Kate licked her lips. “Well, you don’t have to, okay?”

Tilly sighed as she dropped her gaze to the floor. “Okay.”

Kate reached down to the sink and peeled Tilly’s fingers from the edge. Gently, she lifted Tilly’s hand to the tie at the base of her neck. In the reflection above the sink, their gazes locked. “I’ve loosened it. All you have to do is pull that one, okay?”

“Thank you.”

The urge to drop a kiss to Tilly’s shoulder was strong. “Do you want me to undo your plait?”

Tilly shook her head. “No. I’m okay.”

“Okay. I’ll be just outside if you need me.”

Wired with hostility, she fixed the covers on Tilly’s bed. Was the vicar so jealous of Kate that he’d rather leave Tilly terrified and alone? Or did he just not understand what Tilly needed? No. He was too intelligent to be unaware. He’d chosen what worked for him. There were a million ways he could have reached St. Joan’s, but no, Tilly had to go into surgery panicked and alone because he couldn’t stand the thought of Kate being the one upon whom Tilly relied. Pathetic. Kate detested him with every fibre of her being.

As she packed up Tilly’s breakfast tray and returned it to the trolley in the corridor, she tried to calm herself. She could stew over it later, when they were home, when Tilly was asleep and Kate was alone. Now wasn’t the time. It would just put her in a bad mood and Tilly would pick up on it. She always picked up on it.

Behind the heavy bathroom door, the low wheeze of the hairdryer ceased. Kate watched as the patient across the room shifted in her sleep.

Dressed in what she was wearing when she left the morning before on the ferry, Tilly stopped in the doorway, her dark hair wild. She sighed. “Can you plait my hair?” she asked, her face devoid of any embarrassment. “My arms feel a bit weak from drying my hair and I’m all too aware that I look like I’ve grabbed an electric fence with both hands.”

Smirking, Kate patted the bed. “You should have let me dry your hair.”

“It’s okay,” Tilly said, slowly shifting up onto the mattress. “I sat on the toilet to do it but I just feel…”

Kate took the plastic comb from Tilly’s hands and moved around the bed, climbed up behind Tilly. She folded Tilly’s collar down, found Tilly’s neck bright pink from the heat of the hairdryer. Taking a quiet breath, she gathered Tilly’s lightly damp hair, let her fingers slide against her scalp as she sectioned the strands. Her thumb brushed the shell of Tilly’s ear, and immediately, Tilly tensed.

“Sorry,” Kate murmured, her pulse skipping a beat.

“That’s okay,” Tilly whispered.

The effect the tender contact had on Kate, how it set her blood alight, was inappropriate. Tilly needed her. She trusted Kate, implicitly. Still, as Tilly leaned back into her, barely a space between them for Kate to focus on Tilly’s hair, she couldn’t help the rush of protectiveness that overcame her. Squashing a pang of pride, she focused on the plait, the symmetry…