She was afraid of him.
CHAPTER 7
What do you think you are doing?”
William turned from the bookshelf, two books in one hand and his other pressed to his side. The wound throbbed beneath bandages and fabric. “Getting something to read.”
“I can see that.” Isabella entered in a white dress with a thin bandeau framing her delicate black ringlets. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“I shall have you know”—he turned back to perusing the colorful spines—“that I have been pacing in my room these past five days.”
“Well, I shall haveyouknow that I did not go through the trouble of saving your life to have you thwart all my progress now.”
“Your progress?” He grunted. “I rather thought I was the one doing the healing.”
She walked up behind him, snatched his books, and hugged them against her chest.
He turned to her, growling, “See here. It took me a lot of pain to get down the stairs and locate the library, and a good half hour to find something of worth to read.”
Her eyes sparkled, but she seemed to be trying very hard to be cross. She took a step back. “I am unaffected by your pleas. Go upstairs now or I shall not return them.”
“Fight or run, then?”
“You are too weak to fight.”
“And too stubborn to run.”
A sigh left her, and a pleading look drew her lips into a pout.
He imagined she used such expressions to persuade her father into consenting to her.
He imagined it worked.
“Well, it so happens I was headed back anyway.” He eased himself to a leather chair and sat, controlling his features against the pain rippling through him. “But first, a moment of rest.” His scratches and cuts, mere scabs now, did naught but itch his skin. The graze along his neck had long since healed enough to need no bandage, though Helena still rubbed ointment in the crease every morning.
But it was his side that seemed to flare his body with pain. He tried to remind himself it could have been worse. The bullet had gone clean through his skin and not deep enough to do detrimental damage.
Or so the doctor had said.
The blasted hole certainly felt detrimental. How long would it be before he could move without grimacing? Or walk without tiring so easily?
Isabella approached his chair and with a sweet look laid the books back in his lap. “Can I get you anything?”
“Enemies to friends again so soon?”
“Do not tease me. I am afraid for you. It was far too soon for you to descend the stairs and—”
The library doors swung open. Edward Gresham halted so fast his mouth dropped open a second, as his gaze bounced from William to Isabella—then back to William. “You are much improved, I see, to be making tours of the house.”
“He was not making tours, Father. Even this has exhausted him.”
William pushed back to his feet. “Good day, my lord.”
The greeting seemed to anger his father more. He slammed his book to an end table, hardened his jaw, and nodded toward the window overlooking the entrance courtyard. “If you are able, I shall send for a carriage and servant to escort you home.”
“I had hoped to depart the same way I arrived, my lord. On horseback.”
“Father, he is hardly strong enough for travel—”
