the low sill and followed her inside. The dim room contained a single woefully narrow bed, a single straight-backed wooden chair and a dresser with an old-fashioned ceramic pitcher and basin atop it.
The nun reached up to the sconce on the wall outside the door and pulled down the lit candle, handing it to Brody. She waved her hand toward the two sconces inside the bedroom, and Brody reached up, setting the flame to the candles they contained.
Warm light slowly filled the tiny room as the flames caught. Brody handed the feeder candle back to the nun, who nodded and backed two steps out of the room, pulling the wooden door shut as she went.
Which left Angeline alone with Brody.
The room had no windows, and though Angeline was definitely no fan of small, enclosed spaces, the room simply felt cozy. Cozy and surprisingly safe, considering the surreal situation.
“Well,” he said in a low tone, “that was easier than I expected.”
She gaped. “Easy? They won’t even let us see the children.”
“Shh.” He lifted one of the candles from its sconce and began prowling around the room’s small confines.
She lowered her voice. “What are you looking for?”
He ignored her. He nudged the bed away from the wall. Looked behind it. Under it. Pushed it back. He did the same with the dresser. He turned the washbasin and the pitcher upside down, before replacing them atop the dresser. He even pulled the unlit bare lightbulb out of the metal fixture hanging from the low ceiling. Then, evidently with nothing else to examine, he returned the fat candle to the sconce.
“Don’t think we’re being bugged.”
Her lips parted. “Seriously?”
“I’m a big believer in paranoia.” He looked up at the steady candle flames. “Walls in this place must be about a foot deep,” he said. “Can hardly hear the storm out there.”
And she was closed within them with him in a room roughly the size of the balcony of her Atlanta apartment. “Sorry if I’m not quick on the uptake here. Is that supposed to be good or bad?”
He shrugged, and began pulling off his rain poncho, doing a decent job of not flinging mud onto the white blanket covering the bed. “It ain’t bad,” he said when his head reappeared. “At least we probably don’t have to worry about that hurricane blowing this place to bits.” He dropped the poncho in the corner behind the door. The Rolling Stones T-shirt he wore beneath it was as lamentably wet as her own, and he lifted the hem, pulling the gun and its holster off his waistband.
He tucked them both beneath the mattress.
“Probably,” she repeated faintly. “Bro—Hewitt, what about the children?”
“We’ll get to them,” he said.
She wished she felt even a portion of the confidence he seemed to feel. “What happened to that all-fire rush you were feeling earlier?”
“Believe me, it’s still burning. But first things first.” His long arm came up, his hand brushing her poncho and she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Relax. I was just gonna help you take off your poncho.”
She felt her cheeks heat and was grateful for the soft candlelight that would hide her flush. “I knew that.”
He snorted softly.
Fortunately, she was saved from further embarrassment when there was a soft knock on the door.
It only took Brody two steps to reach it, and when it swung open, yet another nun stood on the threshold carrying a wooden tray. She smiled faintly and tilted her head, her black veil swishing softly. But like the sister who’d shown them to the room, she remained silent as she set the tray on the dresser top and began unloading it.
A simple woven basket of bread. A hunk of cheese. A cluster of green grapes. Two thick white plates, a knife, two sparkling clear glasses and a fat round pitcher. All of it she left on the dresser top. She didn’t look at Brody and Angeline as she bowed her head over the repast.
She was obviously giving a blessing. Then she lifted her head, smiled peacefully again and returned to the door. She knelt down, picked up a bundle she’d left outside, and brought it in, setting it on the bed. Then she let herself out of the room. Like Sister Frances, she pulled the door shut as she went.
“Grub and fresh duds,” Brody said, looking happy as a pig in clover. He lifted the off-white bundle from the bed and the items separated as he gave it a little shake. “Pants and top for you. Pants and top for me.” He deftly sorted, and tossed the smaller set toward the two thin pillows that sat at the head of the modest bed.
She didn’t reach for them, though.
He angled her a look. “Don’t worry, beautiful. I’ll turn my back while you change.” His lips twitched. “There’s not even a mirror in here for me to take a surreptitious peek. Now if you feel so compelled, you’re welcome to look all you want. After all,” his amused voice was dry, “we are married.”
Her cheeks heated even more. “Stop. Please. My sides are splitting because you are sooo funny.”
His lips twitched again and he pulled his T-shirt over his head.
Angeline swallowed, not looking away quickly enough to miss the ripped abdomen and wealth of satin-smooth golden skin stretched tightly across a chest that hadn’t looked nearly so wide in the shirt he’d worn. When his hands dropped to the waist of his jeans, she snatched up the clean, dry clothing and turned her back on him.
Then just when she wished the ground would swallow her whole, she heard his soft, rumbling chuckle.
She told herself to get a grip. She was a paramedic for pity’s sake. She’d seen nude men, women and children in all manner of situations.
There’s a difference between nude and naked, a tiny voice inside her head taunted, and Brody’s bare chest was all about being naked.
She silenced the voice and snatched her shirt off over her head, dropping it in a sopping heap on the floor. Leaving on her wet bra would only make the dry top damp, so she snapped it off, too, imaging herself anywhere but in that confining room with Brody Paine. She pulled the dry top over her head.
She tried imagining that she was a quick-change artist as she yanked the tunic firmly over her hips—grateful that it reached her thighs—then ditched her own wet jeans and panties for the dry pants.
She immediately felt warmer.
She knelt down and bundled her filthy clothes together, tucking away the scraps of lace and satin lingerie inside.
“Trying to hide the evidence that you like racy undies?”
Her head whipped around and the towel tumbled off her head.
Brody was facing her, hip propped against the dresser, arms crossed over the front of the tunic that strained slightly in the shoulders. He had an unholy look in his eyes that ought to have had the storm centering all of her fury on them considering their surroundings.
“You promised not to
