“There is nothing you can say—” he said, jabbing her in the shoulder with his index finger.
“Colin! You—”
He turned around to gather his belongings, rudely giving her his back while he spoke. “Not a thing that could justify your behavior.”
“No, of course not, but—”
“OW!”
Penelope felt the blood drain from her face. Colin’s yell was one of real pain. His name escaped her lips in a panicked whisper and she rushed to his side. “What’s—Oh, my heavens!”
Blood was gushing from a wound on the palm of his hand.
Never terribly articulate in a crisis, Penelope managed to say, “Oh! Oh! The carpet!” before leaping forward with a piece of writing paper that had been lying on a nearby table and sliding it under his hand to catch the blood before it ruined the priceless carpet below.
“Ever the attentive nurse,” Colin said in a shaky voice.
“Well, you’re not going to die,” she explained, “and the carpet—”
“It’s all right,” he assured her. “I was trying to make a joke.”
Penelope looked up at his face. Tight white lines were etched in the skin around his mouth, and he looked very pale. “I think you’d better sit down,” she said.
He nodded grimly and sagged into a chair.
Penelope’s stomach did a rather seasickish sway. She’d never been terribly good with blood. “Maybe I’d better sit down, too,” she mumbled, sinking onto the low table opposite him.
“Are you going to be all right?” he asked.
She nodded, swallowing against a tiny wave of nausea. “We need to find something to wrap this,” she said, grimacing as she looked down at the ridiculous setup below. The paper wasn’t absorbent, and the blood was rolling precariously along its surface, with Penelope desperately trying to keep it from dripping over the side.
“I have a handkerchief in my pocket,” he said.
She carefully set the paper down and retrieved the handkerchief from his breast pocket, trying not to notice the warm beat of his heart as her fingers fumbled for the creamy white scrap of cloth. “Does it hurt?” she asked as she wrapped it around his hand. “No, don’t answer that. Of course it hurts.”
He managed a very wobbly smile. “It hurts.”
She peered down at the gash, forcing herself to look at it closely even though the blood made her stomach turn. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”
“Do you know much about wounds?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. But it doesn’t look too bad. Except for . . . ah, all the blood.”
“Feels worse than it looks,” he joked.
Her eyes flew to his face in horror.
“Another joke,” he reassured her. “Well, not really. It does feel worse than it looks, but I assure you it’s bearable.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, increasing pressure on the wound to staunch the flow of blood. “This is all my fault.”
“That I sliced open my hand?”
“If you hadn’t been so angry . . .”
He just shook his head, closing his eyes briefly against the pain. “Don’t be silly, Penelope. If I hadn’t gotten angry with you, I would have gotten angry with someone else some other time.”
“And you’d of course have a letter opener by your side when that happened,” she murmured, looking up at him through her lashes as she bent over his hand.
When his eyes met hers, they were filled with humor and maybe just a touch of admiration.
And something else she’d never thought to see—vulnerability, hesitancy, and even insecurity. He didn’t know how good his writing was, she realized with amazement. He had no idea, and he was actually embarrassed that she’d seen it.
“Colin,” Penelope said, instinctively pressing harder on his wound as she leaned in, “I must tell you. You—”
She broke off when she heard the sharp, even clatter of footsteps coming down the hall. “That will be Wickham,” she said, glancing toward the door. “He insisted upon bringing me a small meal. Can you keep the pressure on this for now?”
Colin nodded. “I don’t want him to know I’ve hurt myself. He’ll only tell Mother, and then I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Well, here, then.” She stood and tossed him his journal. “Pretend you’re reading this.”
Colin barely had time to open it and lay it across his injured hand before the butler entered with a large tray.
“Wickham!” Penelope said, jumping to her feet and turning to face him as if she hadn’t already known he was coming. “As usual you’ve brought far more than I could possibly eat. Luckily, Mr. Bridgerton has been keeping me company. I’m certain that with his help, I’ll be able to do justice to your meal.”
Wickham nodded and removed the covers from the serving dishes. It was a cold repast—pieces of meat, cheese, and fruit, accompanied by a tall pitcher of lemonade.
Penelope smiled brightly. “I hope you didn’t think I could eat all of this myself.”
“Lady Bridgerton and her daughters are expected soon. I thought they might be hungry as well.”
“Won’t be any left after I’m through with it,” Colin said with a jovial smile.
Wickham bowed slightly in his direction. “If I’d known you were here, Mr. Bridgerton, I would have trebled the portions. Would you like me to fix you a plate?”
“No, no,” Colin said, waving his uninjured hand. “I’ll get up just as soon as I . . . ah . . . finish reading this chapter.”
The butler said, “Let me know if you require further assistance,” and exited the room.
“Aaaaaahhh,” Colin groaned, the moment he heard Wickham’s steps disappear down the hall. “Damn—I mean, dash it—it hurts.”
Penelope plucked a napkin off the tray. “Here, let’s replace that handkerchief.” She peeled it away from his skin, keeping her eyes on the cloth rather than the wound. For some reason that didn’t seem to bother her stomach quite as much. “I’m afraid your handkerchief is ruined.”
Colin just closed his eyes and shook his head. Penelope was smart enough to interpret the action to mean, I don’t care. And she was sensible enough not to say anything further on the subject. Nothing worse than a female who chattered forever about nothing.
He’d always liked Penelope, but how was it he’d never realized how intelligent she was up till now? Oh, he supposed if someone had asked him, he would have said she was bright, but he’d certainly never taken the time to think about it.
It was becoming clear to him, however, that she was very intelligent, indeed. And he thought he remembered his sister once telling him that she was an avid reader.
And probably a discriminating one as well.
“I think the bleeding is slowing down,” she was saying as she wrapped the fresh napkin around his hand. “In fact, I’m sure it is, if only because I don’t feel quite so sick every time I look at the wound.”
He wished that she hadn’t read his journal, but now that she had . . .
“Ah, Penelope,” he began, startled by the hesitancy in his own voice.
She looked up. “I’m sorry. Am I pressing too hard?”
For a moment Colin did nothing but blink. How was it possible he’d never noticed how big her eyes were? He’d known they were brown, of course, and . . . No, come to think of it, if he were to be honest with himself, he would have to admit that if asked earlier this morning, he’d not have been able to identify the color of her eyes.
But somehow he knew that he’d never forget again.
She eased up on the pressure. “Is this all right?”
He nodded. “Thank you. I would do it myself, but it’s my right hand, and—”
“Say no more. It’s the very least I can do, after . . . after . . .” Her eyes slid slightly to the side, and he knew she was about to apologize another time.
“Penelope,” he began again.
“No, wait!” she cried out, her dark eyes flashing with . . . could it be passion? Certainly not the brand of passion with which he was most familiar. But there were other sorts, weren’t there? Passion for learning. Passion for . . . literature?
“I must tell you this,” she said urgently. “I know it was unforgivably intrusive of me to look at your journal. I was just . . . bored . . . and waiting . . . and I had nothing to do, and then I saw the book and I was curious.”
He opened his mouth to interrupt her, to tell her that what was done was done, but the words were rushing from her mouth, and he found himself oddly compelled to listen.
“I should have stepped away the moment I realized what it was,” she continued, “but as soon as I read one sentence I had to read another! Colin, it was wonderful! It was just like I was there. I could feel the water—I knew exactly the temperature. It was so clever of you to describe it the way you did. Everyone knows exactly what a bath feels like a half an hour after it has been filled.”
For a moment Colin could do nothing but stare at her. He’d never seen Penelope quite so animated, and it was strange and . . . good, really, that all that excitement was over his journal.
“You—you liked it?” he finally asked.
“Liked it? Colin, I loved it! I—”
“Ow!”
In her excitement, she’d started squeezing his hand a bit too hard. “Oh, sorry,” she said perfunctorily. “Colin, I really must know. What was the danger? I couldn’t bear to be left hanging like that.”
“It was nothing,” he said modestly. “The page you read really wasn’t a very exciting passage.”
“No, it was mostly description,” she agreed, “but the description was very compelling and evocative. I could see everything. But it wasn’t—oh, dear, how do I explain this?”
Colin discovered that he was very impatient for her to figure out what she was trying to say.
“Sometimes,” she finally continued, “when one reads a passage of description, it’s rather . . . oh, I don’t know . . . detached. Clinical, even. You brought the island to life. Other people might call the water warm, but you related it to something we all know and understand. It made me feel as if I were there, dipping my toe in right alongside you.”
Colin smiled, ridiculously pleased by her praise.
“Oh! And I don’t want to forget—there was another brilliant thing I wanted to mention.”
Now he knew he must be grinning like an idiot. Brilliant brilliant brilliant. What a good word.
Penelope leaned in slightly as she said, “You also showed the reader how you relate to the scene and how it affects you. It becomes more than mere description because we see how you react to it.”
Colin knew he was fishing for compliments, but he didn’t much care as he asked, “What do you mean?”
“Well, if you look at—May I see the journal to refresh my memory?”
“Of course,” he murmured, handing it to her. “Wait, let me find the correct page again.”
Once he had done so, she scanned his lines until she found the section she was looking for. “Here we are. Look at this part about how you are reminded that England is your home.”
“It’s funny how travel can do that to a person.”
“Do what to a person?” she asked, her eyes wide with interest.
“Make one appreciate home,” he said softly.
Her eyes met his, and they were serious, inquisitive. “And yet you still like to go away.”
He nodded. “I can’t help it. It’s like a disease.”
She laughed, and it sounded unexpectedly musical. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “A disease is harmful. It’s clear that your travels feed your soul.” She looked down to his hand, carefully peeling the napkin back to inspect his wound. “It’s almost better,” she said.
“Almost,” he agreed. In truth, he suspected the bleeding had stopped altogether, but he was reluctant to let the conversation end. And he knew that the moment she was done caring for him, she would go.
He didn’t think she wanted to go, but he somehow knew that she would. She’d think it was the proper thing to do, and she’d probably also think it was what he wanted.
Nothing, he was surprised to realize, could be further from the truth.
And nothing could have scared him more.