“Shh.” He held tight with one hand, untying his cravat with the other and tugging it off his neck. “Shh.” Cravat freed, he dabbed at her finger, found a cut an inch wide. A sliver of her skin slashed and bleeding still. He doubled up the cravat and pressed it against her finger, holding tight.
“I’m well.” She pushed a curl behind her ear.
“You’re bleeding.” Still pressing the end of the cravat to her wound, he threaded it through her fingers, then wound the length of it around her entire hand, tucked the end underneath it all. “There. That will do until the doctor—”
“I do not need a doctor. Aunt Georgie will—”
“I will—”
She cupped his cheek with her uninjured hand. “Look at me, Your Grace.”
He could only see her hand wrapped up like one of those Egyptian mummies.
The pressure on his cheek grew. “Look at me. Samuel.”
Oh hell. His name. Only his sisters had ever called him that. Only his parents.
And now Lady Emma.
Emma.
He met her gaze and found hers soft and… slightly amused.
“‘Tis but a scratch. It does not even hurt anymore.” Her hand dropped away from his cheek, but she still wore that wonderfulsmile. “I can see the brother in you more than ever. Worried about a scratch.”
“I’m the one who gave you the knife.” Each word scratched against his throat. “And who scared you so that you hurt yourself.”
“You are too hard on yourself. I know because I am, too.”
His hands rested in her lap, on her thighs, bracketing her hands. What an oddly affecting, oddly erotic image—his skin, dusted with dark hair, against the pale cream of her skirts. A flinch only would bring his hands around her waist, and he could drag her to the edge of the chair and bury his head in her belly, breathe her in, breathe peace in.
Too ridiculous. The moon’s magic held sway during the day, but Samuel couldn’t let it.
“Thank you.” He stood and held out a hand. When she let him help her to her feet, they stood, silent and awkward, their hands somehow wound together. Her uninjured hand woven with his. His other hand cradling her wrapped one.
He yanked away, taking several large steps backward.
“I should leave,” she said, clearing her throat.
“Yes, of course. We’ve discussed everything there is to discuss at the moment. But, erm”—he pulled his sleeves down, covering his forearms—“promise you will call the doctor.”
Her lips trembled into a silly smile as she held up her bandaged hand. “What more is there for a physician to do, Your Grace.”
Samuel, he wanted to beg her.Please call me Samuel again. But he could not.
“The wrapping is as big as my head.” She held it in front of her face.
She was right. He saw only the bandaged hand and her halo of red hair around it. He laughed. To scoop her into his arms and share that laughter, own it… a dream.
“I do not think I will be able to return it.” She dropped her hand to her side and unlinked her other hand from his own. She stepped away. “It’s ruined, I’m sure.” Her gaze seemed to catch on his throat where the cravat had once been warmed by his heat. Now his heat warmed her. Good.
“I’m yours.”
Her eyes widened.
Damn it. “I mean, it is yours. The cravat.” He rolled his sleeves up again to fight the heat rising in his body. “The cravat is yours now. Dispose of it as you see fit. After the doctor has seen to you.”
Giggles. Not hers. And more of them than a single person could produce.
