by Sue London
The figure jumped in surprise, yelled, and knocked over a small table and pot that her mother used to put flowers in.
When the sound of both of their voices faded, Francie realized that she was looking at a very startled Mr. Burnham. She still had her hand at her throat and her heart was racing like a galloping horse. He was braced at an awkward angle against the wall, trying not to stand on the upturned table.
“Good God, Miss Walters. What are you doing?” he demanded.
She bit her lip. “I heard a sound,” she whispered.
He thumped his chest as though trying to knock everything back into place. “You will be the death of me,” he said darkly.
“I’m sorry,” she said. The cold had returned to every bit of her and she realized her teeth were chattering.
He still looked grumpy and irritated, picking up the table and shaking his head at the broken crockery. “I’m sorry, too, Miss Walters. But if we’re to get on you will have to trust me at least a little. If anything happens down here at night then it is mine to deal with. If you hear a sound that frightens you then bar your door and ready your pistol.”
“Wh-what if you need help?”
His dark gaze shot to her and he walked up the two steps to stand in front of her and take her hands. “You’re freezing. Why are you so cold?”
“C-cold bl-blooded,” she said.
The smile he gave her was part smirk. “Undoubtedly. It seems perhaps you should consider gloves with fingers for bed.” He chaffed her hands as though she’d just come in from gathering greenery for Yule. The result didn’t seem to satisfy him, however, and he held her hands to his chest before gathering her close. As he was standing on the step below her their heights were such that she could rest her head on his shoulder.
She should be quite put out by his forwardness. Yes, their housing was unorthodox and her reputation was already ruined, but that didn’t mean she should let him have liberties with her person. But he was blessedly warm and it was difficult to convince herself to pull away.
***
Bloody hell, but the chit had given him a fright. And he would bet a month’s wages that the bulge in her pocket was her pistol. Perhaps he should be glad she’d only screamed instead of putting another bullet through him. Eventually her aim would be too true and he wouldn’t have to worry about all the friends he’d outlived. He would have joined them!
For all her bravery, however, it was clear she was also frightened. She shivered against him for long moments before finally sighing and snuggling closer. Then his act of charity in trying to calm and warm her became something of a problem. His body clearly recognized the shift from frightened miss to warm, willing woman. Well, perhaps willing was too much to hope for, but the way she draped herself on him it wasn’t far from the mark. Should he say something that made her spit and swipe like an angry tiger? She was clearly armed so it might not be the wisest course. But much more of her embrace and he might do something they would both regret.
“Lud, you’re better than a hot brick in the bed.”
Her comment served to break his wayward thoughts. Here he was thinking of her soft and lovely attributes and she was comparing him to a hot brick!
“You would be surprised what I can do in bed,” he said, holding her upright as he took a step back. She looked drowsy and mussed and slightly confused by his comment. In short, terribly beddable. He’d hoped that being bawdy would cause her to withdraw in missish outrage, but he’d missed the mark it seemed.
“Tea?” she asked.
Well, why not. Plenty of things could be solved with tea. He nodded, not trusting himself to keep a civil tongue when he wanted to either berate or bed her. She turned and walked back up the steps, her hips swaying under the clothes she was swaddled in. It spoke to his state of mind that he could make out any of her figure under the voluminous cloth. He was afraid if he could see more he would find her even more appealing. If there was one thing he adored about the present fashions it was how much of a woman’s figure they exposed. Sheer silks that ran unfettered from bosom to ankle and outlined their figure when they turned or a breeze caught the fabric. She would be fetching, he thought, in one of the sarcenet ball gowns so popular in London. Perhaps a light blue that matched her eyes.
God’s blood, he needed Harry to return at double time. If he was already not only undressing her, but dressing her with his eyes only the Lord knew what might happen within a fortnight. He would not, he pledged to himself, take advantage of an innocent miss. No matter how much of a temptation she was.
She stoked up the fireplace and set the kettle. The shop and tiny apartment didn’t have a kitchen as such, just a small hearth that they used for both heating and cooking. Far from an ideal situation. His bedroom growing up had a fireplace at least twice the size, not to mention the enormous kitchens they’d had at both the country and town homes. During his years in the Navy he’d certainly learned to live with far greater privations than even these poor surroundings, but he did have sympathy that she’d apparently never known the comforts that he had. She seemed perfectly content with her lot, however, and it was possible he was judging her circumstances in ways that she wouldn’t.
He sat in a chair in the corner with his legs stretched out. It was difficult in this blasted tiny home to feel like he was doing anything other than looming, so he often tucked himself in the corners as he was able. She set her bulky coat aside. Wrapped in far fewer layers, he was now able to clearly appraise her figure. Slender, but with womanly curves at hip and breast. Neither overly tall nor petite. She was, he thought, quite perfectly arranged. When she stretched up to retrieve a piece of crockery he was so mesmerized by her bosom outlined by the taut fabric that it took him a moment to realize he should help.
Jumping up he said, “Here, let me.” But to prove how addled he was he raised both arms to assist her, causing himself to hiss in pain when his stitches pulled.
She turned to him, eyes wide with concern. “Are you all right?”
He retrieved the crockery with his right hand and smiled down at her. “I’ve been through worse. Just forgot about the stitches is all.”
She set the pot aside. “I’d best look at them.”
It occurred to him that he was standing entirely too close to her, crowding her against the hutch. It was the sort of pose that would raise eyebrows and cause tongues to wag if they were discovered just so at his father’s country house. He would only need to bend ever so slightly to kiss her. Or perhaps she would rise up on her toes, as she’d done while stretching to fetch the pot.
Her worried gaze moved to his shoulder. “I’d best look,” she repeated, taking a deep breath as though steeling herself for a challenge. “Take off your shirt.”
If she knew the craven thoughts running through his head she wouldn’t invite him to do any such thing. But rather than warn her, he took a step back and tugged at the loose, white garment. His stitches pulled again when he stripped the clothing off, but he found that his desire to see her reaction outweighed any temporary pain. Moving the chair away from the wall, he sat down again to give her access for her inspection.
Chapter Six
Francie worried her lip again. Somehow the blasted man continued to look more attractive rather than less so. After he’d scared the wits out of her in the hallway she’d thought twice now that he might kiss her. First on the stairs, when he’d warmed her to a delightful toastiness that she’d never felt before, and just now when he’d stood so close to her that she was afraid her chest would brush his if she took too deep a breath. He had been staring at her with a singular intensity that was unsettling and yet thrilling all at once.
She wished she could recover her equilibrium and chastise him as she’d done the first few days of their acquaintance. Somehow the caustic words wouldn’t come and it felt as though her tongue was cleaved to the roof of her mouth. Especially once he took off his shirt. He was still watching her with that intense gaze, as though challenging her to noti
ce. She did notice far too much about him.
As she drew close, however, she also noticed that his wound looked red and puckered. The light wasn’t very bright in the room, so she turned to light a candle. Additional light didn’t make the wound look any better. She checked both sides, and thought that the back fared slightly better than the front.
“Well,” she said with a sigh, setting the candle aside. “It’s fortuitous that we fetched down the honey.”
“Honey?” he asked, confused.
“You’ve never seen a wound treated with honey before?” she asked, pulling out a spoon and dipping it in their small crock of the golden, sweet substance.
“No.”
“I learned it from my mother.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Harry.” His tone, while not entirely rude, indicated that he didn’t consider her mother an authority on healing.
She should be outraged but instead found herself entertained. “You doubt me? Well, we will see how you feel after a few days.”
“Like overly sweet toast, I imagine,” he grumbled.
She started at his back, dabbing the sweet, sticky liquid on gently. Then she moved to do the same to the wound on his front. He was still staring at her, the lids of his eyes lowered to an almost sleepy expression. But even innocent as she was she knew it wasn’t really sleepiness. As he continued to stare she felt herself blush so thoroughly that she was warmed clear from her toes to her nose. It seemed Mr. Burnham was a solution to her endless chilliness, if all he had to do was look at her to make her warm.
“We will let that dry a bit,” she said, “since it would be too hard to wrap it. And really you don’t want anything to pull at the wound, like fabric dried in the honey might.”
She wasn’t sure if he was even listening to her and she was afraid she might start babbling. Then he caught her hand in his own and drew her fingers to his lips.
“Sweet,” he said, licking honey off the tip of one.
Her knees felt weak. “Mr. Burnham.”
“Reggie,” he corrected, putting her next finger in his mouth up to the first knuckle before licking the honey off.
“Reggie,” she whispered, too overwhelmed with the sensations to say anything more.
When he put the third finger in his mouth she finally recovered her senses enough to stumble back. “I’m sorry,” she said, as she couldn’t think of anything else to say. She fled into the bedroom and closed the door. Her body was a riot of sensations. The blush from his notice, the coil of heat from her own desire for him, her embarrassment from both things, and her anger that she was in this position at all. It would be best, she thought, to focus on the anger. Snipe and bite and bully him until he thought her a shrew. It would be hard enough finding a place to recover her reputation, it would be harder still to do it with a babe. She didn’t fool herself that he was interested in her as a wife. He didn’t strike her as the type of man who was planning to settle down anytime soon, so encouraging even an iota of attention from him would be disastrous. She shouldn’t have let him hold her on the stairs. And so what if the blasted man’s wound became infected? He was undoubtedly too stubborn to die from it. She should stay far away from him for the rest of his time here.
She saw she was still holding the spoon with a dab of honey in it. Blasted man. She stuck the spoon in her mouth and let the honey melt over her tongue. Blasted, irritating man.
***
Reggie sat in the chair long after Miss Walters fled. What had he been thinking? She was clearly a sweet, young miss who deserved no less than his respect, and he was starting to sniff after her like a bawdy house whore who would do his bidding. Licking the honey off her fingers, however, had been one of the most erotic moments of his life. Hearing her little gasp of breath, watching her blue eyes widen and the pulse at her throat quicken. If she were of a mind, the little minx could seduce him with those eyes alone. He had already been thinking of other places they could put honey for him to lick off when he saw her expression change from seduced to panicked. That was all the reminder he needed that she was ultimately a sheltered, rural girl that he had no business dabbling with. He could just hear his eldest brother, Jeremy. ‘If you can’t marry them, don’t dangle after them.’ Jeremy considered himself the ultimate arbiter of wisdom. Since he had a well-settled home with three children and a wife who had been considered a diamond of the first water in her season, it was difficult to gainsay him. However, Jeremy had never been pressed into military service nor asked to protect a woman in her cramped home. It was possible that even perfect Jeremy would find challenges such as these to adjust his character.
The kettle was boiling over so Reggie pulled it from the fire. Miss Walters had readied the teapot with leaves, so he poured in the hot water and left it to steep. He went to the door she’d fled through and braced his hands on the jamb.
“I’m going downstairs,” he announced. He strained to hear a response, but there were no sounds he could detect. “The tea should be ready shortly.”
Giving up on trying to lure out the frightened girl, he grabbed his shirt and descended the stairs.
He wasn’t a man given to idleness, but it was a challenge trying to decide what to do with himself in a dress shop. He had already checked for loose boards and nails, fixing anything that seemed amiss. Short of building on an addition he couldn’t think of a thing to do. The alley behind, he thought, could just fit a small stone kitchen. That would be a mercy, he thought, for the girls in the summer. Cooking upstairs undoubtedly led to a smoky, hot, stuffy season. Rather a bit like a London crush.
Miss Walters had explained that they didn’t dare cook downstairs and risk tainting their fabrics with the smell of soot or cooked meats. They kept their prized bolts fresh with dried flowers tucked in the folds. So a separate addition made sense, and stone would keep it as safe from fire as possible. Granted, he would only be here for another fortnight, but he couldn’t help his mind from straying to the necessary improvements. Perhaps if he spoke to the merchant across the street the man could see to the construction. Reggie could draw up more than adequate plans in the time he had left.
He heard Miss Walters on the stairs and smiled. At least she wasn’t trying to mask her descent as she had earlier. He didn’t think he’d ever been closer to a heart attack than when she’d screamed. He busied himself with the figures he’d been calculating, not wanting to appear to be anticipating her entrance to the room. He didn’t glance up until she was directly in front of him, and when he did he noticed she didn’t meet his eyes.
“Your tea,” she announced quietly, setting a mug in front of him. The fragrant steam soothed him. “I wasn’t sure how you took it.”
The truth was that he’d always taken his tea plain, as she’d served it. But just now he thought he might enjoy it with a bit of honey. “This is good, thanks.”
She nodded and wrapped her fingers around her own mug, taking a sip as she walked toward the front of the shop. He’d wager that her tea had honey in it. If he kissed her now her tongue would be all the sweeter for it, and God’s blood but he needed to not think about Miss Walters in that way.
Was it merely the forced proximity? Or was there something special about the girl herself? He liked her feisty nature, and what man in his right mind wouldn’t be attracted to her face and figure? But she wasn’t the sort of girl who deserved to be trifled with, and regardless of his misguided proposal to Miss Grenard he wasn’t looking for a wife. If he was then certainly she didn’t fit the bill. He needed someone gently bred enough to keep his family from looking down on her, and yet hearty enough to be the wife of a Navy man stationed overseas. He predicted she fell short on both counts. His mother and sisters would shred her composure like tissue paper, and more than five minutes in the Caribbean sun would find her crying for home. No. He’d best leave off any thoughts of seducing the girl. They would both be disappointed by the outcome.
Chapter Seven
Francie gulped her tea, leaving off any attem
pts to be ladylike. That had gone well, she thought. She’d brought him tea and acted as though everything was perfectly normal. For all she knew he licked women’s fingers all the time and she really shouldn’t think anything of it. She was regretting sweetening her own tea now, as the flavor would mostly likely always remind her of that moment. The shock of his tongue swiping against her fingertip and then, lud, her finger in his warm mouth.
She understood perhaps a bit better now the girls who had fallen under the spell of a man. Cleadon was small enough that she’d only known one such girl who had found herself in that way. But tongues wagged and told stories of people known over the years. Before meeting Mr. Burnham she’d always thought that the girls were clearly foolish. Now she didn’t find herself judging quite so harshly. She didn’t think herself capable of making a truly horrible decision when it came to it, but she felt the temptation.
Among the terrible decisions she could make, she was sure, was to marry him if he asked. Not that he would ask. He’d clearly only asked Phoebe out of a sense of duty to a dead friend. But she’d seen how autocratic and bullheaded he could be, and she knew they would make a terrible couple. He would say something domineering at the wrong time and she would probably shoot him again. That almost made her giggle. No, she wouldn’t shoot him. But she would be tempted! Just as tempted as she was right now to kiss him. He was, all in all, the personification of temptation for her to sin. Perhaps she should visit the church in advance of Sunday, just to pray out her wayward thoughts.
“Miss Walters?”
She turned to his voice and it was clear that she needed to stop thinking about him, because he was somehow even more attractive than he’d been earlier. His dark hair fell over his brow, and his amber eyes glanced at her before casting down toward the ground, as though he were shy about what he was about to say.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I thought it might be helpful if I sharpened all your scissors.”