"Is that clean?" she called out.

"My handkerchief or the water?"

"Both!"

John walked back to her side and held up the snowy white cloth. "Sparkling."

She sighed at his determination to treat her blister and poked her bare foot out from under her skirt.

"This isn't going to work," he said.

"Why not?"

"You're going to have to roll over onto your stomach."

"I don't think so," Belle replied, her tone firm.

John tilted his head to one side. "The way I see it," he said thoughtfully, "we have two options."

He didn't say anything more, so Belle was forced to ask, "We do?"

"Yes. Either you roll over onto your stomach so that I can take care of your blister, or I can slide on my back and wiggle under your leg so that I can see your heel. Of course that would probably require my sticking my head under your skirts, and while the thought is intriguing-"

"Enough," Belle muttered. She rolled over onto her stomach.

John took the handkerchief and gently dabbed it against the sore, cleaning away the small amount of dried blood which had crusted around it. It stung a little when he touched the raw flesh, but Belle could tell that he was being extraordinarily gentle, so she didn't say anything. When he pulled a knife out of his pocket, however, she changed her mind.

"Aaaack!" Unfortunately, the first word to fly out of her mouth was not terribly coherent.

John looked startled. "Is something wrong?"

"What are you planning to do with that knife?"

He smiled patiently. "I was just going to make a small incision in your blister so I can drain it. That will allow the dead skin to dry out."

It sounded like he knew what he was doing, but Belle thought she ought to ask a few questions anyway since she was, after all, letting this relatively strange man take a knife to her person. "Why do you want to dry it out?"

"It will heal better that way. The dead skin will fall off, and the skin underneath will toughen up." He narrowed his eyes. "You've never had a blister before, have you?"

"Not like this," Belle admitted. "I don't usually walk so much. I usually ride."

"What about dancing?"

"What about dancing?" she countered.

"I'm sure you go to fancy balls and all that when you're in London. You must be on your feet all night."

"I always wear comfortable shoes," she replied disdainfully.

John wasn't sure why, but her sensibility pleased him. "Well, don't worry," he finally said. "I've treated many blisters, most worse than this."

"In the war?" Belle asked, her voice cautious.

His eyes darkened. "Yes."

"I imagine you've treated far worse injuries than mere blisters," she said softly.

"I imagine I have."

Belle knew that she should stop her questioning; the war was obviously a painful topic for him, but curiosity overpowered discretion. "Weren't there doctors and surgeons for that sort of thing?"

There was a noticeable silence, and Belle felt the pressure of his hands on her foot as the knife punctured her blister before he finally answered. "Sometimes there aren't doctors or surgeons available. Sometimes you just have to do what you can, what makes sense. And then you pray." His voice was flat. "Even if you've stopped believing in God."

Belle swallowed uncomfortably. She thought about saying something soothing such as, "I see," but the truth was, she didn't see. She couldn't even begin to imagine the horrors of war, and it seemed shallow to imply that she could.

John dabbed at the blister again with the damp handkerchief. "That ought to do it." He stood up and held out his hand to her, but she ignored it, rolling over so that she could sit on the grassy knoll. He stood there awkwardly until she patted the spot on the grass next to her. He hesitated, and Belle finally groaned and slapped her hand down on the ground with considerable force.

"Oh, please," she said in a semi-irritated voice. "I'm not going to bite."

John sat down.

"Should I put a bandage on this?" Belle asked, twisting around so that she could examine his handiwork.

"Not unless you're planning to wear another pair of tight shoes. It will heal faster if you leave it bare."

Belle continued to look at her heel, doing her best to preserve her modesty while she did so. "I don't suppose too many people wander through Westonbirt barefoot, but I think I have enough clout to carry it off, don't you?" She looked up suddenly, offering him a sunny grin.

John felt as if he'd been hit, the force of her smile was so strong. It took him several seconds to tear his eyes off her mouth, and when he did, he moved his gaze up to her eyes, which was a big mistake, because they were as blue as the sky. Bluer, in fact, and so obviously perceptive and intelligent. He felt her stare almost physically, felt it sweeping across his body even though she never took her eyes off his, not even for an instant. He shivered.

Belle wet her lips in a nervous gesture. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" he whispered, barely aware that he'd spoken.

"Like you're… like you're…" She stumbled over her words, not quite certain how he was looking at her. Her eyes widened in shock as it came to her. "Like you're afraid of me."

John felt dizzy. Was he afraid of her? Did he fear her ability to upset the precious internal balance he'd only recently been able to achieve? Perhaps, but he feared no one more than himself. The things he wanted to do to her…