Page 54 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
Her warning was glibly ignored, if a roll of her maid's eyes was the respond Penelope got. “I suppose that could answer why he was up at that time, but it is still strange.”
Taking the glass of lemonade, Penelope sipped at it and began to wonder. Last night in the stables, when Mr. Moore had told her to call him Heath again, there had been a light in the man’s eyes that she just could not categorize.
It had felt magnetic, like the energy emitted from a lodestone, his gaze pulling them together. His green eyes were so compelling that they had momentarily taken her breath away. For a quick breath, she had wondered if he was going to kiss her, and then, thankfully, he had looked away and the link was broken. It was her expectation too, but she would never freely admit that.
Tracing the rim of the glass, Penelope mused over what she had not only seen when Heath had spoken to her, but what she had felt. When he had lifted and carried her, she had felt his care and concern. White and red sparks of agony had flashed across her vision in random bursts and black spots had peppered the edges in between.
In the midst of her crises, she had felt safe in his arms and the clean scent of his skin when she had pressed her face into his neck smelled soothing. A tiny comfort when sharp debilitating pain had been rerouting itself doubly throughout her body.
The soft rock of his body had almost lulled her sleep but the pain lingering in her body had kept her conscious. Leaning on the cold wall had rammed more sharp jabs into her already-painful body, but she knew he had to get Bessie in to cover her tracks.
“He told Bessie that she had saved my life,” Penelope said absently. “But I made sure to tell him that he had done that instead.”
Half the day had already gone and was crawling to the afternoon. Martha leaned in and asked softly. “Do you think you are recovered, even a bit?”
“I should be,” Penelope returned. “I don’t want to have you summon the physician. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful explanation to give to Eddie.” She ended with a shudder.
“That would not be good,” Martha added with a mirroring moue.
A knock came on the door, and though it was a room away and was short and curt, Penelope knew who it was before a voice had spoken, Heath.
“Martha?”
Her slender figure was up and out of the room before Penelope could even say her name fully. Straining her ear, Penelope heard a muted conversation, but Heath’s deep tones did not miss her recognition. She then heard the door close, and Martha came in holding a capped jar.
“That was Mr. Moore,” Martha said while handing her the jar. “He could not stay but says this is a good ointment for bruises.”
Blinking her surprise, Penelope opened the jar, feeling her shoulder twinging in tiny protest and smelled the creamy olive shaded contents. The muted smell of Goldenrod and perhaps Chamomile wafted up to her, and she smiled but then felt concern.
Goldenrod was harvested through July to the last of August. It was now October. Where could Mr. Moore have gotten this? She dipped her fingers into it and felt the cool smooth ointment rub over her fingers. She managed to ease the shoulder of her dress down and smear some over her shoulder and with every pass, felt the knots begun to ease. She sat there, staring at her shoulder in awe.
“My Lady?” Martha asked.
Where could he have gotten this?
Salves like those were hard to come by and were probably expensive too. Had he bought this? If so, when? It was just another question that she added to the growing mental list that rested under Heath’s name.
“Martha…this evening, tell Mr. Moore to come to meet me in the garden.”
She did not have to look up to see the surprise on Martha’s face, “Are you sure you are up for that, My Lady?”
Canting a look at the bruises that to her mind were already turning a healing red, she smiled, “I have no doubt.”
Amusing herself with the read books and soft naps, Penelope ate dinner in her rooms and dressed in a deep-green dress with long sleeves. To both guard against the creeping cold and covering her bruises and with Martha’s help, went to the garden to wait for Mr. Moore.
The evening was cool, and she sat on a half-shadowed wooden bench, hemmed in with high rose bushes and a thick green hedge. Her hands were plucking on her lap as she mused over the look Heath had given her last night, or that morning to be literal.
Did he want to kiss me? I have never been kissed before…
“My Lady?”
She lifted her head to meet curious green eyes a good distance away from hers. Tapping the space beside her, she silently ordered him to sit. He did not, and she did not blame him as anyone who saw them that close could have misconstrued what was happening with them. Perhaps she should have done this in the library instead.
“Thank you for the salve,” Penelope said while resigning herself to having him stand.
He nodded curtly, “My pleasure.”
“May I ask…where did you get that salve? Goldenrod is a little hard to come by this time of year,” she asked hesitantly.
