Just Like Heaven (7 page)

“No
.” Good God, how had the conversation deteriorated so quickly? “I am merely trying to help.”

“I don't need another brother,” she said sharply.

“I don't want to
be
your brother,” he shot back. And then he saw her again, rather, saw her
differently
again. Maybe it was her eyes, or her skin, high with color. Or the way she was breathing. Or the curve of her cheek. Or the little spot where her—

“You have dirt on your cheek,” he said, handing her his handkerchief. She didn't, but he needed something with which to change the subject.

Now.

She dabbed at her face with the handkerchief, then looked down at the still snowy-white cloth, frowned, and dabbed again.

“It's gone,” he said.

She returned his handkerchief, then just stood there, giving him a sullen, stony stare. She looked twelve again, or at least was wearing the expression of a twelve-year-old, which was just fine with him.

“Honoria,” he said carefully, “as Daniel's friend—”

“Don't.” Nothing more. Just
don't
.

He took a breath, using the time to choose his words. “Why is it so difficult to accept assistance?”

“Do you?” she countered.

He stared at her.

“Do
you
like to accept assistance?” she clarified.

“It depends upon who is offering it.”

“Me.” She crossed her arms, looking somewhat satisfied with her reply, although for the life of him, he had no idea why. “Just imagine it. Imagine the tables were turned.”

“Assuming it was a topic about which you had some expertise, then yes, I would be happy to accept assistance from you.” He crossed his arms, too, rather pleased with himself. It was a perfect sentence, placating and agreeable, and saying nothing at all.

He waited for her reply, but after a few moments she just gave her head a little shake and said, “I have to get back.”

“They'll be missing you?”

“They should have already been missing me,” she muttered.

“The twisted ankle,” he murmured. With a sympathetic nod.

She returned that with a scowl and marched off. In the wrong direction.

“Honoria!”

She turned around.

He took great care not to smile as he pointed her in the correct direction. “Bricstan is that way.”

Her jaw tensed, but she just said, “Thank you,” and turned about. But she spun too fast and lost her footing. She let out a shriek as she tried to regain her balance, and Marcus did what any gentleman would instinctively do. He rushed forward to steady her.

Except he stepped in that damned mole hole.

The next cry of surprise was his, and somewhat profane, he was ashamed to admit. They both went down when he lost his balance, and they landed on the damp earth with a thud, Honoria on her back, and Marcus right on top of her.

He immediately rose to his elbows, trying to take some of his weight off her as he looked down. He told himself it was to see if she was all right. He was going to ask her this once he caught his breath. But when he looked at her, she was trying to catch her own breath. Her lips were parted, and her eyes were dazed, and he did what any man would instinctively do. He lowered his head to kiss her.

Chapter Five

O
ne moment Honoria was upright—oh, very well, she hadn't been upright, not completely. She'd wanted so desperately just to get away from Marcus that she'd turned too quickly, slid on the damp earth and lost her balance.

But she'd almost been upright, and in fact
would
have been upright in mere moments if Marcus hadn't come (quite literally) hurtling through the air at her.

This would have been disorienting enough, except that his shoulder caught her directly in her midsection. Her breath flew from her lungs, and they both tumbled to the ground, Marcus landing squarely on top of her.

That was when Honoria quite possibly stopped thinking altogether.

She'd never felt a male body against hers—dear heavens, when would she have done? She'd waltzed, occasionally more closely than was proper, but that had been nothing like this. The weight of him, the heat. It felt oddly primitive, and even stranger, there was something almost pleasant about it.

She moved her lips to speak, but as she lay there, staring up at him, she couldn't seem to find words. He looked different to her. She'd known this man for nearly as long as she could remember—how was it possible that she had never quite noticed the shape of his mouth? Or his eyes. She'd known they were brown, but it was astounding how richly colored they were, with flecks of amber near the edges of the iris. And even now, they seemed to change as he moved closer . . .

Closer?

Oh, dear God. Was he going to
kiss
her? Marcus?

Her breath caught. And her lips parted. And something within her clenched with anticipation, and all she could think was—

Nothing. Or at least that was all she should be thinking about, because Marcus was most definitely not planning to kiss her. He bit off a string of curses the likes of which she had not heard since Daniel had left the country, and then he wrenched himself up and off her, taking a step back, and then—

“Bloody hell!”

There was a frenetic flurry of movement, followed by a thud and a grunt, and another string of blasphemy that Honoria was far too sensible to take offense at. With a horrified gasp, she pushed herself up on her elbows. Marcus was back on the ground, and from the expression on his face, this time he'd actually been hurt.

“Are you all right?” she asked frantically, even though it was clear he was not.

“It was the hole,” he bit off, gritting his teeth against the pain. And then, as if it might possibly require clarification, he added, “Again.”

“I'm sorry,” she said quickly, scrambling to her feet. And then, because the situation clearly called for a more substantial apology, she said it again. “I'm very, very sorry.”

He did not speak.

“You must know it wasn't my intention to . . .” She didn't finish. A stream of babble wasn't going to help her cause, and indeed, he appeared very much
not
to want to hear her voice.

She swallowed nervously, taking the tiniest step in his direction. He was still on the ground, not quite on his back and not quite on his side. There was mud on his boots and on his breeches. And on his coat.

Honoria winced. He wasn't going to like that. Marcus had never been overly fastidious, but it was a very nice coat.

“Marcus?” she asked hesitantly.

He scowled. Not specifically at her, but still, it was enough to confirm her decision not to tell him about the dead leaves in his hair.

He rolled slightly to one side until he was more squarely on his back, then he closed his eyes.

Her lips parted, and she almost spoke, but then she waited. He took a breath, then another, then a third, and when he opened his eyes, his expression had changed. He was calmer now.

Thank God.

Honoria leaned a little forward. She still thought it prudent to tread carefully around him, but she did think he might have calmed enough for her to venture, “May I help you up?”

“In a moment,” he grunted. He scooted himself into an almost-sitting position, then grabbed his calf with his hands, lifting his injured leg up and out of the mole hole.

Which, Honoria noticed, was significantly bigger now that he'd stepped in it twice.

She watched as he gingerly rotated his ankle. He flexed his foot forward and back, then side to side. It was the latter that seemed to cause him the most pain.

“Do you think it's broken?” she asked.

“No.”

“Twisted?”

He grunted his assent.

“Do you—”

He speared her with such a ferocious glare that she shut her mouth immediately. But after about fifteen seconds of wincing at his pain, she couldn't help herself. “Marcus?”

He hadn't been facing her when she said his name, and he didn't turn around when he heard it. He did, however, stop moving.

“Do you think you should take off your boot?”

He didn't reply.

“In case your ankle is swollen.”

“I
know
”—he stopped, let out a breath, then continued in a slightly more controlled tone of voice— “why to do it. I was just thinking.”

She nodded even though he still had his back to her. “Of course. Just let me know, ehrm . . .”

He stopped moving again.

She actually took a step back. “Never mind.”

He reached forward to touch his injured ankle through his boot, presumably to test the swelling. Honoria scooted around so that she could see his face. She tried to discern the extent of his pain by his expression, but it was difficult. He looked so at the edge of his temper that one really couldn't tell much beyond that.

Men were so ridiculous that way. She realized that it was her fault that he'd twisted his ankle, and she understood that he was going to be at least a little bit irritated with her, but still, it was obvious he was going to need her help. He didn't look able to come to his feet on his own, much less walk all the way back to Fensmore. If he were thinking sensibly, he would realize this and allow her to come to his aid sooner rather than later. But no, he needed to snap about like a wounded tiger, as if that might make him feel he was in charge of the situation.

“Ehrm . . .” She cleared her throat. “Just so I'm sure I'm doing the right thing . . . Can I help you in any way, or would it just be best for me not to make a sound?”

There was an agonizingly long pause, and then he said, “Will you please help me remove my boot?”

“Of course!” She rushed over. “Here, let me, er . . .” She'd done this long ago, when she was a little girl aiding her father, but not since, and certainly not with a man who had just been lying on top of her two minutes earlier.

She felt her face burn. Where on earth had that thought just come from? It had been an
accident
. And this was Marcus. She needed to remember this. Marcus. This was only Marcus.

She sat opposite him, on the far end of his outstretched leg, and grasped the boot with one hand at the back of the ankle and the other on the sole. “Are you ready?”

He nodded grimly.

She pulled with the ankle hand and pushed with the other, but Marcus let out such a cry of pain that she dropped his foot immediately.

“Are you all right?” She almost did not recognize her own voice. She sounded terrified.

“Just try again,” he said gruffly.

“Are you certain? Because—”

“Just do it,” he ground out.

“Very well.” She took up his foot again, grit her teeth, and pulled. Hard. Marcus did not cry out this time, but he was making an awful noise, the sort an animal made before it was put down. Finally, when it was more than Honoria could bear, she let up. “I don't think this is working.” She looked back at him. “And by that I mean I will
never
get it off.”

“Try again,” he said. “These boots are always difficult to remove.”

“Like this?” she asked, in complete disbelief. And people said that ladies' garments were impractical.

“Honoria
.”

“All right.” She tried again, with the same results. “I'm sorry, but I think you're going to have to cut it off when you get home.”

A flicker of pain crossed his face.

“It's only a boot,” she murmured sympathetically.

“It's not that,” he snapped. “It hurts like the devil.”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry.”

He let out a long, shaky exhale. “You're going to have to help me to my feet.”

She nodded and rose to her own. “Here, let me take your hand.” She took his hand in hers and yanked up, but he couldn't get his balance right. After a moment he let go.

Honoria looked down at her hand. It looked empty. And felt cold.

“You're going to have to grab me under my arms,” he said.

This might have shocked her before, but after trying to take off his boot for him, she couldn't see how this could possibly be any more improper.

She nodded again and bent down, sliding her arms around him. “Here we are,” she said, letting out a little grunt of exertion as she tried to get him up to his feet. It was strange to be holding him, and terribly awkward. Ironic, too. If it hadn't been for his stepping in the mole hole and crashing into her, this would have been the closest she had ever been to him.

Of course, if he hadn't stepped in the mole hole
again,
they wouldn't be in this position.

With a bit of maneuvering and one more half-uttered curse on Marcus's part, they got him onto his feet. Honoria stepped back, putting a more proper distance between them, although she did put his hand on her shoulder to steady him. “Can you put any weight on it?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he said, testing it out. He made a complete step, but his face twisted with pain as he did it.

“Marcus?” she asked hesitantly.

“I'll be fine.”

He looked awful to her. “Are you sure?” she asked, “because I really think—”

“I said I'm fi—ow!” He stumbled, clutching onto her shoulder to prevent himself from going down.

Honoria waited patiently while he collected himself, offering her other hand for extra balance. He took it in his firm grasp, and once again she was struck by what a nice hand it was, large and warm. And safe, too, although she wasn't sure that made any sense.

“I might need help,” he said, clearly loath to admit it.

“Of course. I'll just . . . ah . . .” She moved toward him, then a bit away, then readjusted.

“Stand next to me,” he said. “I'm going to have to lean on you.”

She nodded and let him drape his arm over her shoulder. It felt heavy. And nice. “Here we are,” she said, sliding her arm around his waist. “Now which way is it to Fensmore?”

He motioned with his head. “Over there.”

She turned them so they were facing the right direction, then said, “Actually, I think the more pertinent question might be, how
far
is it to Fensmore?”

“Three miles.”

“Thr
—” She caught herself, bringing her volume down from a shriek to something almost normal. “I'm sorry, did you say three miles?”

“Approximately.”

Was he insane?
“Marcus, there is no way I can prop you up for three miles. We're going to have to go to the Royles'.”

“Oh no,” he said, deadly serious. “I am not showing up on their doorstep in this condition.”

Privately, Honoria agreed with him. An injured, unmarried earl, completely dependent on her mercy? Mrs. Royle would see it as a gift from heaven. He'd probably find himself ushered to a sickroom before he could protest. With Cecily Royle as his nurse.

“You won't have to help me the whole way, anyway,” he said. “It will improve as I walk on it.”

She looked at him. “That makes no sense.”

“Just help me home, will you?” He sounded exhausted. Maybe exasperated. Probably both.

“I'll try,” she agreed, but only because she knew it would not work. She gave it five minutes at most before he admitted defeat.

They hobbled a few yards, then Marcus said, “A mole hole would have been much smaller.”

“I know. But I needed to be able to fit my foot in it.”

He took another step, then half-hopped the next one. “What did you think was going to happen?”

She let out a sigh. She'd long since passed the point of embarrassment. There seemed no point in pretending she had any remaining pride. “I don't know,” she said wearily. “I suppose I thought my prince charming was going to come and save me. Perhaps help me home in precisely the manner I'm helping you.”

He glanced over at her. “And Prince Charming is . . .”

She looked at him as if he'd gone mad. Surely he didn't think she was going to give him a name.

“Honoria . . . ,” he prodded.

“It's none of your business.”

He actually chuckled. “What do you think I will do with the information?”

“I just don't want—”

“You crippled me, Honoria.”

It was a low blow, but an effective one.

“Oh, very well,” she said, giving up the fight. “If you must know, it was Gregory Bridgerton.”

Marcus stopped walking and looked at her with a touch of surprise. “Greg—”

“The youngest one,” she interrupted. “The youngest son, I mean. The one who is unmarried.”

“I know who he is.”

“Very well, then. What is wrong with him?” At that she cocked her head to the side and waited expectantly.

He thought for a moment. “Nothing.”

“You—wait.” She blinked. “Nothing?”

He shook his head, then shifted his weight a little; his good foot was beginning to fall asleep. “Nothing comes immediately to mind.” It was true. She could do a good deal worse than Gregory Bridgerton.