Momentarily disorientated, her fingers clutched the paintbrush as though her life hung on its balance.
He couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not without her.
“Novice or not, I am your healer.” She crossed over to the side of the bed, peering down at him. “And like it or not, I shall be the judge of when you’re ready to leave.”
“And how shall you determine my strength?” he queried with the lift of one brow.
Before Honoria could stop herself, she lifted her hand to skim over his unshaven jaw, the bristles as rough as wire. He stilled beneath her touch, eyes smoldering, and she snatched her hand back as if he burned her fingertips.
Honoria cleared her throat, balling her hands into small fists. “I shall determine your fitness with a stroll to the gallery.”
“A stroll?” he asked.
“Aye, if you can manage that and back, I will not stand in your way of leaving.”
Those penetrating green pools narrowed on her. “You think I’m not strong enough.”
She held his gaze. “I don’tthinkanything, I know.”
“By all means, allow me to prove otherwise.”
“Now?” she croaked. “You are not ready.”
“I disagree.” He tugged the covers from his legs.
When he started to rise, Honoria leaned over to lend assistance should he require it. He resisted her offering—hell-bent on proving her wrong. Sweat beaded across his brow as he straightened to his full height, his expression strained, but he said nothing.
Lord above, he was big, Honoria marveled. And stubborn.
“It might be better if you dressed in a shirt first,” she muttered, suddenly flustered, and retrieved one of Callum’s shirts from the dresser.
He didn’t object but carefully donned the offered clothing. Callum and Lash were close in size, although having lost weight since his injury, the shirt draped loosely over his chest. By the time they left the chamber, Honoria’s face burned for no other reason than having admired the ripples of his muscles. He was still powerfully built.
“We shall stroll to the gallery in the east wing. Most of my paintings are displayed there,” she murmured to distract herself from his proximity.
He grunted.
Honoria cast a sidelong glance at him. Lips pinched, his eyes held a note of strain, and sweat beaded his forehead. “Are you sure you are up for this?”
“Yes,” he ground out. His gaze flicked to her canvas. “Is that me?”
Honoria shrugged. “Part of you.”
He made an odd sound in the back of his throat. As though he was trying to keep from laughing.
She huffed out a breath. “I am a work in progress.”
His gaze settled on hers. “You capture soul in your art. Even to my untrained eye that is an accomplishment.”
“I do?” She cleared her throat. “Of course, I do.” Her gaze darted to the canvas. “I thought I failed to capture yours.”
“Not mine.” He studied the painting. “Yours.”
“My soul?”
He nodded, his eyes drifting to hers. “You leave a bit of your soul in everything that you do.”
Honoria cleared her throat again, her hand lifting to smooth over her heart. “I quite like that sentiment.”
