More Than A Lover. Ann Lethbridge
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home.
She slipped out of bed, put on her dressing gown, tying the belt tight and making sure her cap was securely fastened. If she did run into the landlady, she was no less decently covered than she was during daylight hours. At least she would not run into Mr Read, since he was sleeping in the stable. She found the man’s presence disturbing to her peace of mind. Not only was he far too attractive, he made her want to give in to her weakness and lean on his strength.
Men like him might seem to offer strength and support, but in their wake they left only heartache. A bitter thought, but true nonetheless. Look at the women at the Haven who had been similarly abandoned.
Her chamber door, when she pulled it open, protested with a loud creak. She held her breath, listening for sounds of movement downstairs. All was quiet. She picked up her candle and tiptoed down to the ground-floor kitchen across the hall from the taproom. Hopefully, Mrs Lane would not object to the raiding of her pantry.
She hesitated. Perhaps she really should return to her room and ring the bell for the maid. It just seemed so unfair to rouse the poor girl in the middle of the night. From her own months of working as a chambermaid, she knew only too well what it felt like to be roused from the depths of slumber by some patron with a petty request they could easily see to themselves.
Cautiously, she approached the closed kitchen door and opened it. Fortunately, this one did not make a sound. Candle held before her so she would not trip, she looked around for the door to the pantry. Pots and pans hanging from a ceiling rack reflected back the flickering flame in little points. The dark-red glow of a banked fire cast shadows over a settle beside it. Part of that shadow shifted.
She stifled a gasp.
‘Mrs Falkner?’ A deep male voice. The shadow loomed upward, blocking the light from the hearth.
Heart thudding, she raised her candle higher to reveal the dark planes of a harsh face and the white linen of a man in his shirtsleeves. ‘Mr Read. What are you doing in here? I thought...’
His expression changed from surprise to careful blankness. ‘I beg your pardon. I merely availed myself of our landlady’s offer of a warm spot by the fire to dry my coats and—’ he raised his hand, which held a goblet ‘—a snifter of brandy before I retire.’
A snifter he’d earlier refused. It was then that she saw his coat hung to dry upon a clothes horse. ‘You have been out in the rain?’
‘I took a walk. I assume you cannot sleep either?’
‘I thought to warm up some milk.’
He gestured with his glass. ‘This might serve you better.’
She made a face. ‘Horrid stuff. Mrs Lane forced me to drink some earlier.’
No doubt thinking her disgruntlement amusing, he flashed a swift smile. A rather naughty-boy smile that made her breath catch in her throat. ‘Come now, it did help, did it not?’ He winked.
An answering smile curved her own lips before she could catch it. ‘How ungentlemanly of you to remind me of finding me asleep in my chair,’ she scolded lightly.
His expression stiffened as if she had said something wrong.
It was all right for him to tease, but not the other way around? How typically male.
‘Would you like some brandy or not?’ he asked gruffly.
‘I suppose it might help,’ she admitted.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Sit, while I fetch another glass.’
He was gone only a moment and returned bearing a lit branch of candles, giving the kitchen a nice warm glow and chasing away most of the shadows.
He placed a chair for her on the opposite side of the hearth, handed her a glass. He sat and, taking up his drink, raised a brow.
She took a sip of the fiery liquid and forced herself not to cough, though there was nothing she could do about the watering of her eyes. She shuddered and swiped the tears away with the back of her hand. ‘I’ll never get used to it.’
He gave a low ironic chuckle. ‘The more you drink the easier it becomes.’
She tried again, but the smell of it set her off coughing. ‘I honestly don’t think I can.’
‘Then I will warm you some milk.’
‘I can do it.’
‘Please,’ he said softly. ‘Let someone care for you for once. Tonbridge tells me how hard you work for what he calls your ladies, as well as your son.’
The gentleness in his tone surprised her as did the thought that he and his friend had made her a topic of their conversation. Was it possible he had told Lord Tonbridge about their previous meeting? Her blood ran cold at the thought. She’d thought she was safe here in the north of England. Must she move again? Leave everything behind once more? Her heart clenched at the thought of so drastic an action.
But it was Tommy she must think of, not herself. If only she could believe she wasn’t being utterly selfish. That what she was doing really was in his interest. For his future.
Even if he eventually hated her for it?
She raised a hand in defeat. ‘Thank you, you are very kind.’
It was then that she noticed his muddy boots and the damp patches on his pantaloons below the knees. She spoke without thinking, the way she would have spoken to Tommy. ‘Are you mad? You should change out of your wet clothes before you risk contracting lung fever.’
Blade felt his jaw drop as a vision formed in his mind of them both naked. Together. He couldn’t contain his grin. ‘It is not every day a lovely woman asks me to remove my clothes,’ he said, lightly, teasingly. The way he might have done with one of his flirts.
She gasped and looked away.
He squeezed his eyes shut briefly. He should never have spoken so crudely to such a gently bred female. What the devil was wrong with him? It should not have even crossed his mind. He wasn’t some randy schoolboy without control over his lust. Nor was she the sort of woman who would ever be interested in a dalliance for mutual pleasure.
He softened his tone, kept it devoid of expression. ‘It is kind of you to be concerned. As a soldier I am used to being a bit damp around the edges. My greatcoat kept most of me dry.’
She inclined her head as if in acceptance of his clumsy attempt to recoup, but there was pride in that movement, too, and a faint flush high on her cheekbones.
A faint suspicion crossed his mind. Had she, too, had a vision of him naked? Was that why she had averted her gaze? His body hardened. Blast. He really was losing his mind. He strode into the pantry, forcing himself to think of anything but the woman beside the hearth. The stone room was blessedly chilly. He focused on that cold and thoughts of icy rain trickling down his neck during the long hours of guard duty. Finally he got himself under control, found the milk jug, took a deep breath and returned to the warmth of the kitchen. He filled a small pan from the jug and placed it on the hearth to heat. He added the brandy from her glass. ‘It won’t taste quite so bad this way.’
‘I keep thinking of that poor man. Of facing his wife with the news.’
He’d offer to tell the widow for her, but he already knew she would not accept someone else shouldering her burdens no matter how unpleasant the duty. He liked that about her. Her inner strength. Her quiet pride.
And there was no comfort he could offer that would not sound false.
He sat beside her on the settle and placed his hand over hers, lightly. Her hand was small beneath his and, despite the warmth in the kitchen, icy cold. ‘You can only do your best.’
To his surprise and pleasure, she did not pull her hand free, though she