The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(62)

“She found me—young, taking dangerous chances with my life and walking a thin line toward destruction—and she took me in. The first ball I attended with her, she clung to my arm the entire evening. No one knew it was due to the weakness in her legs. People see what they wish to see—she taught me that—and they saw an elderly widow together with a gentleman a quarter her age, chatting, laughing… I enjoyed my time with her. My own mother died when I was a boy. Pearl…Pearl was special.”

His mother—had he just compared Lady Herron to his mother? This was entirely different from the tale she’d been told. She opened her eyes and tried to catch his gaze beneath the constant motion of his arms, arching her neck up to catch his attention.

He paused, sliding both hands around until her head was cradled there in his hands, and looked down at her. “Relax. I have you.”

Isabelle stilled and let her shoulders sag back against his thigh once more. She stared up at him in awe, unable to look away. He focused once more on her hair and set back to work rubbing away not only the dried blood from the wound in her hair but also the tension from her entire body. Her heart was pounding at the intimacy, but his confidence allowed her to simply feel. “You were her companion and caregiver?” she asked a moment later. “Why would Mrs. Featherfitch, your own housekeeper, have such a poor view of your past?” She knew her hair would soon be clean, but she didn’t want him to stop. She’d never felt such longing to have someone continue to touch her, to stay draped across a man’s lap while he talked to her.

“Mrs. Featherfitch doesn’t know the truth. No one does…except for you.” His gaze dipped to meet hers. His dark eyes usually hid every inner thought, but now they simmered with a desperate need for her to understand what he was saying.

Only her. She didn’t understand anything about their situation, but she knew one thing for certain: this moment of truth between them was special. She reached up and placed her hand against his jaw, the rough surface of his beard abrading the palm of her hand in a pleasant way. “Why? Why me?”

He tilted his chin into her touch for a second and exhaled a small ragged breath. “I needed to tell you the truth.”

“Truth is a noble virtue.” The heat of a blush flooded her cheeks as she looked up at him. “Sorry. I won’t romanticize this. I know you don’t want that.” She dropped her hand and squeezed her eyes shut. “Why not tell your staff the truth as well?”

“They were her staff first.” He poured warm water over her head and trailed his fingers through her hair to rinse the soap from her scalp. “And we made a bargain. She left me her home for use as I saw fit, and in exchange, I agreed to keep her secret.”

She opened one eye and quirked a brow up at him as he continued to rinse her hair. “But that paints you as a kept man who took advantage of an old lady as a result.”

“So be it.”

“You don’t wish to clear your name?”

“No.” He looked down at her, his honesty resonating in his words. “Only yours.”

“Fallon…” She was at a loss for the appropriate response. His sacrifice for the sake of the dignity of a widow who had passed away long ago was straight from a tale of brave knights laying down their lives for their ladies fair.

He said nothing, only continued to stroke his fingers through the long strands, loosening any tangles that had formed. Although she knew her hair must be clean by now, he seemed in no rush to have her move, instead running his thumb with a featherlike touch around the wound in her hairline where she’d been hit. He narrowed his eyes on the injury for a second before smoothing her hair back and looking down at her. His other hand was still wrapped around her, holding the back of her neck steady. If she could stop time, she would want someone to paint this moment, exactly like this, with Fallon looking at her like she was an exotic flower, his hands on her, holding her before him. It was a beautiful moment she would hold on to forever—if not in paint, then in her memory.

With a rueful smile, he let his free hand slip back to brace it on his hip. “This is the life I’ve chosen, Isabelle. And in truth it isn’t at all like one from the pages of some great story, even though that’s the way I know you’re painting it in your mind. I can see it in your eyes.”

“You’re heroic whether you like it or not, sir.” Lifting herself up a fraction, she poked one finger at his chest in accusation. Water streamed from her hair, pouring into the tub behind her.

But instead of allowing her to drop back once more and continue on as she’d planned, he held her there, studying her. “I thought to you I was an old pirate lacking a heartfelt smile.”

She searched his dark eyes for a second. Did he not want her to view him in those terms? They weren’t particularly flattering descriptions, but he’d made it clear that he didn’t want her to be more than friendly with him. “I’m unsure what you are,” she hedged even as she thought, My friend, my love, the unlikely man of my dreams. She’d already scared him away once when she spoke from her heart; she didn’t want to do so again.

“I see you aren’t taking back your insults.”

“Perhaps I misspoke when I claimed you were old.” She didn’t think of the strong man who was holding her as old at all. The only sign he showed of age, after all, were the crinkles at the corners of his eyes on the rare occasion when he smiled, and she found that rather endearing. Surely there was some middle ground to be found between professing her love and having him believe she thought the worst of him. “I only meant… I meant that you…”