“I must admit, you are bleeding through my supply of clean linen at an alarming rate.”
“My face is already a wreck. Another lump can only improve it.” He lowered the cloth. “How bad is it?”
She tested his bruise with her fingertips. “There’s a bit of a bump, but the swelling isn’t too awful.”
“No, not that.” He turned his head, giving her his profile—and a full view of his twisting scar. “The rest. How bad is it? Tell me honestly.”
Izzy fell quiet, stunned by his sudden earnestness. He was anxious about his looks?
“I can’t see it for myself,” he said. “I’ve wondered where I rank in the spectrum between flawed Adonis and ghastly horror. Clearly, I can’t judge by these silly chits’ reactions, addled as they are by your father’s writing. It will have to be you.”
Her heart twisted in her chest. How could he doubt himself? In full daylight, he was magnificent. His skin seemed to be bronzing by the moment, soaking up every bit of the day’s warmth. The sunlight caught the golden streaks in his hair—hair that was overlong, sprawling over his brow in a rakish fashion. She wondered now at the reason. Was it that he simply couldn’t be bothered to let Duncan cut it, or did he purposely grow it long to obscure his scarred face?
Reaching forward, she brushed the sweep of tawny hair from his brow. “Will you tell me how it happened?”
“I was struck. With something big and sharp.”
Izzy supposed that was what she deserved. Ask a straightforward question, receive a straightforward answer.
She traced the scar with her fingertip, all the way from his brow to his cheekbone, then let her touch linger on his unshaven cheek. How ironic that the blow had just missed his right eye but taken the sight from both.
“Well?” he prompted.
“Well,” she said, “it’s plain to see that you were once a devastatingly handsome man.”
“And now?”
“Now . . .” She sighed. “I really hate to say it. Don’t make me say it.”
His hand caught her wrist. “Just say it.”
“Now you are a devastatingly handsome man with an impressive scar. That is the unhappy truth. I wish I could tell you otherwise. You will be impossible now.”
“But . . .” He released her, looking bewildered. “But that first day. When you saw me, you swooned.”
She laughed a little. “Your face did not make me swoon. I was already feeling faint. I hadn’t eaten anything but a few crusts of bread for days.”
“So the scars don’t frighten you?”
“Not at all.”
The words were a lie. The truth was, his scars did frighten her—but only a little, and only because they tempted her to care. Even now, her heart was softening in her chest, faster than a lump of butter left in the sun.
She couldn’t let this happen. It was all well and good to say “no expectations,” but Izzy knew how her affection-starved heart worked. She was so desperate to love and be loved, she could sprout tender feelings toward a rock. And rocks didn’t call her “bewitching” or “temptress.” Rocks didn’t have touchable golden brown hair.
But rocks and Ransom did have something in common.
Neither one would love her back.
“We should go,” she said. “It’s been at least one hundred counts, and the girls are waiting.”
He stood and brushed dust from his breeches and coat. “I’ll make my own way back.”
“By yourself?” The moment the words left her lips, Izzy cringed, regretting how they sounded. Of course he was able to walk back on his own. “It’s just that the handmaidens are waiting for their hero to find them.”
“Then they’d best keep waiting for some other man.” He moved past her. “I’m no one’s hero, Miss Goodnight. You’d do well to remember it.”
Chapter Fourteen
Miss Goodnight. Is that you?”
Izzy froze, perched on tiptoe.