them, the sea brushed the sand in gentle waves and a few birds scattered
themselves over the stone wall, searching for scraps. He bade her to sit down
and placed himself next to her.
“He will be well. He is a strong man for his
age.”
“He is,” she agreed, twining her fingers together
and staring at them.
Henry reached over and pulled her hand into his.
The movement startled her, if her wide eyes were anything to go by. It near
astounded him. He was surprised he didn’t topple off the wall when their hands
connected and he closed his fingers about hers. But his need to offer her
comfort had erased any sense. So he held her hand until the physician ducked
out of the hut.
Chapter Seven
After a
brief supper of cold meat, bread and honey and knowing her father was in good
care at the physician’s cottage, Antonia had conceded bed was the best place
for her if she was to be at all useful to her father on the morrow.
Of course, she thought it unlikely she would
sleep in spite of how weariness ate into every part of her as she ascended the
stairs with Henry behind her. The pounding in her head was nothing compared to
the pounding in her heart. Why did he affect her like this?
They paused outside of her room and she turned
to face him. She owed him something—an apology or a gracias mayhap. She
wasn’t sure what exactly. He turned her thoughts inside out. Ever since that
touch to her face— no , earlier—she had been unsure how to deal with him.
Then he had taken her hand and offered her more comfort than he could have known. The only other man to touch her with such
tenderness had been her father.
“Rest, now,” he murmured, “and you can see your
father on the morrow.”
She nodded and tried to summon some words. How
was it that in the golden candlelight with shadows haunting his expression and
fatigue under his eyes, he made her breathing thick and heavy? Why was the urge
to throw herself against that broad chest and feel his hands on her body so
strong? Had she learned nothing after Lorenzo? Antonia did not know this man.
Nor should she want to. He was English and her enemy and captor. Nothing good
would come of finding out more.
That knowledge didn’t stop the tiny voice of
curiosity whispering inside her. Who was this man? Why did he swing from brash
and commanding to soft and tender in an instant?
Their gazes clashed for the briefest moment
before she cast her own down. If she had thought breathing was hard before,
she’d been wrong. Now each breath had become heated along with the rest of her
body. She felt aware of every heartbeat, every intake of air and yet separated
from her body. Her limbs didn’t exist, her body was
soft and yielding. He need only scoop her up and she would fall against
him—completely at his whim.
“Well, I shall bid you good night.”
“Henry.” The breathy quality to her voice made
it sound distant and detached, as though it was not even her speaking.
He paused in turning from her and both brows
lifted while he waited.
“I...”
Gracias, thank you. Touch me, hold me. None
of it would be hard to say. The former would not be foolish either. Yet none of
those words would come. It sounded too much like dependence on a man and that
she could not do.
“The coffer in my bedchamber. I...can you remove it por favour ?”
“The coffer?” He
stared at her blankly for a moment.
“Aye, at the end of my bed.”
He heaved a sigh and stalked past her into the
chamber. She followed and suppressed a shudder at the sight of it. Henry
glanced back at her and she knew he’d noticed her reaction. In the daylight she
was better able to face the sense of horror these things overwhelmed her with
but at night, with only candlelight for company, boxes, small spaces...
anything of the sort made her want to run away and never return. Even now the
desire to flee made her feet twitch.
But Henry had been right. She’d been foolish to
try to escape with her father. And an even bigger
themselves over the stone wall, searching for scraps. He bade her to sit down
and placed himself next to her.
“He will be well. He is a strong man for his
age.”
“He is,” she agreed, twining her fingers together
and staring at them.
Henry reached over and pulled her hand into his.
The movement startled her, if her wide eyes were anything to go by. It near
astounded him. He was surprised he didn’t topple off the wall when their hands
connected and he closed his fingers about hers. But his need to offer her
comfort had erased any sense. So he held her hand until the physician ducked
out of the hut.
Chapter Seven
After a
brief supper of cold meat, bread and honey and knowing her father was in good
care at the physician’s cottage, Antonia had conceded bed was the best place
for her if she was to be at all useful to her father on the morrow.
Of course, she thought it unlikely she would
sleep in spite of how weariness ate into every part of her as she ascended the
stairs with Henry behind her. The pounding in her head was nothing compared to
the pounding in her heart. Why did he affect her like this?
They paused outside of her room and she turned
to face him. She owed him something—an apology or a gracias mayhap. She
wasn’t sure what exactly. He turned her thoughts inside out. Ever since that
touch to her face— no , earlier—she had been unsure how to deal with him.
Then he had taken her hand and offered her more comfort than he could have known. The only other man to touch her with such
tenderness had been her father.
“Rest, now,” he murmured, “and you can see your
father on the morrow.”
She nodded and tried to summon some words. How
was it that in the golden candlelight with shadows haunting his expression and
fatigue under his eyes, he made her breathing thick and heavy? Why was the urge
to throw herself against that broad chest and feel his hands on her body so
strong? Had she learned nothing after Lorenzo? Antonia did not know this man.
Nor should she want to. He was English and her enemy and captor. Nothing good
would come of finding out more.
That knowledge didn’t stop the tiny voice of
curiosity whispering inside her. Who was this man? Why did he swing from brash
and commanding to soft and tender in an instant?
Their gazes clashed for the briefest moment
before she cast her own down. If she had thought breathing was hard before,
she’d been wrong. Now each breath had become heated along with the rest of her
body. She felt aware of every heartbeat, every intake of air and yet separated
from her body. Her limbs didn’t exist, her body was
soft and yielding. He need only scoop her up and she would fall against
him—completely at his whim.
“Well, I shall bid you good night.”
“Henry.” The breathy quality to her voice made
it sound distant and detached, as though it was not even her speaking.
He paused in turning from her and both brows
lifted while he waited.
“I...”
Gracias, thank you. Touch me, hold me. None
of it would be hard to say. The former would not be foolish either. Yet none of
those words would come. It sounded too much like dependence on a man and that
she could not do.
“The coffer in my bedchamber. I...can you remove it por favour ?”
“The coffer?” He
stared at her blankly for a moment.
“Aye, at the end of my bed.”
He heaved a sigh and stalked past her into the
chamber. She followed and suppressed a shudder at the sight of it. Henry
glanced back at her and she knew he’d noticed her reaction. In the daylight she
was better able to face the sense of horror these things overwhelmed her with
but at night, with only candlelight for company, boxes, small spaces...
anything of the sort made her want to run away and never return. Even now the
desire to flee made her feet twitch.
But Henry had been right. She’d been foolish to
try to escape with her father. And an even bigger
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