‘Tea will be most welcome.’
Her eyes showed some distress. He wanted to touch her, ease her worry. Instead he moved away to hang his greatcoat on the line.
His feet hurt even worse as the blood rushed to them. He hurried back to his chair by the fire and wrapped his feet in the blanket.
‘What is wrong?’ she asked, gazing at his feet.
‘Cold.’ He rubbed his feet. ‘I believe my wet boots will be preferable at this point.’
She rose and walked over to the clothes line. ‘Your socks are fairly dry.’ She brought them to him and knelt at his feet. ‘I’ll put them on for you.’
Her hands felt too soothing and his body came to life, precisely what he did not wish to feel.
‘Perhaps this is not the thing for a lady to do,’ he managed to protest.
She placed one sock on his foot. ‘It is so little, after what you have done for me.’
At least now he felt warmer. He endured the pleasure of her slipping the second sock on the other foot, gazing down at her as she worked it over his heel. Her hair was in a plait down her back, but tendrils escaped to frame her lovely face.
She was a woman a man could lose his head over. For once he wished he could be like his father had been—blinded by passion and unaware of the disaster ahead of him.
But his eyes were open.
She wrapped his feet in a blanket again and moved away to pour their weak, but hot, tea.
Take care in London, he wanted to tell her. There were men who knew how to play upon a young woman’s heart. Love came in many disguises, some even more hurtful than the pain his parents inflicted on each other.
Perhaps he could watch out for her. Perhaps he could warn her away from the worst dangers of love.
No. He needed to stay away from her. She tempted him too much.
She handed him his jug. ‘Such as it is.’
He nodded thanks.
She sat in her chair and they sipped the hot liquid that only retained the barest hint of tea. The fire dwindled to embers, but Marc held off on placing the last of their wood on it. He glanced around the room and wondered if he ought to try to break up the furniture.
It seemed an extreme measure and greatly unfair to the owner of the cottage.
Miss Summerfield yawned and curled up in her chair.
He reached over and touched her arm. ‘You should lie on the cot and get some sleep. I’ll move it closer to the fire.’
‘Where will you sleep?’ she murmured.
He shrugged. ‘The chair will do.’ He’d slept in worse places.
The wind found its way through the walls of the cabin. Miss Summerfield shivered. ‘It is cold.’
And it would get colder. ‘You’ll be warmer on the cot.’
She did as he asked and she was soon tucked in under her blanket as close to the fireplace as he could place the bed.
He watched her as she slept and shivered as the temperature dropped even further and the fire consumed the wood. He scavenged the cabin and found a few more lumps of coal, but the room was very, very cold.
She woke, shivering, but not complaining.
There was only one way he could think of to keep her warm now, but it was a proposition that no young lady should accept. It was also a thought that consumed him much too often.
She rolled over and gazed at him. ‘You should take a turn on th-the cot. You must be colder than I am.’
‘I’m not going to trade places with you, Miss Summerfield.’
She got up and carried her blanket over to her chair. ‘I’ll sit here, then.’
He raised his voice. ‘Get in the cot.’
She looked at him in defiance. ‘No. It is your turn.’
‘Do not be a damned fool, Miss Summerfield. Get in the cot.’ There was no sense in them both sitting up all night, shivering.
She glared at him. ‘The only way I’ll get in that cot is if you are in it, too.’
The cold was addling her brain, he thought. But this was the answer, the consuming thought. He should not take advantage of it, but, if he did they’d both be warm.
‘Very well.’ He inclined his head towards the cot. ‘Get in the bed and I will join you.’
An anxious look crossed her face and she hesitated, but she carried her blanket over to the cot and lay down, facing the fire. He covered her with another blanket and crawled underneath it.
‘Our bodies will warm each other,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Do not fear. This is for warmth and nothing else.’
He hoped he could keep that promise.
* * *
Exhaustion helped where desire refused to waver. Even though she was warm and soft against him, the comfort of her had made him fall asleep almost immediately. He did not even wake to feed the fire the last lumps of coal. He knew nothing until the sound of muffled voices reached his ear.
The latch of the door rattled.
The worst had happened. They were discovered.
‘Miss Summerfield!’ He shook her, but had only time enough to bound from the cot when the door burst open.
‘Halloo there!’ a man cried.
Miss Summerfield sat up.
‘I say,’ said the man, a gentleman by appearance. ‘What goes here?’
He entered the cabin followed by two men in workmen’s dress.
‘Is that you, Miss Summerfield?’ the gentleman asked.
Marc took charge. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
Miss Summerfield covered herself with the blanket.
‘I am Lord Attison,’ the gentleman said indignantly. ‘And, more to the purpose, who are you?’
Miss Summerfield answered before Marc could speak, ‘He is Mr Glenville, sir. Allow us to explain.’
Marc put a stilling hand on her arm. ‘First he must explain why he barges in without so much as a knock.’ Put him on the defensive.
Lord Attison shot daggers at Marc. ‘I was sent to find Miss Summerfield.’ He turned to her. ‘You have caused Lord Tinmore much worry, young lady, do you realise that?’
Marc
