
She eyed his fingers for a moment—callused, tanned, masculine—and she hesitated. How unfortunate she’d left most of her gloves in St. Ives. A pair would certainly be convenient in such a matter as this.
“Come on, then,” Mr. Honeysett pressed, wiggling his fingers toward her.
Well, best to get this over with.
She pressed her hand to the man’s palm, his fingers encircling hers, then instantly, a pleasant numbness spread across her flesh, and a heat as potent and wild as any fire ignited in her heart.
Her eyes snapped to Mr. Honeysett’s, and her breath was snatched away from her lungs.
What the devil was happening to her?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In an instant, Morvoren pulled her hand away from Mr. Honeysett’s, clutching the cane instead and willing her breathing to remain steady.
His touch. Why had his touch felt as if it was…nothing. It was absolutely nothing. The man was attractive—she couldn’t deny him that, what with his wind-tossed hair and eyes the color of darkened sand. But the numbness that had taken over her was no doubt due to her lack of physical closeness with anyone for years. She would be wise to not invest in any other explanation but that.
She mumbled a quick expression of gratitude for his help, then tore her gaze away from his, only to draw it straight back to him when she caught sight of his fisted hand shifting to stretch his fingers outright.
She paused. Had he felt the same thing she had?
No, that wasn’t possible. Because what she had felt had been nothing.
“Shall we?” he asked with a gesture for her to lead the way.
She nodded, taking a single step forward, but even with the help of the cane, she could not hide the great limp she had to adopt to walk at all.
“It be ’urtin’ that badly?” he asked from her side.
What was the use in pretending any longer? It was not as if she was doing a superb act of hiding her injury in the first place.
“’Tis,” she said.
Mr. Honeysett reached out his arm toward her, and she accepted it, careful to hold onto the fabric of his sleeve instead of his bare forearm.
