Page 72 of My Hero
She looked as feeble as a new-hatched dove, her neck wavering as she strained to lift her head. But she was breathing. And her color had returned. She was alive. Praise God, she was alive.
“Cynthia!”
His first impulse was to crush her in an embrace of pure euphoria. He longed to cover her face with kisses of celebration, to pick her up and whirl her about the chamber.
But, stepping near the bed, stretching out a hand, gazing into her faintly shimmering eyes, he saw her for once more clearly than he ever had before.
This was a woman who deserved the best of life. God had wrenched her from the grasp of jealous death so that she might dwell a bit longer among the living, sharing her gift, fulfilling her dreams. Who washeto dull that bright light of her spirit? To stain the precious years she had left with regret and disappointment? Cynthia deserved far better. She deserved more than what Mariana had proved him—half a man.
As she stared expectantly at him, her beautiful cornflower eyes full of hope, shining with gratitude, soft with affection, his heart sank to his stomach.
It would kill him, he knew, to deny his feelings. It would break her heart as well. And yet, it was the only right thing to do.
He looked away, unable to bear the mild confusion and pain he knew would enter her eyes. He withdrew his extended hand, closing it into an impartial fist. And he hardened his heart against the flood of emotion that threatened to unman him and make him forget his good intentions.
“Are you…” He cleared his throat. “Do you feel better?”
Her silence forced him to meet her gaze again. She looked hurt, puzzled.
“You…” Her voice creaked like an iron hinge in need of oil.
She struggled to sit upright. He couldn’t stand by and watch her futile attempts. Steeling his emotions, he vaulted forward, cradling her in the crook of his arm and bolstering her with several pillows. Then he reached for his hip flask of watered wine, uncorked it with his teeth, and raised it to her lips. She covered his hand with her own two and drank greedily. Surely it was unwise to drink so much at once, but he couldn’t deny her.
After several gulps, she pushed the flask aside and wiped a shaky hand across her lips. Then she raised her eyes to his.
“You stayed with me.”
It sounded like an accusation. He slipped his arm from around her, corking the flask and dropping his gaze.
“How long?” she asked.
“Not long,” he lied, putting the flask away.
“Long enough to grow this,” she said, reaching up to stroke his stubbled chin.
Her fingers burned like hot embers against his face. He turned his cheek aside.
He felt her eyes on him, searching his face a long while before she turned her head to look despondently toward the window.
“How many days have I been ill?”
“Five…six.” He picked up the wooden platter from the floor and set it on the table, squaring it up with the edge. He had to get away from Cynthia…now…before he forgot his intent and begged for her touch again. “I’ll fetch Elspeth. She’ll be relieved that you’re well.”
“And are you?” She still gazed out the window, and her words seemed more thought than speech.
“Am I…?”
“Relieved?”
More than you can possibly imagine, he thought. He answered evasively instead. “Of course. It’s always a blessing to see the work of God’s hand—”
“It wasn’tGod’shand that healed me.” She turned toward him, and there was such desperation in her eyes that he couldn’t bear it.
He bit the inside of his cheek, avoiding her piercing gaze. “I fear you blaspheme, my lady.”
Before he could halt her, she clasped his hand in her two.
“It’sthishand I remember between bouts of sleep, holding mine, smoothing my brow, stroking my cheek, healing me.” Her voice was rough, and she blushed as if the words came from her against her will. Then she lifted his trapped hand to place a quick and reckless kiss along his knuckles.
