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A truce she needed to avoid. A truce meant the potential for her attraction to him to flourish. To tempt her closer to crossing a boundary she needed to keep in place.
“There.”
He lowered her foot to the floor, then stood up and moved away from her quickly. Relieved, she braced her hand on the table and started to stand.
“What are you doing?”
“Going up to my room.”
And as far away from you as I can get.
“Don’t put pressure on that foot, at least not for a few hours. It was a good-size thorn and it’s likely to be pretty painful.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “If I’m going to be off my feet for a couple hours, I’d rather not do it in the kitchen. Besides, as I said, before I’m very good at hobbling. I can make my way upstairs—”
He moved forward. She started to step back, winced as her foot made contact with the floor. The pause gave him enough time to sweep her into his arms once more.
“Or I could just carry you.”
“You’ve really got to stop doing that.”
“What? Playing Prince Charming?”
She threw back her head and laughed. When he glanced down at her one brow raised, it only made her laugh harder.
“Not handsome enough for Prince Charming?”
“Oh, it’s not that,” she hastened to reassure him. “You’re actually too handsome.”
He shook his head slightly. “Too handsome?”
Embarrassed, she looked away.
“You said it.”
“I wish I hadn’t.”
“Why not?” he asked as he walked out into the main hall and headed toward the stairs. “Say more if you like. I haven’t heard a compliment about my appearance in...well, you can guess,” he said with a sardonic smile.
“What else is there to say?” She could feel the heat creeping up her neck and moving through her cheeks. “You’re handsome.”
“Handsome enough to be Prince Charming?”
“Yes,” she practically growled.
It was his turn to chuckle, a sound that hummed in his chest and stirred her skin. As the pain in her foot resided, she became aware of how snugly he held her body against his, of the sheer strength in his arms as he gripped her tight. She snuck a glance at him from beneath her lashes, her eyes traveling over the sculpted line of his jaw beneath his beard, the scar that cut down the left side of his face.
“Ask.”
“Excuse me?”
“The scars.” His lips thinned into a line. “Everyone stares, but no one has the guts to ask.”
What would it be like to have everyone know the details of your life? To know almost every horrific thing and still want to know more, to take every bit of knowledge as if it were their own?
“I didn’t really have a question. More of an observation.”
“What’s that?”
