Tinkling rained down around them, a high-pitched note to accompany the thumping in Dawn’s chest. “What just happened?”
Lord Seton slowly let her go to rise up on one elbow and put a hand’s breadth between them. There was enough room that Dawn could place both her hands on his chest, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to push him away or pull him back down on top of her. There was a comfort in his weight against her, like closing a solid oak door against a raging storm.
He winced, and the frown returned. “A panel fell from above. We should move before another one goes.”
He rose to his feet and held out a hand to Dawn. Only as she stood did she see the pieces of glass strewn everywhere, including finger-sized pieces jutting out of the earl’s back.
“You’re hurt! Come through to the cottage.” Dawn pulled him toward the door to the cottage, watching where she placed her feet and careful to step over the larger pieces of glass. One remnant, shaped like a spear and waist high, was wedged in the soft earth exactly where she had stood. If the earl hadn’t jumped at her, it could have pierced her skull and split her in two. A shudder ran through her and she looked away.
He closed the door between greenhouse and cottage and raised a stern look to her face. “Promise me you won’t go back in there until I have the lads check out all the glass segments. It will be an opportunity for them to clean the glass while they are up there.”
Dawn pulled out a chair at the small pine table and gestured for him to sit.
“Of course,” she murmured, her attention on the sparkling shards decorating the back of his waistcoat. It would have looked like he sported a dragon’s spines or was sprinkled with fairy dust if not for the fact it could have killed him. She peered closer, looking for tears and holes in the fabric of the waistcoat. “Most of this doesn’t look like they have gone too deep. But you’ll have to hold still while I remove them.”
She set the kettle to boil, and then fetched a pair of tweezers and a bowl to hold the small pieces. Bit by bit, she pulled milky glass shards free of the tweed fabric and dropped them into the bowl. “There are two larger ones. This might sting.”
She squeezed the end with the metal pincers and eased the three-inch-long shard free. Lord Seton drew in a sharp breath but remained still. His hand played with the corner of the map she had drawn.
Dawn glanced at the splinters as she dropped them into the bowl; the ends were stained red. Then she peered at his shirt and waistcoat, searching for any stray pieces. “I think I have all of them, but you need to remove your waistcoat. I am worried the cuts from the deeper pieces might require stitches.”
He pushed the chair back as he undid the buttons and then shrugged the waistcoat off his shoulders. Sure enough, as he removed the waistcoat, bloody patches were revealed on his pale shirt.
“Do I need to remove the shirt as well?” he asked, a trace of humour in his voice.
“Yes, there is blood,” she whispered.
At least she would be staring at his back and he wouldn’t know how red her cheeks were. The kettle whistled. She poured off hot water into a clean bowl and then fetched a cloth while he stripped off the shirt. She also found a rolled-up bandage and some squares of muslin to press against the two wounds.
When she returned to the table, he leaned over his forearms and presented a naked back. A lightly tanned and very well-muscled back. Or so she thought, based on stolen glances at an anatomy book she found in her father’s study. The paintings and drawings had satisfied a certain curiosity in her young mind. This, however, was a corporeal man of flesh and blood. The sight made her throat go dry and her heart give an erratic thud.
She dropped the cloth into the water and wrung it out, but found her hand paused above his skin.
“I promise you won’t hurt me.” Again the trace of humour, so at odds with his often stern appearance.
Perhaps she’d judged him too harshly for his exterior frown and serious demeanour. Each day revealed humour and a gentle, caring side lurking underneath. If he had taken up the role of head of the family at a young age, it might have suppressed the lighter side of his personality, buried it under responsibility and grief.
“If you are sure, I shall clean these up.” She dabbed at the wounds, and inch-by-inch, she cleared the blood from the two slices. “I am no doctor, but these don’t seem terribly life-threatening and are deep rather than wide. I doubt stitches will be required.”
“I am glad to hear I will live to protect you from glasshouses for another day. And relieved to know you were not harmed.” With one finger he traced a route through the maze on the drawing as though he knew it by heart.
She wasn’t harmed, but it wasn’t her first accident on the estate. She had fallen through the hermitage roof, then she was shut in the pineapple pit, and now a piece of glass was dislodged right above her head. “This is the third such accident in my short time here. Almost as if something doesn’t want me here.”
His hand froze and then he lifted it off the map. “A mere coincidence, I am sure. Much of the estate is run-down and neglected and unfortunately, things are prone to giving way under such conditions.”
Dawn pressed two squares of muslin over the deepest cuts and then wrapped a crepe bandage around his torso. Her hands grazed his chest with each pass around his body as she ensured the slices were covered and protected. Both of them fell silent, and she became aware of each breath they took. Her heartbeat slowed and grew steadier until her breaths matched his long, deep ones.
She pulled a safety pin from her apron and pinned the bandage in place.
“All done,” she whispered.
Lord Seton reached out and took her hand in his. “Do you feel it, Dawn? Do you see the tendrils that seek to bind us?”
“I—” She didn’t know what to say. She thought the vine was all in her imagination. The plant that germinated at their first touch and sought to lace them together surely came from spending too long reading botany textbooks with a dollop of romantic novels. What did it mean if he saw it too, apart from them both being mad or desperately lonely?
His eyes half closed and he let her hand go on an exhale. “I’m sorry. I have been alone for so long and presume too much.”
Dawn took a step backward until the old map of the estate was at her back. “No. You don’t understand. I feel…everything. From the garden’s pleas for help to the pulse of energy that runs through my feet from deep below this estate.”
She placed a hand on her temple as though to slow the words that wanted to rush over her tongue. She could hold her silence and keep the appropriate distance between them, or pursue the mystery that had perplexed her since the first day and seek to understand what it meant.
“Each time you touch me, I see a delicate green tendril that wraps around our hands and tries to draw us closer—”
The chair screeched a protest as it was pushed along the floor. The earl crossed the distance between them in one easy stride, folded her into his arms, and kissed her.
Her initial surprise disappeared as a riot erupted within her. Her arms went around his neck and she leaned into his warm chest. With the pass of his lips against hers and the gentle swipe from his tongue, a new and ferocious hunger took hold of her. The vine erupted from her palm and grew at pace with her need. Tight spirals entwined both their bodies and pulled them closer and closer.
A soft moan broke from her throat as she pressed herself to his bare skin. Heat burned through her many layers of clothing to reach her beneath. Dawn didn’t want to do anything else except return his kiss. To learn his touch and taste. The world around vanished and only that moment existed. His arms around her were as strong as any oak, and his body as sheltering as an ancient tree.