Page 18 of The Virtuoso
“I am going to use some comfrey salve to help you comply with doctor’s orders. There’s probably arnica in it too.”
Val felt her spread something cool and moist over his hand, and then her fingers were working it into his skin. She was patient and thorough, smoothing her salve over his knuckles and fingers, into his palms, up over his wrist, and back down each finger. As she worked, he felt tension, frustration, and anger slipping down his arm and out the ends of his fingers, almost as if he were playing—
“You aren’t swearing,” Ellen said after she’d worked for some minutes in silence. “I have to hope I’m not hurting you.”
“You’re not.” Val’s tired brain took a moment to find even simple words. “It’s helping, or I think it is. Sometimes I go to bed believing I’ve had a good day with it; then I wake up the next day, and my hand is more sore than ever.”
“You should keep a journal,” Ellen suggested, slathering more salve on his hand. “That’s how I finally realized I’m prone to certain cyclical fluctuations in mood.”
He understood her allusion and considered were she not a widow—and were it not dark—she would not have ventured even that much.
“What did you say was in that salve?”
“Comfrey,” Ellen said, sounding relieved at the shift in topic. “Likely mint, as well, rosemary, and maybe some lavender, arnica if memory serves, a few other herbs, some for scent, some for comfort.”
“I like the scent,” Val said, wondering how long she’d hold his hand. It was childish of him, but he suspected the contact was soothing him as much as the specific ingredients.
“Is it helping?” Ellen asked, her fingers slowing again.
“It helps. I think the heat of your touch is as therapeutic as your salve.”
“It might well be.” Ellen sandwiched his larger hand between her smaller ones. “I do not hold myself out as any kind of herbalist. There’s too much guesswork and room for error involved.”
“But you made this salve.”
“For my own use.” Ellen kept his hand between hers. “I will sell scents, soaps, and sachets but not any product that could be mistaken for a medicine, tincture, or tisane.”
“Suppose it’s wise to know one’s limits.” Ellen was just holding Val’s hand in hers, and he was glad for the darkness, as his gratitude for the simple contact was probably plain on his face. “Ellen…”
She waited, holding his hand, and Val had to corral the words about to spill impulsively over his lips.
“You will accompany us to Candlewick tomorrow?” he asked instead.
“I will. I’ve made the acquaintance of the present Mrs. Belmont, and Mr. Belmont assured me she would welcome some female company.”
“And you, Ellen? Are you lonely for female company?”
“I am.” Val suspected it was an admission for her. “My mother was my closest friend, but she died shortly after my marriage. There is an ease in the companionship of one’s own gender, don’t you think?”
“Up to a point. One can be direct among one’s familiars, in any case, but you’ve brought me ease tonight, Ellen FitzEngle, and you are decidedly not the same gender as I.”
“We need not state the obvious.” Her voice was just a trifle frosty even as she kept her hands around Val’s.
“Do we need to talk about my kissing you a year ago? I’ve behaved myself for two weeks, Ellen, and hope by action I have reassured you where words would not.”
Silence or the summer evening equivalent of it, with crickets chirping, the occasional squeal of a passing bat, and the breeze riffling through the woods nearby.
“Ellen?”
Val withdrew his hand, which Ellen had been holding for some minutes, and slid his arm around her waist, urging her closer. “A woman gone silent unnerves a man. Talk to me, sweetheart. I would not offend you, but neither will I fare well continuing the pretense we are strangers.”
He felt the tension in her, the stiffness against his side, and regretted it. In the past two weeks, he’d all but convinced himself he was recalling a dream of her not a real kiss, and then he’d catch her smiling at Day and Phil or joking with Darius, and the clench in his vitals would assure him that kiss had been very, very real.
At least for him. For him, that kiss had been a work of sheerart.
“My husband seldom used my name. I was my dear, or my lady, or occasionally, dear wife. I was not Ellen, and I was most assuredly not his sweetheart. And to you I am the next thing to a stranger.”
Val’s left hand, the one she’d just held for such long, lovely moments between her own, drifted up to trace slow patterns on her back. “We’re strangers who kissed. Passionately, if memory serves.”
