He glared at the table, and Charity leaned forward to shift his plate aside.
“Save some space for dessert,” she suggested gently, and he heaved a sigh and slanted her an unreadable glance from beneath those dark, furrowed brows. Her breath caught at the intensity of that look, and she found herself quite unable to do anything but stare helplessly back.
He opened his mouth to reply, but Stormy chose that moment to open her eyes. She immediately spotted the lamb and chickens and was on her paws and hysterically yapping in under ten seconds.
Miles shifted his penetrating gray stare to his dog, and Charity heaved a relieved sigh, before pushing her own nearly empty plate to the side.
The hens, startled by the onslaught of barking, squawked indignantly and waddled away fussily. The lamb toddled forward on stilt-like legs, seemingly curious about the noisy creature making all the fuss. Bleating plaintively, it ignored Stormy’s frantic barking and shoved its face toward the dog’s chair.
Miles grinned, and when he stroked the lamb’s velvety looking muzzle, Stormy calmed down almost immediately, clearly trusting her human to know best. She cautiously sniffed at the strange creature standing so close to her, but when the lamb baaed again, Stormy yelped and leaped into Miles’s arms.
He laughed, that same carefree laugh he had shared with Sam Brand earlier, and Charity swallowed painfully. She wasn’t at all happy with the way his laughter made her feel and didn’t know how to deal with it.
The lamb bounced away and disappeared around the corner. Stormy stopped barking and curled up on Miles’s lap with a contented sigh.
Miles chuckled quietly. “She seems a little smug now, doesn’t she?”
“She probably thinks she scared them off.”
He shook his head and fondled the dog’s ears.
“Crazy mutt,” he grumbled beneath his breath, his voice loaded with affection.
Charity didn’t respond to that. She aimlessly fiddled with her water glass; twirling it, running her index finger along the rim, tracing patterns in the condensation on the smooth, cold surface. Miles allowed the silence to grow, and for a long while there was nothing but the sounds of birds chirping, chickens clucking in the distance, a cow mooing, and the wind gently susurrating in the grass and the leaves of the massive wild fig trees dotted around the courtyard.
“Are you divorced or widowed?”
The question seemed to come from nowhere and, after allowing the soothing sounds of the farmyard to lull her into an unguarded and relaxed stated, it unnerved Charity. But it was just a question. Personal, sure…but no more so than any of the ones she had asked him today.
“What makes you think I’m either?” she replied with a nonchalance that surprised and impressed her. Her emotions were in complete upheaval, and she did not want to discuss her marital status.
Not with Miles.
Not with anyone really. But especially not with him. Not when she was starting to feel so many things around him. Physical things. Possibly even emotional things.
Bringing her marriage into this moment—this formerly tranquil, and happy, moment would ruin everything.
Her response seemed to flabbergast him, and his brow lowered.
“I’m sorry, I always assumed…I thought…wait, so you’re married?” He sounded so dismayed that Charity actually found herself tempted to smile, despite the uncomfortable subject matter.
“No. I’m not. I’m widowed…” She paused before honesty compelled her to add, “but I should have divorced him.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Arsehole, huh?” he sympathized.
She hesitated, so tempted to say yes. But years of pretense, of going along with the world’s belief that Blaine Davenport was a stand up, great guy had left her without a voice. And she stared at Miles helplessly.
“Did he cheat on you?” He immediately shook his head and made a self-conscious noise in the back of his throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”
“It’s not that, it’s just…” She worried the inside of her cheek with her teeth. “One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Right?”
“I don’t see why not. Especially if the dead guy was an arsehole. And it’s not like I knew him. So, speak your mind. Was he a cheating bastard?”
“He was a-a—” Another hesitation. She sucked in her breath and met his level, non-judgmental gaze. Nobody had ever had a bad word to say about Blaine. Not to her. Not to anyone. People always sang his praises, spoke about how committed he had been to his parishioners, to his community, to his faith, and to his wife.
And it had rendered her completely mute. Both during her marriage to that smiling, handsome monster, as well as after his death. When everybody had been so very devastated by his loss. When they had naturally assumed that she must be devastated too. She had been compelled to keep her relief and exhilaration at finally being free of him hidden behind a veil of insincere mourning.
And when she had been unable to keep up the pretense any longer, she had begged Mr. Lanscombe, her and Blaine’s attorney, to help her get away from that stifling life of lies and regret. He had come to her with this position less than a week later.
It had astonished her; how easy it had been to just up and leave. For so long she had been petrified of what Blaine would do to her if she tried to leave him…and suddenly, she could just go. Without any fear of repercussions. The reality of her newfound freedom had been staggering and overwhelming.
And utterly terrifying.
“He was a bastard,” Charity admitted beneath her breath, and she immediately smacked a hand over her mouth as if trying to cram the words back in. But they were out…hovering in the space between them. They sprouted wings and took flight and were out in the world before she could call them back.
Four words. Each one brutally weighted down by so much sadness and despair that she felt unburdened and lighter than air once they were out.
The freedom that she should have rejoiced in after his death finally unshackled by her quiet admission, and Charity’s lips lifted in delight.
“A total bastard. I hated him, and it’s an awful thing to say but I don’t miss him at all.”
Miles didn’t respond. His face remained impassive but his eyes were kind…even understanding, and the lack of anything resembling censure in that gaze made her choke up.
For so long, she had kept those words locked in a metal box in her heart, terrified that if she spoke them, if she confided in anyone, they wouldn’t believe her. She had been petrified that they would judge her for saying such an awful thing about the man they thought they knew and loved.
But here he was: Miles H. Hollingsworth. The most unlikely confidante in the world. And while he didn’t—couldn’t—comprehend how much this moment meant to her, he had allowed her to speak her truth in an entirely safe environment.
Her eyes flooded, and she looked away self-consciously, terrified that she would break down in front of him.
The hot tears burned the back of her eyes, and she shut them in a futile attempt to force the scalding moisture back. She slowly counted to ten—using every language in her arsenal—while keeping her breathing measured and under strict control.
She was so focused on her internal struggle that she jumped in fright when she felt his roughened palm close over her forearm. It wasn’t skin on skin contact, she was still wearing her jacket, but it was contact nonetheless and it was unexpected.
But not unwelcome.
“It’s okay.”
The quiet words nearly undid her. And she withdrew her arm from his hold and covered her face with her shaking hands. Not wanting him to see the tears that finally overflowed.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, her words so muffled behind her hands that she wasn’t sure he could hear them.
“Don’t be sorry,” he replied, his words emphatic. “It’s okay, Charity. You’re allowed to feel whatever it is you’re feeling. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
No, he sho
uldn’t have to tell her that…but it was nice to hear it nonetheless.
She sucked in a deep, messy breath and laughed self-consciously at the wet sound. She swiped at her damp cheeks with the back of her wrist, and when she opened her eyes, Miles had his eyes on Stormy, clearly giving Charity the privacy she needed to gather her composure.
She looked at the table and saw a monogrammed blue handkerchief neatly placed beside her plate. She smiled and traced the letters with a shaky index finger.
MHH
It was such a quaint custom, to carry a monogrammed handkerchief, but one that suited Miles to a T. She lifted the expensive linen square and dabbed at her cheeks, before—cringing at the necessity of the action—blowing her nose heartily.
“Thank you,” she said, and he lifted his gaze back to hers. She grimaced at the sodden handkerchief and sighed. “I hope you weren’t expecting this back right away.”
He started to say something but Estie came shuffling around the corner. She fussed happily, praising them for mostly eating all of their food before clearing away their plates and promising to return with their coffee and cake.
“On second thought, Estie, let’s change the coffee to a nice strong pot of tea,” he instructed the woman. The demand made Charity smile. She knew why he had ordered it.
She had noticed that about Miles Hollingsworth before. Tea was his remedy for everything. From a hangover to a broken heart. She had often seen him administer it to his distraught siblings. His demeanor brisk and efficient, but his eyes concerned.
She had always considered it a sweet quirk in an otherwise aloof character.
Estie nodded, and they watched her depart.
“I don’t think she has just the one toy boy, she probably has a guy in every village from here to Cape Town,” Charity said on a wobbly voice, keen to continue their game.
Miles smiled, his eyes and his expression inscrutable again. He looked more like the Miles Hollingsworth she had known these last three years. A little grim and a lot unapproachable, and Charity regretted the loss of the man who had been so kind moments ago.
“I think she met the man of her dreams when she was in high school,” Miles said after a long silence. “She married him just after university, and they have lived a long and wonderful life together. They have four children, twelve grandchildren, and three great grandchildren. And every evening they sit in their rocking chairs, hold hands, and watch the sun set. They talk about their day, the people they saw, and the things they did.”
“That’s very…” Charity struggled to find the right word and finally settled on, “romantic.”
“I can be romantic,” he said, but the contrast between the words and his grim voice and expression was frankly ludicrous.
“Can you?”
He sighed, the sound was heavy and despondent.
“Are you okay?” he asked, still in that fierce voice.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried. Into your marriage, I mean.”
“You didn’t. It was just a question. And most people would answer it without all the drama.”
“You’re not most people.”
“No. I’m a total drama queen. As you just discovered.”
“I don’t suppose you want to tell me about it. About him.”
His face was stark, all angles and planes in the lengthening late afternoon shadows, and it gave him a vaguely sinister look. She smiled bittersweetly and, before she could overthink it, she reached across the table and stroked the bristled, sharp edge of his jaw.
“I feel…we’re…” She shook her head, trying to find a way to verbalize how she was feeling without adding to the confusion of what was happening, or not happening, between them. “I don’t know what’s going on here. With us. I work for you. And the thought of confiding something so highly personal to you, when I haven’t even told my family or friends about it, feels—I don’t know. I don’t know how it feels.”
“Why did you hate him?”
She hesitated, not sure if she should answer. Not after what she had just said. But in the end, the need to confide in someone after so long overwhelmed all else. “He was a monster.”
“And why didn’t you confide in your family and friends?”
“Because everybody loved that monster. They thought he was a saint. Especially for marrying someone like me. I was high maintenance, you see? Wild and carefree. While Blaine was patient and kind. Exactly the man my family thought I needed. The kind of man I thought I needed.”
He was distracted from his questions when Estie returned with a sunny smile on her face.
She deposited their desserts and tea on the table and offered Stormy a dog biscuit and an ear scratch.
Charity determinedly changed the subject to more neutral topics after that, delving into the limited and outdated town gossip she knew.
He allowed the subject change with nothing but a raised brow. He didn’t seem at all interested in the subject matter but nonetheless listened attentively and kept her going with the occasional encouraging grunt, while he dove into his cake.
They headed home soon afterward, and they both determinedly kept the limited conversation impersonal for the rest of the afternoon.
Miles was mentally, physically and emotionally drained after the day out. Despite their conversations and confidences of the day, Charity Cole still remained a mystery to him.
He felt like he was on the cusp of finding the key to decrypting the enigma that was his lovely housekeeper. But he had to tread carefully, she appeared to have been badly hurt by her husband, and Miles didn’t want to add to that damage.
He should leave her alone, and they should return to their respective neutral corners. But he found himself unable to stop thinking about her, about the indescribable vulnerability and pain that he had seen on her face when she had spoken of her dead husband.
She had tried so hard to hide it from him, but it had been there; between each labored breath, and in every tightly restrained movement of her body. He wasn’t sure how her husband had hurt her but his initial instinct had been that the bastard had cheated on her. And he couldn’t fathom how any man could treat a woman so poorly. His relationships—for lack of a better word—were usually only physical…but they were always monogamous. He believed that the woman he was sharing a bed with deserved to be treated with respect for however long their agreement lasted. That meant no fucking around. And he expected the same consideration from her.
He couldn’t even imagine cheating on a spouse. Someone you had promised to love and cherish above all others.
He stood beneath a hot shower for ages washing the day off and reflecting on the conversations he’d had with Charity. She was easy to talk with. He rarely confided in people, and he had exposed fragments of himself to her that he wouldn’t normally share with anyone else. Not even his family. She was the only one who now knew about his obsession with fantasy sagas. He cringed as he recalled the way he had enthused about his current read, but she had seemed interested and even entertained.
Admitting how ill he had been was a first as well. He had brushed it off with family and colleagues and had dismissed the seriousness of his condition even when he knew that they knew he wasn’t being quite truthful. They had been happy to allow the lie, until he had gotten too ill for anyone to ignore.
But he hadn’t even considered dissembling like that with Charity.
He didn’t know what it meant, all he knew was that he wanted to explore this attraction between them even further. But he was questioning the wisdom of doing so.
Beyond the obvious, he had no real idea what he wanted from her. She rang all the right physical bells in him. He was attracted to her, he wanted to touch her and stroke her and pleasure her. And he wanted her to want the same from him. But it hardly seemed fair to act on that when she was the one taking all the risks. He knew that she’d worry about her job, and naturally there was always the fear of emotional and physical depe
ndency. She had so much more to lose than he did.
And he wasn’t certain how any sexual relationship between them would be structured. He usually offered his partners an arrangement of mutual, no strings pleasure for as long as both parties required it. His only caveats being exclusivity and a clean bill of health. While he had found such understandings perfectly suitable before, he now wondered if Charity would consider a similar offer crass and insulting.
It was best to step away from this and stop seeking her out. He had unfairly exposed the disguise that she had hidden behind for so many years. Mrs. Cole existed for a reason, and by stripping her of that armor, he left her open to who knows what kind of pain.
Unless he was willing to shoulder that burden with her, he should leave her alone. Allow her to be Mrs. Cole and leave Charity for some other man to discover.
It was the right thing to do. He knew that.
Still…despite that resolve—after his shower, when he returned to his room to find Charity timidly stepping across the threshold of his bedroom door, common sense beat a hasty retreat. And all he could do was stare in shock at the very welcome intrusion.
She froze when she spotted him and a dull red flush started at her throat and crept upwards until it reached her cheeks. She took a startled step backward, stumbling as she hit the door, which swung shut with a quiet click.
Leaving them alone…in a closed room.
She looked confused, torn between fleeing and standing her ground.
“Uhm…Stormy brought…” She didn’t complete the sentence, instead lifting the item clutched in her hand for him to see.
A lone sock.
His eyes dropped to her feet, looking for his larcenous dog, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Charity seemed to know exactly who he was looking for. “She passed out on my sofa.”
His gaze travelled back to her face, noting that she had changed into her horrid Mrs. Cole uniform, and he bit back a growl of frustration. Desperate to tear the hideous clothes off her.
His hands fisted at his sides and he fought the impulse to say something about it.
The Best Next Thing Page 15