Read Online Hummingbird by Lavyrle Spencer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lavyrle Spencer
Tags: Fiction
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lace-curtained window with fringed, tassled shades. The parlor of a goody twoshoes, he thought, and wondered, as his eyes slid shut, how the hell he had gotten here.
"Here we are, Mr. Cameron." His eyes flew open; he jumped and winced. "I've prepared a light broth and some tea. It's not much, but we'll have to cater to your throat rather than your appetite for a short while." She held a carved wooden tray, white triangles of linen falling over its edges.
Lordy, he thought, would you look at that! Probably hand-stitched those edges herself. Bracing the tray against her midriff, she cleared a space on the bedside table. He was surprised to see the tray pull her blouse against a pair of healthy, resilient breasts—she dressed like a woman who didn't want me world to suspect she had any! But if there was one thing he knew how to find, it was a pair of healthy breasts.
His eyes followed while she crossed to the chifforobe and found a pillow. When she came to mound it up beneath his head, he again caught the drift of that starchy, fresh smell, both from her and the pillow, and he thought of many nights sleeping on the floor of a wet canvas tent with a musty blanket over him as the only comfort. As she cupped the back of his head and lifted it, ripples of pain undulated from muscles far down his body. Automatically his eyes sank shut and he sucked in a sharp breath. When his pain had subsided, her voice came again.
"I've brought something to freshen your mouth. It's just soda water." A cloth pressed his jowl and a glass touched his lips, then he pulled the salty solution into his mouth. "Hold it a minute and let it bubble around.
The effervescence is very refreshing." He was too weak to argue, but watched her covertly as she brought the bowl for him to spit into. When dribbles wet his chin, she immediately applied a warm, damp cloth, then proceeded to wash his entire face as if he were a schoolboy. He tried to jerk aside, but it hurt, so he submitted. Next she placed a napkin under his chin and dipped the spoon, cupping her hand beneath it on its way to his mouth.
She wondered why he scowled so, and talked because his near-black eyes were frightening. "You're a lucky man, Mr Cameron. You were critically shot and nearly bled to death. Luckily Doctor Dougherty…
"
She rambled on but he heard little beyond the statement that he'd been shot. He tried to lift his right hand, remembered how it hurt, used his left instead to stop the spoon. But he bumped her hand and the soup spilled on his chin, running down his neck. Goddamnit! he thought, and tried to say it—unsuccessfully—
while she dabbed, wiped, and sponged fussily.
"Behave yourself, Mr. Cameron. See the mess you've made here!"
She knew perfectly well that any man who'd just found out he'd been shot would want to know who did it! Did he have to ask, with this inflamed throat of his! She dabbed away at the stupid soup, and this time when he grabbed, he got her by the wrist, catching the washcloth, too, under his grip, bringing her startled eyes wide.
"Who shot me?" he tried, but the pain assaulted his throat from every angle, so he mouthed the words broadly, oooo… shawt… mee ? She stared at him as if struck dumb, knotted her fist, and twisted it beneath his fingers until he felt the birdlike bones straining to be free.
"It wasn't I, Mr Cameron," she snapped, "so you've no need to accost me!" His grip loosened and she wrenched free, amazed at how strong he was in his anger "I fear I untied you too hastily," she said down her nose, rubbing her fingers over the redness where the stiff lace had scratched her wrist.
He could tell from her face that she wasn't used to being manhandled. He really hadn't meant to scare her, but he wanted some answers. She'd had plenty of time to fill him in while flitting around getting that pillow and washing his face. He reached for her wrist again but she flinched away. But he only touched it to make her look at his lips. Who shot
"Here we are, Mr. Cameron." His eyes flew open; he jumped and winced. "I've prepared a light broth and some tea. It's not much, but we'll have to cater to your throat rather than your appetite for a short while." She held a carved wooden tray, white triangles of linen falling over its edges.
Lordy, he thought, would you look at that! Probably hand-stitched those edges herself. Bracing the tray against her midriff, she cleared a space on the bedside table. He was surprised to see the tray pull her blouse against a pair of healthy, resilient breasts—she dressed like a woman who didn't want me world to suspect she had any! But if there was one thing he knew how to find, it was a pair of healthy breasts.
His eyes followed while she crossed to the chifforobe and found a pillow. When she came to mound it up beneath his head, he again caught the drift of that starchy, fresh smell, both from her and the pillow, and he thought of many nights sleeping on the floor of a wet canvas tent with a musty blanket over him as the only comfort. As she cupped the back of his head and lifted it, ripples of pain undulated from muscles far down his body. Automatically his eyes sank shut and he sucked in a sharp breath. When his pain had subsided, her voice came again.
"I've brought something to freshen your mouth. It's just soda water." A cloth pressed his jowl and a glass touched his lips, then he pulled the salty solution into his mouth. "Hold it a minute and let it bubble around.
The effervescence is very refreshing." He was too weak to argue, but watched her covertly as she brought the bowl for him to spit into. When dribbles wet his chin, she immediately applied a warm, damp cloth, then proceeded to wash his entire face as if he were a schoolboy. He tried to jerk aside, but it hurt, so he submitted. Next she placed a napkin under his chin and dipped the spoon, cupping her hand beneath it on its way to his mouth.
She wondered why he scowled so, and talked because his near-black eyes were frightening. "You're a lucky man, Mr Cameron. You were critically shot and nearly bled to death. Luckily Doctor Dougherty…
"
She rambled on but he heard little beyond the statement that he'd been shot. He tried to lift his right hand, remembered how it hurt, used his left instead to stop the spoon. But he bumped her hand and the soup spilled on his chin, running down his neck. Goddamnit! he thought, and tried to say it—unsuccessfully—
while she dabbed, wiped, and sponged fussily.
"Behave yourself, Mr. Cameron. See the mess you've made here!"
She knew perfectly well that any man who'd just found out he'd been shot would want to know who did it! Did he have to ask, with this inflamed throat of his! She dabbed away at the stupid soup, and this time when he grabbed, he got her by the wrist, catching the washcloth, too, under his grip, bringing her startled eyes wide.
"Who shot me?" he tried, but the pain assaulted his throat from every angle, so he mouthed the words broadly, oooo… shawt… mee ? She stared at him as if struck dumb, knotted her fist, and twisted it beneath his fingers until he felt the birdlike bones straining to be free.
"It wasn't I, Mr Cameron," she snapped, "so you've no need to accost me!" His grip loosened and she wrenched free, amazed at how strong he was in his anger "I fear I untied you too hastily," she said down her nose, rubbing her fingers over the redness where the stiff lace had scratched her wrist.
He could tell from her face that she wasn't used to being manhandled. He really hadn't meant to scare her, but he wanted some answers. She'd had plenty of time to fill him in while flitting around getting that pillow and washing his face. He reached for her wrist again but she flinched away. But he only touched it to make her look at his lips. Who shot
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