Authors: Traitorous Hearts
Dropping the sack, she turned away abruptly.
"Leaving already?"
"No." She glanced at him over her shoulder. "I'll
empty the other bucket later."
"Oh." Amazingly, a bright red flush crept up his neck.
He'd been forced to use a bucket as a bedpan. Bennie had frequently helped
nurse her brothers, and she was constantly surprised at how a man who was
utterly crude around other men could become completely flustered over a simple
bodily function when it was mentioned by a woman.
She clamped down on the smile that threatened to emerge; she would
not be charmed by a display of boyish modesty. Not after what he'd done to her.
"I'll change your bandage today," she said, and began
laying out the things she would need. She looked up to find him watching her.
Watching her, and smiling.
There was the man she remembered, the one she thought didn't
exist. His eyes glowing with pale blue fire, he was smiling at her with that
absolute acceptance, more,
approval,
that he always had. With that
beautiful smile that made her feel like the most special woman on the face of
the earth. And she remembered why she'd trusted him, and begun to care for him,
so easily in the first place.
"Stop that!"
The bleak expression returned abruptly as the smile vanished.
Bennie felt a pang of loss at its disappearance, even knowing she was the one
who'd caused it.
"Do you miss the idiot so much?"
"Yes!" she cried.
His expression grew shuttered. "Change the bandage."
"Lie on your belly." He rolled over, propping his chin
on his hands. She caught her breath, for even in such a simple motion the
extent of his strength was evident. Muscles flexed and stretched, sliding and
bunching easily under his skin. And she wondered, as she had once before, what
had formed a man like this.
Taking her scissors, she knelt close against his side, where his
breadth tapered abruptly to his waist. For a moment, she could only look. There
was beauty in his body, not the cool, lifeless beauty of a sculpture, but the
live, physical beauty of a champion stallion, running free in the breeze. It
was the beauty of sweat and muscle and tendon, a beauty that moved, that
worked, that touched.
He lifted his head slightly to look back at her. "Beth?"
"Oh. Yes." She slipped the tip of the scissors under the
strips of cloth and snipped through them. Then she pushed them aside and
carefully peeled off the padding, holding her breath, hoping the wound had
begun to heal.
It looked better. The wound itself was still an angry red, but the
skin around looked healthy. It was no longer swollen, nor marked with the
telltale red of poisoning.
She prodded it gently, and his shoulder twitched.
"Does that hurt?"
"Only a little."
She continued to knead his shoulder, checking for tenderness or
any softness that might indicate swelling. It seemed to be healing well. She
pulled her hand away, her fingers brushing lightly down his back, and she heard
his breath catch slightly.
"I'll wrap it up again now. Can you sit up?"
He was obviously stiff and sore. His movements were strained when
he sat up, but even so, she could see the difference from the way he'd moved
when he'd been playing the idiot. Now there was no awkwardness, no fumbling, no
uncoordinated motion that would cause him to knock over glasses and bump into
tables. He was a man clearly at ease in his body, graceful, in absolute control
of his strength.
"Careful. You've been lying a long time. You're bound to be
weak."
"Don't I know it." He laughed low, the familiar throaty
rumble, but now with a distinct note of mockery. "My head doesn't seem to
want to be vertical."
"It'll be better soon." She moved behind him. With a quick
twist of her wrist she opened a tin of salve, and a pungent herbal odor filled
the air. She dabbed the sticky substance on his wound, then covered it with
fresh padding.
"I'll use strips of cloth to hold it in place again. It would
help if you could lift your arms a bit."
He complied. "How did you ever manage this when I was
out?"
"It wasn't easy." It wasn't this time, either; it caused
her to be far closer to him than she wanted to be. She was on her knees at his
back and had to stretch to wrap the strips around him. Her arms went over his
shoulder and around his side again and again as she wound the bandage around
his chest. Now matter how careful she was, her palms whispered over his flesh,
and she couldn't help but remember how his body had felt when she'd really
touched him.
She smelled summery herbs and male warmth. Her movements slowed,
and she couldn't keep her breasts from brushing his back when she leaned
forward to reach around him. She wondered for a moment if she was catching his
fever, and shook her head to clear it.
"There." She tied the last strip neatly. "All
done."
She didn't really have to move, did she? His head was bent, his
hair falling forward. The strong column of his neck merged into the breadth of
his shoulders in the most intriguing way. Her gaze traced down his back to
where the scar she'd noticed before creased his side.
"What happened?"
"When?" He twisted to look over his shoulder at her.
"There. The scar on your side."
His eyes closed for a minute. When he opened them again, they were
cool and pale, and she knew he was shielding something from her.
"Bunker Hill," he said curtly.
"Oh." She couldn't seem to stop her hand. Slowly, so
slowly, she traced the line of the scar, trailing her fingers around along the
edge of his ribs. Even this body, which seemed so mighty and impervious, was
vulnerable to those little pieces of metal. And despite it all, she was
fiercely glad he'd survived.
"Beth."
"Yes?" She looked up at him, her hand resting motionless
on his side. His eyes were intent, his voice strained.
"Go."
Bewildered, she asked, "What?"
He lowered his gaze to her hand on him, and a muscle twitched in
his jaw.
"Go! Now!"
Embarrassment flashed through her, and she snatched her hand back.
Oh, God. Even now, she couldn't seem to keep her hands to herself. How
shameless he must think her. She jumped up and fled the stables, ignoring him
as he called her name.
***
She didn't come back that evening to bring his supper, as she
usually did. He heard her mother return the mare to her stall, heard some man
whose voice he couldn't identify—a customer, probably—come and fetch his own
horse. Now and then he heard Cad's bellow across the yard, and Isaac's
answering holler. Evening came, and although the temperature didn't drop one
whit, he thought he caught the faint, distant scent of coolness. Perhaps the
heat would finally break.
Still he waited, lying alone on his makeshift bed, sweating and
calling himself a bastard in every language and form he could think of. Well,
that was no surprise. One would think he'd be getting used to it by now. Yet he
tasted the sharp tang of regret, for he knew that this time he'd had other
choices.
He hadn't needed to be sharp with her. He could have shifted
quietly away so she wouldn't have noticed. He could have feigned dizziness and
lay down. He could have pretended her touch on his scar hurt.
But his brain had rapidly progressed beyond rational thought,
clouded by the exceptional feel of her hand on him. If he hadn't chased her
away, if it had lasted just one second longer, he would have reached for her.
And after all he'd done to her and taken from her already, that was the last
thing he had any right to do.
So he'd hurt her, once again, this time with his words and his
tone of voice. He lay there, listening to mice scurry in the corners and the
slight stirring of the heavy air in the leaves outside, and he pondered how
something begun for all the right reasons could go so wrong.
He was on his feet. And he'd washed himself. The next morning,
when Bennie came up into the loft, Jon was standing, his forearm braced above
the open window, staring out at the softness of the warm morning.
His hair was loose, clean, hanging in a smooth, rich brown sweep
to his shoulders. He was wearing only the breeches she'd given him the day
before, his shoulders bare and impossibly broad, and he was bathed in the
buttery morning light. Her breath caught before she could steel herself to the
sight of him.
As if any woman could ever manage that.
"Jon," she said softly.
"Jonathan," he said without turning around.
"Jonathan." A basket of fresh rolls swinging over her
arm, she strolled over to him. "You're up."
"It's about time."
"And you were outside."
"Last night." His lips quirked wryly. "I couldn't
stand to smell myself anymore. I went down very late, when no one would see me,
and washed off at the well." He glanced down at her. "You have a very
cold well."
A quick bubble of laughter escaped before she could hold it in.
"I know." She had to tilt her head to look up at him. "How do
you feel?"
"Weak. Nearly didn't make it back up that damn ladder. But in
a day or two I should be ready to leave."
A day or two. She should be thrilled to get rid of him. Yet her
heart sank at his words. "I can't get used to hearing so many words coming
out of your mouth."
He grinned suddenly. "I don't usually talk so much. But then,
I do a lot of things around you I don't usually do."
He didn't mean anything by that—he couldn't, and she'd be a fool
if she allowed herself to believe he might. But she wanted to, oh, how she
wanted to.
He glanced back out the window. "Smells like rain."
Forcing her wayward thoughts into line, she leaned closer to the
window and sniffed. "I think you're right. Maybe it'll cool off
some."
He smiled down at her, a quick glint of blue in his eyes. "I
doubt it."
He was amused about something. Puzzled, she made no attempt to
understand the workings of what was clearly a very convoluted mind. She lifted
the basket. "I brought you some breakfast."
"You didn't have to."
"You must be hungry. I'm sorry that I didn't bring you any
food last night."
He shrugged. "You're the last person in the world who owes me
an apology. You probably saved my life."
"Then we're even." Their gazes caught, and she was lost
in the pale blue depths of his eyes. She knew she spoke the truth. No matter
what devious actions he was involved in, the night he'd saved her in the forest
had been real. It had happened too fast, too unpredictably, to be something
staged for her benefit. She'd seen how hard he'd hit that soldier.
"You don't know how many times I've tried to convince myself
how stupid that was," he said quietly.
"Really?" Sunlight warmed her shoulders and shone off
his hair. The fragrant smells of yeast and cinnamon rose to her nostrils.
"I don't regret it," he said, his voice a rich rumble.
Helplessly, she let her gaze wander over his chest. It had been as
close to heaven as she'd ever expected to get in this lifetime, being carried
through the cold winter night, held close against that brawny, warm chest.
Later, of course, in this very loft, she'd reached heaven itself.
He cleared his throat and stepped back. "Uh, would you like
to stay and eat with me?"
How did he always know, whenever her thoughts turned wanton? Then
he would pull away, clearly uncomfortable with her attentions. And why wouldn't
he be? She was only Bennie. Certainly not the kind of woman he'd choose under
normal circumstances.
She shook her head. "I shouldn't."
"Just for a little while." There was a plea in eyes,
along with an apology and something that looked like... loneliness?
"All right."
They sat down on the blankets, and she handed him a bun, sticky
with honey and currants. He ate half of it in one bite. It was lucky she was
well acquainted with the appetites of big, hungry men. She'd brought plenty.
He grinned in appreciation of the delectable treat. "How do
you keep managing to smuggle so much food to me without anyone noticing?"
"My mother's gone a lot."
"I noticed. Where does she go?"
"Out to Adam's place. My sister-in-law isn't feeling
well."
"Is she seriously ill?"
"No." She smiled. "It seems Adam was busy again
before he left for Cambridge."
He raised an eyebrow in question.
"I'm going to have another nephew."
"You're so sure it's a nephew?"
Bennie licked a drop of honey off her thumb. "She's
sick."
"From what I hear, that's not uncommon."
"My mother was very ill for five months with each of my
brothers." She tapped her chest. "With me, nary a day. So far, it's
been the same with every one of my sisters-in-law. None of them felt well,
except when Hannah carried Sarah."