Once Upon a Romance 02 - As The Last Petal Falls (9 page)

Fain spoke wryly. “It hasn’t made much of an impact on you.”

She bristled, but kept herself in check. “It made quite an impact, thank you. I still tend to have a hard time when I’m provoked, however.”

“I suppose our lack of luxury is highly provoking.” He didn’t bother to try and hide the disdain in his voice.

“I was speaking of your constant assaults on my character.” She was forcing the words through gritted teeth, but she hadn’t started shrieking yet. That was an improvement.

“Oh, you mean when I called you spoiled and self-centered?”

“And thoughtless and flighty.”

“Well, as long as we’re making a list, I’ve also called you shrewish, petulant, and bratty under my breath.”

“Shrewish.
Petulant.
And
bratty?
” She got louder with each word. “I… you…
you…
” She cut off. Her features smoothed out and when next she spoke it was with calm, cultured tones. “You are trying to bait me.”

“I am doing no such thing.” Fain’s voice lowered a register.

“I’ve done it often enough myself, I think I’d recognize it in someone else.” She remained calm, eyeing him. Fain thought about what she said.

“Fine. Have it your way. My deepest apologies.” He wasn’t very sincere, but the lass nodded graciously.

“And now I must apologize. I’ve not been a… model patient.”

“I thought you were just playing the part of a spoiled heiress.”

Her mouth tightened. “I am
not
a spoiled heiress. I simply have a very creative way of punishing people who displease me.” She clearly meant to be quelling, but he snickered. Lifting her chin she fixed him with a lofty and dignified stare. “Your amusement is vastly out of proportion, Master MacTíre.”

“And your apology, lass, is much lacking in sincerity.” He was still chuckling as he spoke, but she blushed as though terribly embarrassed.

“You’re right, I’m sorry, I—” Suddenly she stopped, and struggled out of the bed, carefully keeping his shirt pulled down to her knees. When she’d gained her feet she gathered one side of the shirt up into her left hand, and then executed a profoundly graceful curtsey.

“I beg your forgiveness for my behavior this past day. It was conduct unworthy of my station, and utterly lacking in the gratitude I owe you for assisting me. I most sincerely apologize, and hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive my terrible lapse of comportment.”

Fain realized he should acknowledge her apology, but he couldn’t find the words. He was astounded by her obvious sincerity. It was like a different lass stood before him, totally changed from the sharp-tongued complainer he’d been with all day. She had to be cold and uncomfortable, not to mention weak from the fever. But she stood there, sincerely begging his forgiveness for her behavior, despite, he admitted to himself, at least a certain justification for it.

Who was this changeable creature?

She peeked up at him, humor in her eyes. “It is traditional to essay some sort of friendly overture, in response to my self-abasement.”

Fain had to force his brain to work. There was danger, here. Her anger had been unpleasant, but this… this was fascinating. And he couldn’t afford to be fascinated. He tried to goad her again.

“Sorry, I got distracted by all that expanse of bare leg.”

She didn’t react the way he anticipated, though. Instead of getting irritated and retreating, she gave him what could only be described as a sultry look, and then she straightened up and examined her long, shapely legs.

“I admit I haven’t seen the legs of many other ladies; are mine worth getting distracted over?” Her tone was innocent, but her violet eyes flashed heat at him before she demurely swept those thick lashes down to brush her cheeks and hide her thoughts. Fain clutched his chair to keep himself immobile. Suddenly he was thinking of all kinds of friendly overtures, all of which would invariably end with the two of them in his bed. That is, assuming she didn’t slap him in the face. Either way he was not going to touch her. He was going to stay right here, and stare like an idiot at her perfect face and magnificent legs, until he could think of something to say that would make her angry. Angry was irritating, but flirtatious was going to drive him mad.

Somehow he managed to answer her. “They could be better, lass.” He was telling the literal truth—after all, her legs weren’t wrapped around his hips, and that would definitely be better—but his tone implied a lie. It worked, though. Her eyes narrowed and she retreated to the bed in a huff. She pouted a moment or two, and then sighed and gave him a direct gaze.

“Again, I apologize. I’m not used to… to having the freedom to behave that way. It’s making me giddy. Usually my behavior is being constantly scrutinized. I… I will try to behave like a lady.”

He responded without thinking. “I highly doubt that’s possible.”

Her eyes went wide for just a moment, and then narrowed as she whipped her hand to his pillows, grabbed one, and lobbed it at his face with astonishing accuracy. He was so surprised that he just sat there as the fluffy white pillow plowed into his nose. When his vision cleared, she was smiling at him sweetly.

“I’ve found a well-thrown pillow is an appropriate rebuttal for many impertinent remarks.”

Fain blinked at her. Then he let out a bark of laughter. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They both sat there a moment, and then the beauty gave him a hesitant smile. “Master MacTíre—”

“You can call me Fain, Miss Wellesley.” The moment he said it he cursed himself. He shouldn’t be encouraging her to be familiar with him, but she gave him a radiant smile in return, and he couldn’t bring himself to take it back.

“Then you must call me Isabelle.”

“It doesn’t suit you. I don’t suppose you’d tell me your real name?” He put every ounce of wheedling he possessed into his voice, but she just sighed and looked at him with sad eyes.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to just believe me, and let it go?”

That was interesting. She hadn’t denied that she was lying to him. Fain wondered if she had done it on purpose, or was even aware of what her request could imply. He decided not to call attention to it, just yet. When she was angry the only thing he’d learned was her vast capacity for insults. Maybe he’d learn more by being friendly, so when he spoke, he kept it light and teasing.

“Well, I have to call you something. A nickname, perhaps?”

“Max liked to shorten my name, but my father said it was vulgar.”

“Any other names you’re partial to?”

“I always liked Gloriana, but Max says that makes him think of angels, and I am far too devilish for such a name.” She flashed her wicked smile at him again, and Fain was forced to agree.

“I guess that also means Angelica’s out.”

“Quite.” She spoke primly, but her eyes sparkled. “I also think you should skip anything that means “kind natured” or “biddable” or “sweet” or anything like that. I could never live up to it.”

“I could call you “Imp”. That would suit admirably.”

She stuck her tongue out. “Blech. Imps are supposed to be malformed, nasty little creatures. I suppose my temper is occasionally nasty, but you can hardly say I’m malformed.”

“No, indeed. Except for your legs. They’re awful.”

He kept his face deadpan, and watched her reaction. Her mouth dropped open, and then she snapped it shut and narrowed her eyes. “Could I have my pillow back, please?”

“I don’t think so, Belle. You hardly need any more ammunition.”

“Belle?”

“Well, it isn’t as though your father is here to object to the vulgarity. You don’t like the nickname?”

“No, on the contrary, I just…” She flushed slightly, and then smiled before speaking again. “Fain, would you mind reading to me? It would help to pass the time, and I haven’t heard a fairy story in a long time.”

He opened the book back to the story he’d been reading. “Do you like
The Children and the Candy Hag
??”

“Oh yes!” Her eyes sparkled. “Hold on just a moment.” She fluffed his remaining pillow behind her back, and made herself a comfortable nest of the blankets; then she drew her cozily bundled knees up and rested her chin on them while wrapping her one good hand around the front of her legs. She looked for all the world like a little girl ready for her bedtime story, and Fain had to chuckle.

“There, I’m ready. Start at the beginning, please.” Fain obliged, and as the beauty settled back against her pillow, she smiled at him. “Oh goody, you’re doing the voices. I love the voices.”

“… but the little wooden boy did not heed the lesson he had learned, and soon was back to his old tricks.”

Vivienne lay on the bed and let Fain’s deep, soothing voice envelop her in the story. For two days now the storm outside had dropped snow on the keep, and for two days she had lain in the bed. Occasionally she would take a turn at reading, but invariably she would grow tired, or slightly feverish, and Fain would take the book back and patiently read story after story. He had a collection of six books in all, and they’d gotten to book four, and the story of the puppet-maker’s little wooden son. They were nearing the end when Vivienne heard a knock on the door.

“Come,” Fain called while marking their place in the book and setting it aside.

It was Connelly.

“I’ve come ta check yer arm, lass, an’ see if I think ye hale an’ hearty enough ta leave this ’blasted bed.’”

Vivienne smiled at the little man. The day before, when he’d come to check on her, she’d had some choice things to say about his decision that she remain abed for a while longer. Apparently it had made an impression.

“I’m sorry, Connelly, but even with Fain reading to me, this is a hard way to pass the time. I feel the need to move about and breathe some fresh air.”

“I understand, lassie, I do. But it be my job ta see ye well, an’ I shall do it, whether ye shriek like a banshee or coo like a dove.” The gnarled man gave her a broad grin. Vivienne felt like the two of them understood each other; he’d certainly taken no offense to her burst of anger yesterday. In fact, the only response he’d made was to laugh heartily at her tirade.

Fain excused himself while Connelly opened the splint on her arm and examined the break closely. The swelling was much reduced, and the area around the break was hardly red at all anymore, although the signs of bone-deep bruising were beginning to show. He made a pleased noise deep in his throat, and then rewrapped the arm with clean bandages for the splint. Then he felt her forehead, checked her pulse, and peered deep into her eyes. Nothing seemed to alarm him, and presently he said:

“Feel alright then, do ye?”

“Except for perishing of boredom, and the ache in my arm, I feel fine.”

He grinned again, showing her his tiny, crooked teeth. “I’ll mix ye up somethin’ fer the pain, but I’d say yer on the mend, lassie.”

Vivienne was delighted. “Does this mean I can get out of bed?”

“Well, ye might want to see about acquirin’ a pair o’ pants, first, but after that ye can be up an’ about. Just dinna overdo it. If yer tired or the fever returns, back ta bed ye go.” Despite the last warning, Vivienne was so relieved at the thought of finally being free to move about that she gave Connelly a kiss, right on his hairy cheek. “Ah lass, yer a sweet one beneath all that ginger, are ye not?”

Just then Fain slipped back in the door, and Vivienne beamed on him as she gave him the good news. “Connelly says I can get up!”

“I thought he might,” her nursemaid replied, “so I went to fetch some water so you could clean up a bit.”

Hearing that she was going to finally have a chance to wash was almost as good as getting permission to get out of the blasted bed. Vivienne knew her smile must be blinding, she was so pleased. Fain stopped in his tracks, staring at her, and Connelly plucked the bowl of water from his hands. “I’ll take that for ye, MacTíre. Best ye stay over there. The lass has a creative way o’ thankin’ those that please her.” He winked outrageously at Vivienne, and to her surprise she felt herself blush all the way to the roots of her hair.

There wasn’t much in the room in the way of scenery—it was nothing but a stone box with a few plain pieces of furniture—and over the past two days, Vivienne had fallen to studying Fain as he read to her. She admitted, privately to herself, that she’d never seen a more attractive man in her life. He was very tall; if they stood next to one another he would tower over her, and she wasn’t a short woman. His shoulders were so broad he almost brushed the door frame when he entered or exited the room, and then his body tapered down to a narrow waist and trim hips. When he’d wake at night to make her medicinal teas he rarely bothered with his shirt, and Vivienne had, on numerous occasions, been given the chance to observe the way his smooth, golden skin glided over his perfect musculature.

It wasn’t just his body, though. Sometimes her arm ached so much tears came to her eyes, and when he saw them he would fetch her more tea and hold her good hand until it subsided. He always seemed embarrassed by his own kindness once the aches passed, but he was ready to step in each time the pain rose.