she’d apologized for only the day before.
With an oath of his own, Whit came crashing through the brambles to crouch at her feet.
“Look at me, imp. Look at me. Do you know where you are?”
Hurting, and irritated with what she considered a tremendously stupid question—had the man been struck blind in the last five minutes?—she shook her head at him and concentrated on breathing hard through her teeth.
His hands cupped her face, forcing her to look from her throbbing ankle to his worried gaze. “Tell me where you are.”
She glared at him. “Bottom of a hill.”
“Good.” He pulled one hand away to hold in front of her. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Understanding began to seep in, and she made herself count the slightly blurry fingers. “Two.”
He flicked his eyes along her forehead before turning his attention to her leg.
“Move your hands. Let me see what you’ve done to yourself.”
“No! Don’t touch it!” She swatted at him. It was an instinctual response brought on by fear and pain, and Whit didn’t react to it other than to reach up and run a soothing hand down her arm.
“No more than a sprain, I imagine. The worst of the pain will pass in a moment. But just to be safe, be a brave little girl and let me have a look.”
Mirabelle stopped rocking—a motion she hadn’t even been aware of making—and narrowed her eyes at him. “Little girl?”
“There now, feeling better already, aren’t you?”
She was, actually, and because distracting her from the pain had apparently been his sole reason for delivering the insult, she couldn’t very well be angry with him for it. Besides, he actually looked a bit pale, and there was a line of worry across his brow.
Lord, was he lying about the sprain? Could she have seriously injured herself?
She swallowed hard and released her grip on her ankle. “Don’t move it or…just don’t move it, Whit. Please.”
“I’ll have to, I’m afraid. Just a little,” he assured her when her hands came back up and tried to push his away. “Just to make certain it isn’t broken.”
He unlaced her boot and pulled the leather away with exquisite care. Using only the tips of his fingers, he prodded gently at her ankle. It hardly hurt at all, she realized. In fact, it felt rather nice, rather comforting. She felt herself begin to relax under the soothing ministrations. Then the flat of his hand pressed against the bottom of her foot and he pushed her toes up and her heel down.
“Ahh!”
He winced and immediately stopped. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It had to be done.”
She couldn’t manage anything more than a stifled moan and a nod.
Whit tucked behind her ear a lock of hair that had fallen loose. “It’s all right, now. It’s done. Take a deep breath. There you are. Better?”
She nodded again, and found her voice as well. “Is it broken? My ankle?”
“No, only a sprain. You’ll be up and about in a few days—a week at most.”
Just in time for her uncle’s party, she thought miserably. There were times life seemed distinctly unfair. She may have grumbled about it a bit, but Whit distracted her by slipping out of his coat and carefully draping it over her shoulders.
Confused, she blinked at him. “I’m not cold.”
“You’re shaking.”
That was true, she could feel the trembles well enough. “I’m a bit agitated, but you don’t have to—”
“And your dress is half gone.” He gently pulled the coat closed.
“What?” Horrified, she pulled the material away from her chest and took a peek.
Half gone, she decided, was something of an exaggeration. The left shoulder of her gown and chemise were torn from neck to upper arm, and the material had gaped open to reveal skin that was generally left covered. But she wasn’t exactly indecent—or at least, not fully indecent. The bodice of her gown was still intact, after all.
While she felt some small mea sure of relief at the relative decency of her gown, the state
With an oath of his own, Whit came crashing through the brambles to crouch at her feet.
“Look at me, imp. Look at me. Do you know where you are?”
Hurting, and irritated with what she considered a tremendously stupid question—had the man been struck blind in the last five minutes?—she shook her head at him and concentrated on breathing hard through her teeth.
His hands cupped her face, forcing her to look from her throbbing ankle to his worried gaze. “Tell me where you are.”
She glared at him. “Bottom of a hill.”
“Good.” He pulled one hand away to hold in front of her. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Understanding began to seep in, and she made herself count the slightly blurry fingers. “Two.”
He flicked his eyes along her forehead before turning his attention to her leg.
“Move your hands. Let me see what you’ve done to yourself.”
“No! Don’t touch it!” She swatted at him. It was an instinctual response brought on by fear and pain, and Whit didn’t react to it other than to reach up and run a soothing hand down her arm.
“No more than a sprain, I imagine. The worst of the pain will pass in a moment. But just to be safe, be a brave little girl and let me have a look.”
Mirabelle stopped rocking—a motion she hadn’t even been aware of making—and narrowed her eyes at him. “Little girl?”
“There now, feeling better already, aren’t you?”
She was, actually, and because distracting her from the pain had apparently been his sole reason for delivering the insult, she couldn’t very well be angry with him for it. Besides, he actually looked a bit pale, and there was a line of worry across his brow.
Lord, was he lying about the sprain? Could she have seriously injured herself?
She swallowed hard and released her grip on her ankle. “Don’t move it or…just don’t move it, Whit. Please.”
“I’ll have to, I’m afraid. Just a little,” he assured her when her hands came back up and tried to push his away. “Just to make certain it isn’t broken.”
He unlaced her boot and pulled the leather away with exquisite care. Using only the tips of his fingers, he prodded gently at her ankle. It hardly hurt at all, she realized. In fact, it felt rather nice, rather comforting. She felt herself begin to relax under the soothing ministrations. Then the flat of his hand pressed against the bottom of her foot and he pushed her toes up and her heel down.
“Ahh!”
He winced and immediately stopped. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It had to be done.”
She couldn’t manage anything more than a stifled moan and a nod.
Whit tucked behind her ear a lock of hair that had fallen loose. “It’s all right, now. It’s done. Take a deep breath. There you are. Better?”
She nodded again, and found her voice as well. “Is it broken? My ankle?”
“No, only a sprain. You’ll be up and about in a few days—a week at most.”
Just in time for her uncle’s party, she thought miserably. There were times life seemed distinctly unfair. She may have grumbled about it a bit, but Whit distracted her by slipping out of his coat and carefully draping it over her shoulders.
Confused, she blinked at him. “I’m not cold.”
“You’re shaking.”
That was true, she could feel the trembles well enough. “I’m a bit agitated, but you don’t have to—”
“And your dress is half gone.” He gently pulled the coat closed.
“What?” Horrified, she pulled the material away from her chest and took a peek.
Half gone, she decided, was something of an exaggeration. The left shoulder of her gown and chemise were torn from neck to upper arm, and the material had gaped open to reveal skin that was generally left covered. But she wasn’t exactly indecent—or at least, not fully indecent. The bodice of her gown was still intact, after all.
While she felt some small mea sure of relief at the relative decency of her gown, the state
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