Born Wicked
Page 29

I run toward him, throwing my watercolors and sketch pad to the ground, cursing this damned corset.
“Are you all right?” I crouch beside him.
He’s sitting up, but his face is ashen beneath his freckles. He turns his head and curses like a sailor.
I gasp in mock outrage. “Mr. Belastra, I wasn’t aware you knew such words!”
He tries to grin, but it comes out a grimace. “Large vocabulary.”
“Shall I fetch John? Do you need help?”
“I can manage,” he huffs. From my vantage point I can see the back of his neck flush pink beneath his collar. He’s got freckles there, too.
I wonder how many freckles he’s got. Are they all over, or just where the sun’s touched?
“—your arm?”
I’m too mortified to meet his eyes. “What?” Good Lord, why am I thinking of Finn Belastra without his clothes on? My mind’s gone all muddled from the excitement of his accident.
“Your arm? Could you help me up?” he asks.
“Oh. Yes!” He grasps my shoulder and heaves himself upright, letting out another string of curses. I stand, too, and grab the overcoat he’s left folded on the floor of the gazebo.
We begin the slow walk back through the gardens, Finn leaning against me, his arm slung around my shoulders. I can’t help assessing him from the corner of my eye. Now that I know how fiercely he’d protect his mother and Clara, I—
I can’t help but think of him differently. If he was handsome before, now he’s doubly so. Still, I can’t go falling in love with the gardener. That’s like something out of one of Maura’s novels. And with the Brothers watching the shop so closely, any alliance with the Belastras would only put us under more scrutiny.
Finn catches me staring. “Don’t worry, I won’t faint,” he jokes.
“I hope not. I don’t think I can carry you.”
We limp along to the kitchen door. Finn props himself against the brick wall while I call for Mrs. O’Hare. She stops dinner preparations—possibly for the best—and bustles over. The kitchen smells like freshly baked bread.
“Finn fell off the ladder,” I announce. We deposit him in her old brown-flowered armchair by the fire.
Mrs. O’Hare clucks her tongue. “Oh, dear. Should I send for Dr. Allen?”
Finn shakes his head. “No, thank you. Just let me get my boot off and assess the damage.”
“Of course. I’ll get you some tea,” she says, ruffling his thick hair like a child. Mrs. O’Hare knows no strangers.
Finn pulls off his work boot and wriggles his gray-stockinged toes. When he attempts to roll his ankle, he lets out a pained hiss through his teeth.
Mrs. O’Hare hurries over, clucking. “Poor boy. Is it broken?”
“Just a bad sprain, I think.”
Mrs. O’Hare snatches up her sewing basket from the corner. Some of our chemises and stockings are piled there, waiting to be mended. I blush, hoping Finn won’t notice them. “Let me see. I’ve dressed more than one sprained ankle in my time. Cate here can attest to that,” Mrs. O’Hare says.
“No, no, I can do it,” Finn objects.
“Nonsense! Just give me one minute.” Mrs. O’Hare lifts the lid to stir something bubbling over in the pot. It lets out a tempting aroma of onions and butternut squash. Perhaps tonight’s dinner won’t be a travesty after all.
“Could you do it?” Finn asks, his voice low.
“Me?” I’m hardly a nurse. “You’d be better off with her.”
He looks at Mrs. O’Hare, busy over the pot of soup, then lifts his pant leg slightly—just enough to reveal the pistol strapped to his shin. “Please, Cate.”
Oh. I nod and kneel beside him. “Yes, of course.”
Mrs. O’Hare chuckles when she sees me fumbling with her roll of bandages. “You, playing nursemaid? What’s gotten into you?”
I blink up at her innocently. “I ought to learn how, shouldn’t I? In case anyone ever takes pity and marries me?”
“Lord help the man,” she laughs. “All right, but don’t tie it too tight or you’ll cut off his circulation.”
I give Finn a wicked smile. “Don’t you think a peg leg would be charming? Like a pirate? The first mate on theCalypsohad one, didn’t he?”
“It would add a certain rakish factor. Have you got a spare eye patch?”
“Be serious, you two. Gangrene is no laughing matter,” Mrs. O’Hare scolds.
I look up at Finn, and his brown eyes collide with mine. My hand freezes an inch from his leg. I stare at him, stomach fluttering with nerves. I don’t know why I feel so shy all of a sudden. It’s not as though I’ve never seen a boy’s bare leg before. When Paul and I were children, he’d roll his pants up to his knees and I’d hitch up my skirts and we’d wade in the pond, trying to catch minnows in our hands.
But that was Paul, and we were only children. Somehow this feels a different thing entirely.
“Get on with it,” Mrs. O’Hare prompts, and I do, wrapping the bandage snugly over Finn’s instep and up his calf—which is sinewy with muscle, covered in fine coppery hair and more freckles. I’m fascinated by the pattern they form over his skin. Do they go all the way up his leg?
I flush scarlet at the thought.
“Now, you have some tea and leave that leg propped up for a bit, and then we’ll have John drive you back to town. Good work, Cate,” Mrs. O’Hare says.
I hang up my cloak in confusion. If I were to take notice of a man, it should be Paul.But does your heart pound when he’s near?
My heart’s a hummingbird now, fluttering madly in my chest.
I drag a chair across the room to sit beside Finn. He’s staring at me, his eyes big and owlish behind his spectacles. “You needn’t stay here with me, you know.”
“Haven’t anything else better to do.” I shrug. Then I’m struck by the fear that perhaps he’d like me to leave. “Unless—do you want me to go?”
He chuckles—a nice, low hum of a laugh. I’ve never noticed that before. “No.”
“What, haven’t you got a book in your coat pocket?”
“I do, actually. But I only bring it out in dull company.”
Does he mean he enjoys my company? I smooth my green skirt, glad for once that I’m wearing something pretty, without mud on the knees and ragged hems.
We’re still sitting there, smiling foolishly at one another, when the kitchen door bangs open and Paul strides in, stamping his feet.
“There’s my girl! I’ve been combing the gardens for you. Maura said you were working on your watercolors.” He grabs up my hand and kisses it. I give him a warning look—he ought to know better than to take such liberties, especially in company. “Belastra, what have you done to yourself?”
Finn sips his tea. “Fell off a ladder,” he says coolly.
Paul’s lips twitch, and I feel a surge of protectiveness. “It was my fault,” I blurt.
“How’s that?” Paul cocks his head at me, confused.
I shift in my wooden chair. “I startled him.”
“No hard feelings. You did a grand job bandaging me up,” Finn says.