Keswick,Present
This road is much more winding than the M6, and with the added element of rain and hail, I find myself swearing under my breath as we periodically hydroplane. Benedict is always quick to correct it, but I’m relieved we don’t have to drive four more hours in this.
“What time is the Offering tomorrow?” I ask, biting my nails as we slowly weave between small hills and wooden fences on the side of the road. I see tiny cottages lit up from the inside every so often, and as his directions ping that we’re almost there, lightning strikes up ahead.
Benedict murmurs something under his breath, slowing down as he pulls off the road to the parking lot of Armathwaite Hall.
“Nine,” he answers quickly. The rain is still pelting down, and I quickly try to figure out how to fix my leather jacket so that I don’t get soaked. “We should have plenty of time if we leave in the morning.” He squints at the estate before us—stone walls, battlemented parapets skimming the top edges of the towers, and mullioned windows that give the hall a stately look. I look at Benedict as he parks. “Ready?” he asks, grinning.
“Ready,” I repeat, and we open our doors at the same time.
It’s a mad dash to the front door, one that involves grabbing the bags in the trunk as quickly as we can without standing on the flooded gravel for too long. I’ve never been gladder to be wearing my boots. My hair is pasted to my head before we get inside, and when we do get inside, the line to check in is long. My stomach sinks.
“Guess we weren’t the only people who needed a place to stay,” he murmurs, and when I look over at him, my voice gets lost in my throat.
While my hair took the brunt of the downpour, thanks to my jacket, it appears Benedict’sshirttook the brunt of it on his end. The white cotton is clinging to his skin, perfectly outlining every muscle, every curve of his pectorals, shoulders, and stomach. His hair is falling in front of his face, dripping down into the same spot on his chest, and when our eyes meet, he cocks his head slightly, as if he can see me drooling on the inside. I’m not the only one to notice, either. Several women up ahead of us turn and glance at us, and every single one of them does a double take. I know, because I’m keeping track. He has the audacity to run his hands through his hair, moving the dripping piece off his forehead. It’s a perfectly logical thing to do, but it feels downright X-rated when the motion causes his shirt to lift up, revealing the classic hip dips that extend into his pants.
Outlining his large biceps.
Dear god, have mercy.
“You okay?” he asks, reaching out and brushing a dripping piece of hair out of my eyes.
“Hmm?” I ask, not really hearing him over the roaring in my ears. I snap out of my daze, taking a step back and nodding. “Oh. Yeah. Just… brr.” I fake a shiver, and instantly, I want to crawl behind the reception desk and die.
He bends down and grabs his wool coat, which was folded perfectly in his suitcase. Standing, he quickly covers my shoulders, tugging me a bit closer to him as he adjusts the lapel and makes sure the large coat is covering me fully.
“There.” He takes a step back and smiles. “Looks great.”
I laugh. “I’m sure.”
“One sec,” he says, reaching into his pocket.
He pulls his phone out and makes a quick phone call, stepping out of line a few feet away. I look down and try not to eavesdrop, but his voice is low and booming—it’s hard not to pay attention to anything about Benedict Martin.
“Hayes—Yeah. Thank god. We were caught in the storm. We’re in Keswick for the night. We’ll be at the Balmoral tomorrow before noon. Yeah. Okay. Bye.” He hangs up and walks over, his eyebrows knit together. “Sorry, I wanted to tell Hayes that we wouldn’t be in Edinburgh tonight.”
“I figured.”
“Are you warm enough?” he asks, stepping closer and rubbing my arms.
I look up and smile, nodding. I don’t have the courage to tell him that I was lying—that the sight of his body, his wet skin, was so distracting that I couldn’t hear him when he spoke to me over the roaring in my ears.
We shuffle closer to the reception desk, and I send another text to Zoey. I debate texting Lily or Salem as well, but then I decide against it. The thought makes me curious, though.
“Do Lily and Salem know about… everything?”
Benedict looks at me, and I can’t read his expression. It’s a little sad, but the corners of his lips are tilted up.
“No, they don’t.”
I rock back on my heels as I consider his words. “And I’m guessing you want it to stay that way?”
His brows knit together again, and he looks away. “For now, yes.”
“Okay.”
The line clears before us, and an exhausted receptionist greets us with a large, perky smile.
