she burst into tears.
Gareth was momentarily frozen with indecision. He’d never in his life felt such an urgent, desperate need to comfort anyone. Gracie might be a lying, cheating witch. And even worse, a woman who could cause untold trouble for his family.
But he was helpless in the face of her heartfelt misery. No one could fake such distress.
He went to the bathroom for a damp washcloth, handed it to her and proceeded to clean up the mess on the floor in silence. By the time he was done, her sobs had subsided into hiccupping, ragged sighs. Her eyes were closed, her body still as death. Probably because every little movement sent pain shooting through her skull.
Gareth had been thrown from a horse when he was twelve, and the resulting head injury had left him weak as a babe.
He knew how she felt.
He didn’t risk sitting down again. Instead he went to the windows and opened both of them, letting the fresh spring breezes cleanse the room. He pulled the curtains together to dim the light, wanting to make her as comfortable as possible.
Afterward, he stood by the bed and stared down at her, wondering how a day that had begun so normally had rapidly skidded off track. He cleared his throat and gently pulled the bedding to cover her slight frame, tucking it to her chin. “We need to talk. But I’ll wait until you’ve had a chance to rest. It’s almost dinnertime. I’ll fix something simple that won’t aggravate your stomach, and I’ll bring it in when it’s ready.” He hesitated, waiting for a reply.
Gracie tried to gather her composure, sure that any minute now she would get a handle on her scattered wits. This all seemed like such an odd dream. The glowering man tending to her with patent reluctance was huge.
His face was remarkable, wholly masculine, but striking rather than handsome. He had a crooked nose, a jaw carved from granite and cheekbones that drew attention to his deep-set, black-as-midnight eyes—eyes so dark, his pupils were indiscernible.
Equally dark hair framed his face aggressively, suggesting wildness and a lack of concern for polite conventions. The strands were thick and vibrant, and Gracie wanted to bury her hands in them and drag his head down to see if the tousled layers were as soft as they looked.
His broad, bare chest was golden-tan, its sleekly muscled beauty marred by three small scars over his rib cage. She frowned, her fingers itching to trace each imperfection. She refused to acknowledge that she was gob-smacked by his sheer magnificence. He left the room finally, closing the door behind him, and eventually, she dozed, rousing now and again to the awareness of pain and frightening loneliness. Shadows cast the room into near darkness by the time her host returned.
He carried a tray which he set on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. She feared the sudden onslaught of bright light from the fixture overhead, but instead, he turned on a small antique table lamp with a cream silk shade. The diffused glow was bearable.
He stood beside her. “You need to sit up and eat something.”
Questions clogged her throat. The smell wafting from a handmade earthenware container made her stomach growl loudly. He didn’t comment, but helped her into a seated position. His manner was matter-of-fact. Everywhere his skin touched hers, she burned.
His expression was hard to read. When she was ready, he placed the tray across her lap. She sucked in a breath as she moved her leg beneath the covers. She hadn’t even realized until that moment that she had injured more than her head.
He answered her unspoken question. “Jacob put six or seven stitches in your shin. You hit some sharp gravel when you…” His voice trailed off, and she saw discomfiture on his face. He pulled up a straight-back chair and watched her eat. If she hadn’t been starving, his intense scrutiny would have made her nervous. But it must have been hours since she’d had any food, and she was hungry.
He, or someone, had prepared chicken soup, which required far more effort than simply opening a can. Large chunks of white meat mingled with carrots and celery in a fragrant broth. She tore off a hunk of the still-warm wheat bread and consumed it with unladylike haste.
Neither she nor her companion spoke a word until she had cleaned her plate, or in this case, her bowl.
Removing the trappings of the decidedly fine dinner, Gareth—was that his name?—sat back down and folded his arms across his chest.
He was dressed casually in old faded jeans and bare feet. But he had buttoned his top half into a rich burgundy poet’s shirt made of an unusual handwoven fabric. Some men might have appeared ridiculous in such garb. On him, the shirt looked perfectly natural, enhancing his air of confidence and male superiority.
She struggled to conquer panic, postponing the moment of truth. “I need to go to the bathroom.” It galled her that she required his help to stand up. Her injured leg threatened to crumple beneath her, but after a moment, she was able to shuffle to the facilities.
The bathroom was enormous, with a stone-lined, glass-enclosed shower. She caught a sudden mental picture of the mysterious male’s huge body—nude—glistening beneath the spray of water and soap.
Her knees went weak. Despite her distress, she was stingingly aware of her host’s blatant sexuality. She took care of necessities, washed up, and then made the mistake of glancing into the mirror. The image confused her. Good Lord. She was so white her freckles stood out in relief, and her hair was a bird’s nest.
She rummaged without guilt through his drawers until she found a comb. But when she tried to run it through the worst of the tangles, she scraped against her injured skull and cried out at the pain.
He was beside her in an instant, not even making a pretense of knocking. “What is it?” he demanded, his gaze fierce. “Are you sick again?” In an instant he saw what she was trying to do. “Forget your hair,” he muttered, scooping her into his arms and carrying her back to bed.
When she was settled, ice packs back in place, he handed her two pain pills and insisted she wash them down with milk. She felt like a child being soothed by a parent, but everything about her reaction to this strange man was entirely adult. He headed for the door. “Don’t go,” she blurted out, blushing as if he could see her inner turmoil. “I don’t want to be alone.”
He returned to the chair, swinging it around to straddle the seat, and folded his arms across the back. His expression was guarded. “You’re perfectly safe,” he said, his low voice rumbling across her shattered nerves with a tactile stroke. “Jacob says you’ll recover rapidly.”
Any bit of softness she sensed in him moments before had been replaced with almost palpable hostility and suspicion. What in the heck did he have to fear from her?
She picked at the edge of the blanket. “Does your brother live with you?”
He frowned. “Jacob has a house on the property. Why did you come here?”
Her tiny surge of energy abated rapidly, leaving her weak and sick again. She slid down in the bed and turned her head away from him toward the open window. “I don’t know,” she said dully.
“Look at me.”
She did so reluctantly, feeling embarrassed and disoriented.
He frowned. “You’re not making sense.”
She
