TWENTY-TWO
LILY’S GAZE WAS glued to Rand’s back, watching the muscles ripple as he washed all the black soot off his hands and arms, then his face and neck. She’d never seen a man’s bare back, unless she counted Rowan’s, but he was still just a boy. And Rowan’s back didn’t look like Rand’s, either; it looked rather like her own or Rose’s. Rand’s tapered from wide shoulders down to narrow hips, and every muscle was defined beneath the taut skin.
Feeling her fever rising, she dropped onto a chair.
Drying his face with a towel, he turned. “Why did she give you scissors?”
“Hmm?” Swallowing hard, she tore her gaze from his chest and looked down to where her fingers, white-knuckled, gripped the shears. “I suppose she thought you’d want to cut off the burned part of your hair.”
“Oh. That makes sense.” His voice sounded huskier than normal—from the smoke, she imagined. But whatever the reason, the deep words seemed to vibrate right through her. He tossed away the towel and grabbed her father’s shirt. “Will you cut it for me?”
“Me? Cut your hair?” Her breath was coming short. He dropped the shirt over his head and tugged it into place. Though it was a bit small, it did cover him sufficiently.
She couldn’t decide whether she found that a relief or disappointing.
“Well, I cannot cut it myself, not and make a good job of it,” he said reasonably, shoving the bottom of the shirt down into his breeches. For some reason, watching that made her breath come even shorter. “Most of it’s on the back of my head,” he added.
“It? Oh, your hair. Yes. I suppose it is.” She began to clear her throat, but when that hurt, she coughed instead. “Sit down, and I’ll do my best to cut it.”
“I cannot.” He indicated his filthy breeches and the cream-colored upholstery. “Can you stand?”
She did, noticing her knees felt shaky. Her illness must be worsening. Her arms felt weak when she raised the scissors and began snipping off the scorched hair. It smelled terrible and looked awful.
“I’m so sorry,” she said from behind him, mourning the gorgeous mane.
He shrugged, the shirt tightening across his wide shoulders. “It was my only vanity. It’s probably as well that it’s gone. I’ll have more time for my work now that I won’t be caring for it.”
She laughed, glad he wasn’t angry. And her animals were safe. Her heart lightened as she carefully snipped. “Why?” she asked.
“Why what?”
“Why did you risk your life to save them? You don’t even like animals.”
“I don’t dislike animals, and I’d certainly never want to see any creature suffer. Just because they’re not my reason for living doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
“Oh.” It sounded so simple when he put it that way. So reasonable. So Rand. And she wanted to say that animals weren’t her reason for living, either—that people, especially special people like him, were much more important.
But she shouldn’t be saying something like that, because he might get the wrong idea. And then she might be tempted to break her promise to Rose, and then—
“But if you want the God-honest truth,” he continued, “I wasn’t thinking of the animals when I saved them. I went in looking for you, afraid you might be trying to save them yourself. And then, when you weren’t there—” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “When I rescued those creatures, I was thinking of you, Lily, and how you’d feel if they perished.”
She stopped snipping and started shaking. He’d saved animals for her, risking his life and losing his hair in the process. He couldn’t…she couldn’t…
“Lily?”
“I’m almost finished.” She drew a deep breath and made a few more cuts. But it was hard to concentrate, because she was afraid she’d just fallen in love with Rand Nesbitt.
She hadn’t seen him in a week—a week spent craving his kisses, a week spent searching her soul. A week spent at war…a ceaseless battle between her own growing feelings and her loyalty to her sister. A sister who was getting more and more annoying in her seemingly hopeless pursuit of Rand.
And this—this impossibly selfless, wonderful thing that he’d done for her—was threatening to push her over the edge. Push her, for the first time in her life, into breaking a promise. Rose would never forgive her, but that hardly mattered, because even more important, she would never forgive herself.
He turned and met her eyes, and she feared her knees might buckle.
“Are you finished?”
“I think so.” She sneezed, and then coughed, and then gave a long, deep, miserable sniffle. “Yes, I’m finished.”
“You should go to bed, then. I’ll walk you to your chamber.”
“Rand, you cannot.”
“Of course I can.” He took her arm and started marching her toward the staircase. “You’re ill and I’m exhausted. I can assure you nothing untoward will happen.”
Truth be told, she was glad for his support as she trudged up the steps. Beatrix appeared and followed behind. “Thank you,” Lily said primly when Rand had delivered her to her door.
“Go on, get in bed.”
Supposing he wouldn’t leave her alone until he saw her settled, she sighed and picked up the cat, then climbed under the covers, still wearing her wrapper. “Thank you,” she said again.
Rand remained standing on the threshold. “May I come in?”
Lily’s heart hitched, and Beatrix began hiccuping. “That would be quite improper.”
“Your mother left us alone.”
“She does things like that. Mum has never been overly concerned with propriety.” When she sneezed, embarrassingly loudly, Beatrix leapt to the floor. “At least so long as others are not around to observe.”
“Ah,” he said, “I remember. The Ashcroft motto. Interroga Conformationem, Question Convention.” He glanced down to where Beatrix was ribboning between his legs, rubbing against his smudged boots. “What the devil is she doing?”
“She likes you.”
“Why?”
Lily shrugged. “Why not?”
“I’m a dog person.” In an attempt to get away, he sidled into the room, apparently forgetting that Lily hadn’t granted permission. Bored by his disinterest, Beatrix scampered out the window to
