Page 40 of Outrageous

She blinked at that. “You think I should cut my hair?”

“No, but you said you wanted to cut it.”

“You wouldn’t care if I cut it?”

“It’s your hair.”

She appeared to ponder that while he finished the second boot and then moved on to the breeches.

“My father doesn’t care for short hair.”

“Well, I’m not your father.”

Although I’m certainly old enough. Godric frowned at the unwanted thought.

“What kind of hair do you like—on a woman, that is?”

Godric looked up from the breeches he was wiping with the cloth, having judged it unwise to get the leather too wet. She swallowed hard but met his eyes, her cheeks flushed. Was that from the fire or because she wanted to know what he liked? Why did that stir him? Somehow, he knew the answer to this seemingly innocuous question would mean the difference between a quiet evening and dodging sour looks or even actual projectiles.

“You’d look good no matter what you did with your hair. If you want it short, cut it short.”

She looked so surprised, he thought he’d said the wrong thing, but then she smiled.

Bloody hell. He quickly turned his attention, and his eyes, back to the ruined clothing in his hands, which he noticed weren’t at all steady. Well, he’d not slept for over twenty-four hours—he was tired.

Yes, that’s it—you’re tired.

Thankfully the arrival of dinner spared him from having to spend one more second on the subject.

* * *

Godric banked his fire, preparing for a long, tedious, sleepless night when there was a soft knock on the connecting door.

He opened it to find Eva holding a straight-edged razor; ragged chunks were missing from her shiny black hair. “Good God! I didn’t mean you should cut it now.”

Her face was the shade of a ripe cherry. “Don’t make it worse—I already feel like an idiot.” Her voice sounded a bit wobbly, almost as if she might cry.

Christ!

Godric sighed. “All right, I won’t. Er, did you want something?” he asked when she just stood there.

She held up the razor. “Will you help me?”

“Me?” He would have been mortified at sounding like a castrated mouse if the prospect of cutting her hair hadn’t terrified him even more. “I’ve never even cut my own hair.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Please? I’ve done the parts I can see, I just need help with, well, the rest.”

Godric didn’t tell her what he thought of her work so far.

“Please.” Her lips twitched and almost made it to a smile. “You can’t do worse.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” he said, but reached out for the razor anyhow. He held it up to the light, frowning. “Where did you get this?”

She shrugged, her expression evasive, and Godric decided he didn’t want to know.

Instead, he thumbed the edge, which wasn’t even sharp enough to scrape his skin. “No wonder you ended up hacking so horribly. This wouldn’t cut warm butter. I’d sharpen it for you, but I didn’t buy a strop in Doncaster. Here—” He closed it and handed it back to her. “We’ll use mine, which is almost new.”

He fetched his razor, which was still lying out to dry, and turned to follow her back into her room. There was a substantial pile of hair where the carnage had taken place, and Godric gestured to it. “You might as well stand there.”