Chapter Nineteen 

Melinda woke feeling like she'd been run over by a truck. It was an effort to sit up in bed. Legs stretched out in front of him, James slept in the chair, chin resting on his chest. Trying to be quiet, she scooted back against the headboard to get a better look at him. He went out of his way to keep his face hidden. Asleep, she could look her fill.

He didn't believe her about being from the future. She couldn't really blame him. If a man showed up at Holden Beach dressed in tights and a long shirt and brandishing a sword, she would've called the closest hospital to come take him away. No way she'd talk to the crazy-pants guy. She would have gotten away from him as quickly as possible.

"Thank you for not throwing me in your dungeon," she whispered, not sure Falconburg had a dungeon but certainly hoping she'd never find out.

He had faint lines around the corners of his eyes. Probably from squinting against the sun. Though she liked to think they were laugh lines. And imagined him laughing and flirting. A hot slice of jealousy burned through her from thinking of him kissing all the pretty women. Bet they threw themselves at him by the dozens.

His face was dark with stubble, and her rescuer looked exhausted, with purplish circles under his eyes. He looked far older than twenty-two.

How many times had that crooked nose been broken? But it was the scar that ran through his eyebrow and eye, stopping beyond his cheekbone, that made her heart ache. He'd been incredibly lucky not to lose sight in the eye. Without thinking, Melinda reached out a finger to trace the scar. He shifted in the chair and she snatched her hand back under the covers.

The door to the chamber opened. Two servants bearing trays bustled in. The sound woke James instantly. His hand went to the sword at his hip. He was out of the chair, sword in one hand, knife in the other, before she blinked. When he saw who it was, he sat back in the chair with a wince.

The smell of freshly baked bread and—was that chicken potpie? It certainly smelled like it. Melinda's stomach growled. The corner of James' mouth twitched.

"How do you fare, Melinda?"

He'd called her by her first name. How could something so simple make her so happy? She'd told him he could do so when they'd met, but he'd insisted on calling her "mistress" or "lady" or "my lady." Or "wench" when he was displeased. What had changed?

"How long have I been sick? I must have had the flu."

He looked perplexed. Right, the word for flu must not exist yet. But he got her meaning, because he said, "You've been abed with a fever for a se'nnight."

"A week? Seriously? No wonder I'm so hungry." She threw back the covers. He put a hand on her shoulder.

"You are weak. Stay abed. I will serve you."

He smelled amazing. Like gingerbread and the ocean. Nope. They certainly didn't make guys like this in her time. At least none she'd encountered. Melinda leaned back against the pillows and waited. The straw mattress under the featherbed crackled when she moved. He brought her a cup of mead along with the food. She waited until he sat back down before she ate.

"This is so good." It was some kind of variation of chicken potpie. "Have you been here with me the entire time?"

He kept his eyes on his plate when he answered. "Aye. You gave the servants a fright." He smiled. She treasured each one, they were so rare.

"What happened? Did I do something embarrassing?"

"You were out of bed trying to climb out the window. Two of the men put you back in bed." He cocked his head. "They said they'd never heard such words from the mouth of a lady."

He was trying hard not to laugh. Melinda was mortified to think of the awful swearwords she knew thanks to Aunt Pittypat's eclectic group of friends.

James chuckled. "The men have taking a liking to your more inventive curses. I daresay there were many they'd never heard before."

She put her hands over her face, her cheeks hot. "I'm so sorry I caused any trouble. I don't remember any of it. All I remember were terrible dreams."

He looked grave. "After…my injuries, I too dreamt of terrible things while the fever held me close. Do not fret. I sent the men away and stayed with you."

James took her hand in his. She went still, feeling the rasp of the calluses on his palm as he stroked her hand. The muscles in his arm flexed beneath his tunic. The man was about six foot three, and every inch muscled. After seeing him in the lists and fighting to rescue her, she knew where the muscles came from.

James caught her staring at his scarred hand and snatched it away. She opened her mouth to protest then shut it. Calling attention to it would make him feel even more embarrassed. He'd obviously been a man used to showing affection. It was sad to think his injuries changed him so much. She would've liked seeing him before.

Strike that thought, said the green-eyed monster inside her. Melinda had the feeling before his injuries he wouldn't have given her the time of day. Well, he might have flirted with her like every other pretty woman he encountered. He probably fended off women lined up ten deep. Had his injuries softened him? She knew it was idle speculation. Usually she was a pretty good judge of character. Not counting a couple of ex-boyfriends. It seemed poor taste in men was another Merriweather curse. Aunt Pittypat married eight times before she passed.

"Will you tell me how you were injured?"

He leaned back in the chair. "'Twas during a battle. My injuries were so grave the healer said I would surely die." He crossed his booted feet at the ankles. "I was too stubborn to die."

James stopped speaking as a servant came in to clear the dishes.

"Do you require anything else, my lord?"

"That will be all."

When the man left, shutting the door behind him, James finished his wine. He stared into the fire for so long she wondered if he'd forgotten.

"After I healed enough to ride, I rode to claim my betrothed. She ran screaming from her father's hall. Before…there were many women who wished to wed me. I traveled to meet each eligible maiden. They were terrified by my face. Even here at Falconburg there are those who fear me."

Melinda's heart broke in two. She heard the pain in his voice, wanted nothing more than to make it go away. It wasn't pity; she was angry at those who'd destroyed his face. The violence made her think the wounds were inflicted on purpose.

"No woman in all the realm will wed the beast of Falconburg." The look of surprise must have shown on her face, for he said, "'Tis what they call me."

"They're hateful, silly women. Your looks are merely an outer shell. Looks fade as we age. They are ours to keep for only a short time. It's what is inside that counts."

Melinda could've said more, but she had a feeling she should give him small doses. If she told him she found him attractive, he wouldn't believe her. Lucy was her priority. Part of her yearned to see what would happen with James. A relationship? Something more? They'd only been together a short time, yet she knew more about him than anyone she'd ever dated. They spent all day together.

Melinda felt she'd known him forever. He was solid and steady. Not a man who would go chasing after another woman. A huge point in his favor: he listened to her, asked what she thought. And he didn't tell her a hundred times a day how beautiful she was. For that alone, Melinda would be forever grateful. Carl used to tell her she was like a painting, something pretty to look at, but of no substance.