“Not surprised.” He bowed over her, the shadows of his own body hiding his face. When had he crept so close? How had she not noticed?
She cleared her throat and retreated toward the fireplace. “You’re quite good.”
He uncurved his body, his shoulders snapping back into their military queue. “Not as good as you.”
The mantel he’d installed was simple. She’d carve a simple flower design around the edge. The task became an item on her ever-growing list. Ever growing, but ever shrinking, too. Soon they’d be done. She smoothed her fingers over the top edge of the mantel—smooth and sturdy, elegant and unfinished. She’d have to paint it as well. More items to add to her list.
Not done quite yet.
“What next?” he asked. “I had planned to work in the room across the hall today. Will that suit you?”
“No. Not yet. You’ve not even broken your fast, and you were up all night according to your own admission, and—” Shegasped, her gaze flying skyward to the ornate molding circling the room. It had not been mounted when they’d left yesterday afternoon. She swung on him, marched a finger into his chest. “You did that”—she pointed to the molding—“alone? Last night?”
He lifted a brow. “I did.”
“Dangerous!”
“I did it, didn’t I? And here I am, healthy as ever.” He held his arms out wide, an invitation to look her fill at him.
No, thank you. She did that enough without invitation.
“Balancing the stuff on your shoulder as if it were a measuring stick and climbing a ladder all at once, no one to hear you fall and run to help if you’re hurt.” Ah, yes, the stiff jaw returned as he planted his feet wide apart and crossed his arms over his chest. “Stubborn man. You’re not working yet today. Follow me.”
With a chuckle, he obliged, right out of the dower house and back to Briarcliff. The room she’d abandoned before had been cleared of its morning clutter, but not its inhabitants. Franny sat near the window with Matilda, their hands busy with needles and thread. Tiny stitches for tiny caps and gowns.
“Sit,” Clara instructed. “I’ll visit the kitchen to see what I can find.”
“I need nothing.” But Atlas sat just where she pointed.
“You found your husband, I see,” Franny said.
“And now I’m feeding him.” Clara made for the door.
“No, no. I’ll see to it.” Franny put her sewing aside and patted Clara’s shoulder on her way into the hallway.
Clara sat next to Atlas, the awkwardness of near solitude creeping over her skin. Matilda paid them no mind, but Franny might reappear at any moment, requiring Clara to set to work pretending to love Atlas.
He slumped in his chair, hair falling over his eyes. Exhaustion ran tense through every inch of him. Her fingers itched to push that hair back, massage his leg, find him something to prop his foot on. Anything. But she couldn’t. Not unless they had an audience.
Franny sailed back into the room. “Cook will bring up a tray right away.”
Clara jumped to her feet. “Excellent.” Now she fussed with her husband, pushing his chin up with her knuckles and brushing his hair off his face. His lovely lips curled up with her every touch, and slow and heavy as a rising tide, he lifted his arm to settle it about her waist.
She gasped. He grinned, a rogue’s wink in his eye, before he pulled her atop his lap.
“Atlas.” A warning.
He nuzzled her neck. “Yes?”
“We’ve company.”
“Precisely,” he growled, one huge hand tight at her waist, the other a claw behind her neck. He would not let her escape. His forehead fell against her, his eyes hard, demanding, searing. And, caught in this never-ending theatrical of her own making, she did not wrestle out of his hold. Could not or she might alert Franny.
Lies.
She did not want to be anywhere but where she was. Closing her eyes, she let herself feel his heat, hear his heart, pretend until hard reality faded away.
“Here ye are, Lord Atlas.” Cook’s voice and the rattle of a tray.
