Page 43 of His Revelation
“I am…” Finding her words muddled, Tiffany pushed herself upright, although not out of his arms, because she wasn’tthatfoolish. “I am going to sell the work and give the money to my sister.”
“Aye, ye said that.” When he nodded, the morning sunlight glinted off the gold strands in the hair which peeked out from under his tam, stirring a recollection she couldn’t quite place. “Why doessheneed the money?”
He certainly was handsome, in his own way, was he not? Her Lunzie was well-made, aye, but he had none of Lysander’s polish or grace. Nay, that wasn’t true. He might wear a delightfully barbaric kilt and not understand personal grooming habits of beards, but he had his own grace. And Tiffany realized, standing there in his embrace, despite the missing eye and the limp which came and went, her Lunzie was one of the most handsome men she’d ever met.
He was certainly the most memorable. He’d protected her, he’d taught her about her body, he’d teased her and supported her and cared about her future… Oh dear.
Oh dear.
If she wasn’t careful, she was going to begin tocarefor him.
“Tiffany?”
“Hmm?”
His lips curled upward. “Ye’re just staring at me, lass. I asked a question. Why does Bonnibelle need the money?”
When had she told him her sister’s name? She stepped back, pulling out of his embrace.
“Bonnie has a goal. She has written a book—she has writtenseveralbooks—and cannot get a publisher to agree to publish any of them. So her dream is to buy her own publishing house and print works from authors like her, books other women might like to read.”
Lunzie was nodding along, as if this wasn’t a surprise. “I remember—och, I mean, how is she going to find a publishing house for sale?”
It was easier to stare over his shoulder at the front ofThe Curios Cabinet, across the street. “There is a publishing house she has already decided on, and the sale of this manuscript would ensure she has the money to make that dream happen.”
He was quiet for a long moment, then he finally scrubbed his hand down his face, “Then I owe ye an apology.”
She turned slightly, so she could look at him without meeting his gaze. “For what?”
“For assuming the worst of ye. I thought a lass as beautiful as ye must want something like that for her own enjoyment, but yer plan is verra noble.”
Her shoulders tugged up toward her ears, half-shrugging, half-hiding her burning cheeks. Part of her was hurt at his admission, but part of her was flattered by his words.
“I know you did not expect it,” she whispered. “No one does. I know everyone thinks I am self-centered, and Iam?—”
“Nay!” When his hand closed around her wrist, she flinched back, and he gentled his tone. “Nay, Tiffany.”
The distant front ofThe Curios Cabinet, which she was beginning to realize represented her failure, blurred. She shifted her gaze to his hand, which gently tugged and shifted her to face him.
He was standing there in the square, holding her hand, just looking at her…and she wasn’t sure if she was ecstatic or heartbroken.
“Nay, Tiffany,” he whispered again. “Ye’re no’ self-centered.”
“I am.” Her inhale was stuttering; she didn’t want to cry again. “I am beautiful, and I know it. But all Iamis beautiful, and I know that too.”
“Ye’re wrong.” Now his voice was low, passionate, as he moved to hold her by the arms. His hands were warm through the rough blouse she’d donned to help hide her identity, and she stared up at him with something akin to hope.
Prove me wrong, she wanted to shout, but held herself back, because she wasn’t certain he could.
“Tiffany, love, ye’re sweet and thoughtful and ye care about others.” His hands were making her shiver. “Thatis who ye are. Yer beauty is remarkable, aye, but it is no’ what makes ye worthy.”
“What does?” she whispered, staring up at him.
“Och, lass. Yer actions, yer heart, yer mind. Yer worth is remarkable as well.”
Oh my.
If her heart hadn’t halfway belonged to this strange man already, his words would have ensured it.
