another glance at the man beside her, Amelia studied his face. He looked youthful and innocent whilst he slept, the frown she remembered from the previous night smoothed over as he relaxed in his sleep. He had a shock of dark hair, too long to be fashionable, and strong, manly features. Edward was the complete opposite of McNair, who was lithe and slender and beautiful.
Choking back a sob, Amelia remembered the events of three days ago and had to close her eyes as a wave of nausea overcame her. She’d killed someone. Never again would she wake up and not be a murderer. She might be a fugitive, running from the law, but McNair, beautiful, vibrant McNair, was dead and it was all her fault. Amelia could feel her hands shaking as she remembered McNair’s gasp of surprise as the letter opener slid into his flesh and how after that one movement she had frozen, unable to let go, unable to pull away.
Beside her Edward stirred and Amelia rallied, pulling the bedcovers up to her chin.
It wasn’t my fault. She repeated it to herself, forcing the disturbing images and memories from her mind.
She watched as the man beside her slowly emerged from his sleep. Amelia had never woken to a man in her bed before and it was fascinating to see how he stretched and wriggled before finally opening his eyes.
Edward’s body froze and his eyes shot wide open the moment he saw her.
‘Good,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’re still alive.’
Amelia bristled. She wasn’t sure what the etiquette was in this situation, but she rather thought he should greet her with something more poetic, more reassuring.
Without any further communication Edward swung his legs out of the bed and stood, gathering the dressing gown he’d slept in around himself. Amelia caught a glimpse of muscular legs and strong forearms before he was halfway across the room.
‘What happened last night?’
Edward turned to face her.
‘I remember you finding me in the drawing room, but not much else.’
He shrugged. ‘You were cold. I put you to bed.’
A man of few words it would seem.
‘And how did you end up in bed with me?’ Amelia asked frostily. Two could play at that game.
Edward had the decency to colour a little, but otherwise he seemed unperturbed.
‘You were shivering despite the fire and the blankets. I didn’t want you to die so I added my body heat.’
He made it sound so detached, so clinical. Without another word he crossed to the door and opened it.
‘Thank you,’ Amelia said softly.
Edward turned around, gave a short nod, then left. Amelia stared open mouthed after him. Despite all her flirtations she was an innocent, but even so she knew a man of good breeding did not just run out on a woman he’d spent the night in the same bed with. She felt the irritation at being so easily dismissed build inside her and it was a welcome distraction from the guilt and despair she’d subjected herself to over the last few days.
With a huff she got out of bed, gathering the loose material of the nightshirt around her body and letting her bare feet sink into the plush woven rug. Slowly she started to explore the room, running her fingers over the well-made if slight tatty furniture and examining the paintings on the wall. As she came to the large desk set at one end of the room she paused, her eyes settling on the numerous pieces of paper scattered across it. Eyes stared up at her from beautifully rendered sketches, drawing after drawing depicting people as they really were, not the stylised creations you often saw in professional portraits.
‘I’ve brought you some clothes,’ Edward’s voice came from near the door. For a tall, powerful man he moved surprisingly quietly.
Amelia jumped back guiltily. She hadn’t done anything wrong, the sketches had been lying on the desk, not locked away in a drawer, but still she sensed she’d trespassed on something very private and personal.
‘Thank you,’ she said, crossing the room and taking the clothes from Edward’s arms.
‘I will be downstairs in the kitchen. Once you’re dressed join me. It’s at the back of the house.’
‘I’m sorry...’ Amelia started to say, but Edward had already gone, closing the door behind him with a resounding thud.
Laying the clothes out on the bed Amelia was surprised to find the styles modern and the garments in good condition. She wondered why this strange, solitary man had women’s clothes stored in the house. She couldn’t picture him with a mistress squirrelled away somewhere—maybe a wife, someone mousy and quiet, but evidently not around any more.
Everything was too big on Amelia’s petite form, but the clothes were clean and dry, and vitally not covered in blood. She badly wanted a bath, a long soak in a deep tub to clean all the grime from her body and soothe her aching muscles, but she sensed she was as likely to get that as the possibility of a man walking on the moon. So instead she scrutinised herself in the small mirror hung on one wall and tidied herself up the best she could.
Grimacing as she noticed the slight swelling to one side of her face, Amelia touched her cheek gently. She could still feel McNair’s fist crunching against her delicate bones and quickly she squeezed her eyes shut to stop the memory of what happened next flashing before her eyes.
With great effort Amelia opened her eyes and tried out a breezy smile. She needed Edward to let her stay here in this strange, half-derelict house, at least for a few days. McNair’s death would have been discovered by now and someone would be hot on her trail. Even though Amelia knew she had committed an awful crime, she didn’t want to hang for it. She felt remorse and regret, but truly it had been in self-defence. Nevertheless she had fled the scene and, as a young woman with no husband and her father many thousands of miles away in India, Amelia wasn’t so naive to think she would get off lightly. No, the best course of action would be to hide away somewhere until her trail had gone cold and then find a way to fund her passage back to India. Her father would be irate, but he loved her and would make sure she was safe.
No one would think to look for her here in this house inhabited only by a reclusive bachelor. She just had to persuade Edward to let her stay for a few days, maybe a week. She wished she had something to offer, some practical skill that would make her indispensable, but her upbringing had consisted of painting watercolours, playing the piano and dreaming of a more exciting life.
Straightening her back, Amelia raised her chin and took a deep breath. She was Amelia Eastway. She’d never struggled to get men to do her bidding. Although she rather suspected she had never come across a man quite like Edward before.
* * *
Edward clattered around in the kitchen, his mood blackening with every second he couldn’t find the bread Mrs Henshaw had left him the day before. For three years he had lived undisturbed in his private refuge. Only Mrs Henshaw, his old housekeeper who had retired to a cottage in the village, came to visit him nowadays, bringing fresh food every few days and keeping the house from falling into complete disrepair.
Now his refuge had been invaded by an impish and vivacious young woman who had already started going through his private possessions. Granted the sketches had just been left lying on his desk, but when he’d first got into bed the night before he hadn’t
