“I saw the look you gave your grandmother,” I said willfully.
“And what of it?” He laid a fist on the table. “She would have me bend to her will, and I have no desire to. Is that a crime?”
“It is if you use me to defy her. Isn’t that exactly what you were doing? Sending a message to her that you won’t be forced into a marriage with Lady Margaret?”
He shook his head. “If that is what you believe, I’ll not convince you otherwise. It is often easier to believe a lie than the truth.”
His words sounded familiar; I combed my memories, trying to remember where I’d heard them before. It flooded back all at once. The broken figurine, the lie he’d told his mother. And how easily she’d accepted it.
My anger faltered. “And what is the truth?”
He pushed a hand through his hair. “Juliet, I have no desire to use you.” He looked up then, and there was such raw sincerity on his face, I couldn’t disbelieve him. “Perhaps I have done nothing to deserve your good opinion, but the truth is, I saw you struggling and I wished to help you.”
His words left me speechless. My shoulders bent, and I suddenly felt very small for having misjudged him so thoroughly.
“Your hand, please.”
“It is nothing worth troubling about,” I protested. But a stray tear leaked out of eye and tumbled down my cheek, belying my words.
He leaned forward and held out his hand. “Let me see.”
The authority in his voice was almost impossible to ignore, and I extended my hand. He took my wrist, easing off my glove with the utmost care. I was reminded of the night of the storm, how his palm had gently slid against mine.
“How did you know?” I asked meekly.
“You were attempting to cut with your fork.” He tilted his head with a knowing look. “Not well, I might add. And you did not remove your gloves.”
I gulped, my cheeks growing hot. At least no one else seemed to have noticed.
The hand that held my wrist was warm. He gently unwound the strip of linen gauze on my hand, revealing the raw and angry burn, and at the sight of it, drew in a sharp breath. I winced as the air hit my palm. Out in the direct sunlight, it looked worse than I remembered.
“How did this happen?”
“The fire,” I said dumbly. “I had to retrieve something from the fire.”
He gave me a stern look. “Something you threw, perhaps, in a fit of temper?” His thumb wandered over my wrist in a slight caress, sending a shiver up my arm.
“Not exactly that.”
He raised his brows.
I squirmed. “It may have been exactly that.”
“Have you set this in wine? Or linseed oil? You need something to keep it from festering.”
With my hand cradled in his I could hardly think straight. “Just yeast from the cook, and some cool water.”
Halstead shook his head. “That’s an old wives’ method. We need to send for a doctor.”
“I cannot. My aunt . . .”
He stiffened. “Was she the reason you lost your temper?”
“Halstead, please. Don’t make things worse for me.”
His jaw tightened. “I promise you, in a castle the size of Shaldorn, you can see a doctor without your aunt finding out.” He bent over, examining my hand again. “The palm’s skin is very sensitive and isn’t likely to heal on its own. You hide the pain well, but it may worsen.” His dark eyes met mine, full of insistence.
“Very well,” I whispered. “But no one else can know. I do not want everyone inquiring after me for the remainder of my stay.”
He nodded. “That I can understand.” He held on to my hand for a moment longer than necessary, the gentle pressure of his grip grounding me against the pain. With his hand still holding mine, he rewrapped the strip of gauze and replaced my glove. For hands so large, they were unexpectedly gentle.
He pushed back his chair, using the table to balance as he reached for his walking stick. “I will send for the doctor. Meet me in the library in an hour.”
Chapter Nineteen
I pushed open the door to the library and let it close behind me. The room appeared to be empty. The large clock on the far wall revealed I was several minutes early. The minutes had ticked by over the last hour, and I’d come to see the wisdom of calling for a doctor. As it was, my right hand was useless to me. The constant pain made it almost impossible for me to focus on anything but the throbbing of my palm.
The door pushed into my back, forcing me to take an unbalanced step forward. Out of instinct my palms flew open. I let out a little moan as the raw skin of my burn was pulled taut.
A hand on my elbow saved me from a likely fall. “Are you all right, Juliet?”
I turned to find Halstead and, taken off guard by his proximity, forgot my pain. Mere inches separated us, and I breathed in the lingering pipe smoke that clung to his jacket. “It is my own fault for standing at the door.” Inhaling, I enjoyed the scent a moment longer.
A slight knock sounded, and we both stepped back. A footman appeared in the doorway. “Dr. Andrews, Your Grace.”
“Come in.” Halstead motioned the doctor forward. “Miss Graham, this is Dr. Andrews.”
The man had silvery hair, trimmed and combed with precision. He carried a black bag, and though he wore a serious expression, he looked down at me with a kind smile. “Let me take a look at this burn and see if we cannot give you some relief, Miss Graham.” His voice had a gravelly quality to it that made him sound older than he looked.
“Is there anything else you require?” the footman asked.
The doctor glanced up and nodded. “Yes. We will need a large basin, as well as a pitcher of water. See that it
