Bridgerton - Romancing Mr. Bridgerton Part 10

of the Mediterranean, and just two days ago I was in Paphos, on the southwest coast of the island, where the sun is strong and the ocean salty and warm. Here, one can see the peak of Mount Olympus, still capped with snow so white one is temporarily blinded when the sun glints off of it.

The climb to this alt.i.tude was treacherous, with danger lurking around more than one corner. The road is rudimentary, and along the way we met.

Penelope let out a soft grunt of protest when she realized that the page ended in the middle of a sentence. Who had he met? What had happened? What danger?

She stared down at the journal, absolutely dying to flip the page and see what happened next. But when she'd started reading, she had managed to justify it by telling herself she wasn't really invading Colin's privacy; he'd left the book open, after all. She was only looking at what he had left exposed.

Turning the page, however, was something else altogether.

She reached out, then yanked her hand back. This wasn't right. She couldn't read his journal. Well, not beyond what she'd already read.

On the other hand, it was clear that these were words worth reading. It was a crime for Colin to keep them for himself. Words should be celebrated, shared. They should be- "Oh, for G.o.d's sake," she muttered to herself. She reached for the edge of the page.

"What are you doing?"

Penelope whirled around. "Colin!"

"Indeed," he snapped.

Penelope lurched back. She'd never heard him use such a tone. She hadn't even thought him capable of it.

He strode across the room, grabbed the journal, and snapped it shut. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Waiting for Eloise," she managed to get out, her mouth suddenly quite dry.

"In the upstairs drawing room?"

"Wickham always takes me here. Your mother told him to treat me like family. I... uh ... he ... uh ..." She realized that she

was wringing her hands together and willed herself to stop. "It's the same with my sister Felicity. Because she and Hyacinth

are such good friends. I-I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

He threw the leather-bound book carelessly onto a nearby chair and crossed his arms. "And do you make a habit of reading the personal letters of others?"

"No, of course not. But it was open and-" She gulped, recognizing how awful the excuse sounded the second the words left her lips. "It's a public room," she mumbled, somehow feeling like she had to finish her defense. "Maybe you should have taken it with you."

"Where I went," he ground out, still visibly furious with her, "one doesn't ordinarily take a book."

"It's not very big," she said, wondering why why why she was still talking when she was so clearly in the wrong.

"For the love of G.o.d," he exploded. "Do you want me to say the word chamberpot in your presence?"

Penelope felt her cheeks blush deep red. "I'd better go," she said. "Please tell Eloise-"

"I'll go," Colin practically snarled. "I'm moving out this afternoon, anyway. Might as well leave now, since you've so obviously taken over the house."

Penelope had never thought that words could cause physical pain, but right then she would have sworn that she'd taken a knife to the heart. She hadn't realized until that very moment just how much it meant to her that Lady Bridgerton had opened her home to her.

Or how much it would hurt to know that Colin resented her presence there.

"Why do you have to make it so difficult to apologize?" she burst out, d.o.g.g.i.ng his heels as he crossed the room to gather the rest of his things.

"And why, pray tell, should I make it easy?" he returned., He didn't face her as he said it; he didn't even break his stride.

"Because it would be the nice thing to do," she ground out.

That got his attention. He whirled around, his eyes flashing so furiously that Penelope stumbled back a step. Colin was the nice one, the easygoing one. He didn't lose his temper.

Until now.

"Because it would be the nice thing to do?" he thundered. "Is that what you were thinking when you read my journal? That it would be a nice thing to read someone's private papers?"

"No, Colin, I-"

"There is nothing you can say-" he said, jabbing her in the shoulder with his index ringer.

"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 a.s.sured 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 sc.r.a.p 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 st.i.tches."

"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 rea.s.sured her. "Well, not really. It does feel worse than it looks, but I a.s.sure 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 embarra.s.sed 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 a.s.sistance," and exited the room.

"Aaaaaahhh," Colin groaned, the moment he heard Wickham's steps disappear down the hall. "d.a.m.n-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