He let her tend him the way the very young or the very old allow themselves to be tended. He spooned up the warm, soothing soup, and it comforted his aching throat and uneasy stomach.
He drank her herbal tea sweetened with a generous dollop of honey.
And he basked in the sympathetic silence she gave him.
“I must have fallen,” he said again. “I haven’t been feeling quite well lately.”
The scents of the kitchen were so appealing, her movements as she took and filled more orders so graceful and efficient, that his anxiety receded.
He remembered his research on her, and the admiration he’d felt when he’d followed her path across the country. He would write a very good story—book—about her, he thought. One that spoke of courage and triumph.
Ungrateful whore.The words echoed dimly in his head and made him tremble.
Nell studied him with concern. “You should go to the clinic.”
He shook his head. “I prefer seeing my own doctor. I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Todd. Your kindness.”
“I have something for that burn.”
“Burn?”
“Just a minute.” She moved out of the kitchen again, spoke to Peg, who’d just come on for her shift. When she came back in, Nell opened a cabinet and took out a slim green bottle.
“It’s mostly aloe,” she told him briskly. “It’ll help.”
He reached a hand to his face, snatched it away again. “I must have . . . the sun’s deceptive,” he managed. “Mrs. Todd, I should tell you I came to the island for the specific purpose of speaking to you.”
“Yes?” She uncapped the bottle.
“I’m a writer,” he began. “I’ve followed your story. First, I want you to know how much I admire you.”
“Do you, Mr. Harding?”
“Yes. Yes, indeed.” Something wanted to crawl up from his belly to his throat. He forced it down again. “Initially, I was merely interested in the story for a magazine piece, but as I learned more I realized the value of what you experienced, what you did. It speaks to so many people. I’m sure you know how many women are caught in the cycle of abuse,” he continued as she dabbed the balm on her fingers. “You’re a beacon, Mrs. Todd, a symbol of victory and empowerment.”
“No, I’m not, Mr. Harding.”
“But you are.” He looked deep into her eyes. They were so blue. So calm. The cramps in his gut eased. “I followed your trail across the country.”
“Really?” she replied, then her coated fingers slid over his burned cheek.
“I spoke with people you worked with, stepped in your footprints, so to speak. I know what you did, how hard you worked, how frightened you were. You never gave up.”
“And I never will,” she said clearly. “You should understand that. Prepare for that. I’ll never give up.”
“You belong to me. Why do you make me hurt you, Helen?”
It was Evan’s voice—that quiet, reasonable voice he used before he punished her. Terror wanted to burst free. But it was terror, she knew, that it wanted.
“You can’t hurt me any longer. I will never allow anyone I love to be harmed by you.”
His skin rippled under her fingers, as if something crawled there. But she continued to smooth on the balm. He shuddered once, gripped her wrist. “Run,” he whispered. “Get away before it’s too late.”
“This is my home.” She fought her fear. “I’ll protect it with all that I am. We’ll beat you.”
He shuddered again. “What did you say?”
“I said you should go rest now, Mr. Harding.” She capped the bottle as pity for him welled up inside her. “I hope you’ll feel better soon.”