And much more dangerous.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll add a few logs to the fire.”
His jacket was damp so he took it off and then knelt beside the hearth to stoke the old logs before adding new ones to the pile. He watched as the flames moved up the crackling wood, and once again stoked the flames until they roared.
Lettie was still seated beside him, quietly watching him as he worked. The moment felt comfortable, but everything always felt comfortable and right with Lettie. He set the irons aside and nudged her feet gently. “Take off your slippers. They’re wet. Here, I’ll set them near the hearth to dry.”
He placed them to one side, then rose to drape his jacket over one of the hooks on the wall beside the fireplace.
Frances kept a decanter of port on a table in the corner of the parlor. He crossed the room to pour himself a glass and one for Lettie as well. She looked cold and pale despite the blazing fire and he’d noticed her shivering slightly. Her lips were pinched.
Still kissable.
Still beautiful. “Drink up, but not too fast.”
She smiled her thanks and took a sip. “You think I’m daft.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Iknowyou’re daft,” he teased, setting his still full glass on the mantel before settling himself beside her. She was still shivering, so he took her cold feet onto his lap and slowly began to rub warmth into them.
Much safer than the other ways he knew would heat her. Indeed, it was the safest way to touch her, and he had an overwhelming need to do just that. He would leave tomorrow and wanted this moment. No one would be hurt by it. He craved this safe pleasure, needed to feel her skin against his palms.Rubbing her feet seemed far safer than rubbing anywhere else he wished to rub her… or taste her… or lick her.
Hell, he was depraved.
“You don’t believe in miracles.” She stated it as a fact rather than a question or challenge.
“Never have.”
“And you don’t believe in Jeremiah.” She wiggled her toes as he continued to rub them.
“No. I don’t believe in guardian angels. Especially those who are terrible at their jobs.” He tugged gently on her big toe which made her giggle.
“Please don’t tease me, Brynne. You’ll make me laugh when I want to be serious.” She playfully nudged his thigh with her foot and that raised the heat level in his blood to inferno hot. Perhaps taking her feet hadn’t been a very good idea. Touching any part of her was never a good idea.
“I wish to be serious as well.” He resumed his rhythmic stroking and gentle rubbing for her feet were still cold.
“Good, I’d hoped that you would be. I wish to talk about us.”
“There is nous.”
She arched a delicate eyebrow. “Don’t be dense, Brynne. Everything we’re doing is about us.”
“Lettie, this is your mission, not mine. As far as I’m concerned, we’re done investigating.”
“No! We’ve just gotten started.” Her eyes grew wide in alarm and she scowled at him as though to bolster her resolve. She had to know her plans were falling apart.
He sighed, not wishing to make it harder for both of them. The sooner she understood the hopelessness of her search, the sooner she’d move on with her life. “Lettie, I know you believe that I’m somehow connected to the de Wolfe family. But we’ve walked the battlefields and searched the town records. We’vewalked through the de Wolfe portrait gallery. I saw you slip into that gallery no less than three times this evening.”
“Because I sensed that I was overlooking something important.”
“There’s nothing to find, Lettie. Your wolves and roses and wounded warriors on a battlefield are random ideas that crept into your dreams. That’s all.”
“Those references are important,” she insisted, scowling at him once again and refusing to accept the truth that was staring them both in the face.
He wanted to shake the stubbornness out of her, but it was also one of the things he liked most about her. She was loyal and determined. “We’ve been over this before. The wolf reference is obviously to Frances and Wolverton Grange. You knew you were to be sent here.”
She tipped her chin up in indignation. “No, it’s definitely a reference to the de Wolfe family. And I know what you’re going to say next. You’re going to tell me that Lord de Wolfe won’t have any useful records in his home either and that it will be a waste of time for us to return there tomorrow. But I know he will have something important to show us. His family and that of Titus and Atticus de Wolfe have dozens of relatives in common. One has only to prepare an ancestral chart to know precisely how many times their bloodlines have crossed.”
He set down her feet and rose to drink his glass of port, draining the crimson liquid in one swallow. He then crossed the room to pour himself another. Lettie had only taken a few sips of her port so he didn’t bother to offer to fill her glass. “And so what if their bloodlines have crossed once or ten times or a thousand times? How does it connect any of them to me?”
