A Man of Honour. Caroline Anderson

bleeding eyebrow. ‘He’s the one running with blood. Are you going to press charges, Tom?’

      ‘If I don’t bleed to death first,’ he muttered. ‘Where the hell are they?’

      Just then the security staff came running in and Tom stood up, handing his charge over to the uniformed officials.

      ‘Lock him up till the police get here,’ he said shortly.

      ‘Right, sir,’ one of them muttered, and then they hauled the man to his feet and marched him out of the office.

      Helen shut the door and turned to Tom. He was pale, trembling slightly with reaction, and the cut over his eye was still welling blood.

      ‘You look awful—sit down and let me look at that.’

      He tipped the broken glass off the chair and sat down obediently, tipping his head back so that she could examine the cut.

      ‘What on earth did he hit you with?’ she asked incredulously.

      ‘The coffee-jug—ouch!’

      ‘Sorry. It’s a good job it was empty.’ She probed again, and he flinched. ‘There’s a bit of glass left in there, and it’ll need a stitch. Do you want to go down to A and E?’

      He peered up at her from under his eyebrows. ‘Can’t you do it?’

      She looked doubtful. ‘I can, but—I might leave a scar.’

      ‘Shame,’ he said softly. ‘Just stitch it, Helen.’

      She took him into the treatment-room and made him get on the couch.

      ‘Don’t bother with the lignocaine,’ he told her as she picked up the syringe. ‘If it’s only one stitch it’ll hurt less just to do it.’

      She shrugged and washed her hands, then opened the suture pack, swabs and antiseptic before pulling on gloves. It was his head, she reasoned. If he wanted it stitched without a local, so be it. And anyway, he was probably right, a local anaesthetic did hurt.

      She lifted out the glass and swabbed the cut with antiseptic, and he winced and flinched.

      ‘Sorry—that’s probably the worst bit.’

      ‘God, I hope so,’ he said with a weak attempt at humour. ‘It brings the tears to your eyes.’

      ‘Just tough it out, cowboy,’ she told him firmly. ‘You wanted it this way—OK, hang on, here it comes.’

      He didn’t move a millimetre, but she could see the muscle jumping in his jaw and knew it was hurting him.

      ‘OK, all done,’ she said seconds later, and snipped the suture.

      He sagged back against the couch and shot her a weak smile. ‘Thanks.’

      ‘My pleasure.’

      ‘Sadist.’

      She snorted and wiped the skin around the cut dry before putting on a couple of butterfly sutures each side of the stitch. ‘It was your idea to play the hero,’ she told him laughingly.

      ‘Hmm. Remind me next time not to bother,’ he said with a smile, and her stupid heart went into overdrive again.

      She turned away, clearing up the debris from her suturing, and he was so quiet she thought he’d fallen asleep. Then his hand rested lightly on her arm and turned her towards him.

      ‘About yesterday…’

      She forced herself to meet his eyes.

      ‘What about it?’

      ‘I’m sorry I got ratty. It’s just—the furniture was a bit of an issue in the past. You just hit a nerve. I’m sorry I was short with you.’

      All the lectures she had given herself over the past twenty-four hours went out of the window at a stroke. She knew the smile must have lit up her eyes, but there was nothing she could do about it.

      ‘Forget it,’ she told him. ‘I thought it must be something I’d said or done to irritate you ——’

      ‘No. No, Helen, it was nothing to do with you. You’ve been marvellous.’

      He sat up and swung his legs over the side, and his mouth quirked into that fleeting smile again.

      ‘Forgive me?’

      ‘Of course I forgive you,’ she said softly, and wondered if her heart would stand the strain of that wretched smile.