Bringing up his other hand, he encased Hulda’s. “You’ll need to tell BIKER. We’ll handle the report with the watchmen.”
“I will. Or perhaps Miss Taylor will see to it.” She winced again.
“I can call for a doctor—”
“Just bruises,” she assured him, eyelids heavy. Their gazes interlocked. “Just bruises,” she repeated, quieter.
Merritt studied her features for several seconds, memorizing the curve of her jaw and the length of her eyelashes, trying not to growl at the swelling. “You sound less like a dictionary when you’re tired,” he offered.
She laughed, then winced, free hand cradling her split lip.
“Sorry.” He felt like a dog with its tail between its legs.
“I don’t mind,” she offered once she’d recovered.
Leaning back, Merritt begrudgingly released her fingers. “I should get you something to eat. Then you should rest some more.” He stood and pulled the chair back to where it had been.
“Merritt.”
God knew he liked the sound of his Christian name on her lips. “Hm?”
She pinched folds of her blanket. “I might like something to read, until I’m hale again.”
His ego pranced. “I have three-fourths of a most excellent story, if you’re interested.”
She smiled very carefully, so as not to hurt herself. Then squinted at her glasses on the bedside table. “I . . . that is, if you don’t mind—”
“Would you like me to read to you?” he offered, and the slightest bit of pink glowed under her bruises. “I do voices.”
She chuckled, again holding her lip so it wouldn’t stretch. “I would like that very much.”
Nodding, he slipped out of the room. Breakfast first, reading second. And he didn’t mind the tasks in the slightest.
At this point, he’d do anything she asked of him.
Word of Silas Hogwood had been hastened to England, and the household and the local authorities had scouted the island, though the only significant find was her bag. A week after the terrifying ordeal, Hulda had regained enough strength to slip into normalcy again. She dressed herself, choosing her corded corset instead of the whalebone one, pinned her hair, and carefully straightened the wires of her glasses. She’d look into getting a new pair next time she was in town, which would be tomorrow, as Myra had sent a panicked windsource pigeon in response to Miss Taylor’s telegram about the attack. Hulda had assured her she was fine and would speak to her in person imminently. For now, she’d have to ignore the scratches haloing the lenses of her spectacles. Her vision wasn’t quite good enough for her to go without them.
Hulda worried she wouldn’t have a leg to stand on in her inevitable debate with her employer regarding her extended stay at Whimbrel House. But despite what had happened, she still ached to stay, now more than ever.
A faint chop sounded through her window. Pulling aside the curtain, she watched as Merritt set a narrow half log on a chopping block, then swung an axe around to split it into two. He’d tied his hair back for the exercise. After splitting a second one, he set the axe down and shook out his hands. Pulled a splinter from his palm. His shirt was open and sweat-soaked. Safe behind the drapes, Hulda didn’t feel the need to look away. Though the longer she stared, the snugger her midsection became, as though her corset were tightening all on its own.
It’s too late now, she thought, biting the inside of her healed lip. I can’t persuade myself out of this one. She was in too deep. All these days she’d been abed, tucked and secure, but in truth she’d been falling. Falling into a depth that couldn’t be measured—falling further every time Merritt came to check on her, every time he read to her, every time he subverted Beth and brought her the dinner tray himself. Every time he held her hand . . .
A shuddering breath escaped her. She was in love with him. She’d only known him a little over a month, but she loved him.
And she thought, with a daring, stinging hope, that he might love her, too.
Clasping her hands together, she felt his touch in memory. His thumb tracing patterns across her knuckles. It was utterly terrifying to make such assumptions, no matter what the evidence . . . but she wanted it so badly. Was it so wrong to want something, just one thing, that couldn’t be bought in a store or persuaded via résumé? Hadn’t she waited long enough? Hadn’t she paid her dues to society, watching all her friends, family, and acquaintances grasp that one thing she had always wanted, yet strived to convince herself that she didn’t want?