“Days,” she said, “weeks, years, never, always.”
“That’s all I need,” he grumbled. “Two o’clock in the morning, and I’ve got a drunken woman on my hands. Come on, get up, and let’s get something to eat.” He took her hand and pulled her up.
Nicole smiled at him, but her injured leg would not support her. When she collapsed against him, she smiled apologetically. “I hurt my leg,” she said.
He bent and picked her up. “Did the red shoes do it or the wolves?” he asked sarcastically.
Rubbing her cheek against his neck, she giggled. “Were they really dogs? Were the red shoes really chasing me?”
“They were really dogs, and the shoes were a dream, but you talk in your sleep. Now be quiet or you’ll wake the whole house.”
She felt so deliciously light-headed as she leaned closer to him and put her arms around his neck. Her lips were close to his ear as she tried to whisper. “Are you really the awful Mr. Armstrong? You don’t seem at all like him. You’re my rescuing knight, so you can’t be that horrid man.”
“You think he’s that awful?”
“Oh, yes,” she said firmly. “He said I was a thief. He said I stole clothes meant for someone else. And he was right! I did. But I showed him.”
“How did you do that?” Clay asked quietly.
“I was very hungry, and I saw some apples in an orchard, but I didn’t take them. No, I wouldn’t steal them. I’m not a thief.”
“So, you starved yourself just to prove to him that you weren’t a thief.”
“And for me. I count, too.”
Clay didn’t answer as he came to a door at the end of a hallway. He opened it and carried Nicole outside toward the kitchen, which was separate from the house.
Nicole lifted her head from Clay’s shoulder and sniffed. “What is that smell?”
“Honeysuckle,” he said succinctly.
“I want some,” she demanded. “Would you please carry me to it so I may cut a piece?”
Closing his mouth on a retort, he obeyed her.
There was a six-foot brick wall covered with the fragrant honeysuckle, and Nicole tore off six branches before Clay said she had enough and carried her to the kitchen. Inside the large room, he set her on the big table in the center of the room as if she were a child and started the fire that had been banked for the night.
Lazily, Nicole toyed with the honeysuckle in her lap.
Turning from the fire to look at her, Clay saw that her dress was muddy and torn, her feet bare, cut, and bleeding in places. Her long hair hung down her back, the blackness of it playing with the firelight, and she didn’t look more than twelve years old. As he looked at her, he noticed a darker stain on the light-colored fabric.
“What did you do to yourself?” he asked harshly. “That looks like blood.”
Startled, she looked up at him as if she’d forgotten he was there. “I fell,” she said simply, watching him. “You are Mr. Armstrong. I’d recognize that frown anywhere. Tell me, do you ever smile?”
“Only when there’s something to smile about, which is not at the moment,” he answered, lifting her left leg and propping her heel on top of his belt. Then he rolled her skirt back to expose her thigh.
“Am I really such a burden, Mr. Armstrong?”
“You haven’t exactly added any peace and quiet to my life,” he said as he gently pulled the bloody piece of linen from the cut. “Sorry,” he said when she winced and grabbed his shoulder. It was an ugly, dirty cut but not deep. He thought it would heal properly if it were washed well. He swung her around so her leg was stretched out on the table and went to heat some water.
“Janie said you had half the women in Virginia after you. Is that true?”
“Janie talks too much. I think we’d better get some food in you. You know you’re drunk, don’t you?”
“I’ve never been drunk in my life,” she said with all the dignity she could muster.
“Here, eat this,” he commanded, thrusting a thick slice of bread at her, the top liberally coated with fresh butter.