Without warning, a finger poked him sharply in the side, right on the site of one of his more tender injuries. He made an angry exclamation but managed to turn it into a groan. He hoped it was convincing. It hurt like the very devil.
“I don’t like it, I don’t like it at all,” the vicar said.
And I don’t like you poking me,he thought.
“He’s harmless, Rev. Matheson, so please, come away. The doctor said his recovery will be quicker if he’s not disturbed.” She pulled the curtains closed and he was able to relax.
“I was going to offer to take him in at the vicarage. It’s not right that a young, single lady be burdened with such a one as he.”
“The doctor said he wasn’t to be moved until his head injury shows sign of healing.”
“He said the same to me,” the vicar said testily. “But when will that be?”
“It’s in God’s hands,” she said, and he had to stifle a laugh at the way she’d stolen the vicar’s line.
“Then until this Happy Event takes place, perhaps my Good Lady should come and stay with you, as Chaperone.”
She laughed, a sparkling sound. “Do not suggest such a thing, I beg you. Poor Mrs. Matheson. She would hate to be in such a small, stuffy cottage, shut in with five noisy children.”
“She is very fond of children—”
“I know, and she’s been more than kind to us. But there would be nowhere for her to sleep.”
There was a short, tense pause.
“And where, may I ask, do you sleep, Miss Woodford? I happen to know there are but the two bedrooms upstairs, with two beds—”
“I made my bed the last two nights on the floor in front of the fire.”
She’s good,he thought. It was not, after all, a lie. She had made the bed on the floor. He’d seen her rolling it up in the morning. She’d simply left out the part where she’d slept with him. And the thing she called Hadrian’s Wall.
“But—”
“And tonight I will do the same,” she said with quiet assurance.
Not if I can help it,he thought.
“I don’t like it—”
“It’s very kind of you to worry about me, Mr. Matheson, but there’s not the least need. I need no protection from this feeble, injured creature. And I am hardly a young ingenue, after all; I’ve been supporting myself and my brothers and sisters without assistance for some time now.”
“Yes, but—”
“And with five little chaperones, I don’t need another, so please, don’t worry about me or the stranger. Most of the time he’s unconscious and, when awake, he seems a very gentlemanly sort. Besides, I’m sure he’ll recover his memory soon and be off.”
He heard the front door being opened.
“But I don’t like it,” the vicar said unhappily. “Not one little bit.”
A few minutes later she returned. “He’s gone, you can relax now.” She opened the curtains and looked in.
“Prosy old windbag,” he said.
“He’s a very kind man,” she told him. “He and his wife have been more than good to the children and me, and I won’t have you mock him. He’s concerned for my reputation and safety, that’s all.”
“Then why on earth did you tell me to feign insensibility? I could have reassured him that I was a gentleman and—”
“And that would have been a disaster.”
