“Very well, you do it.” He stood back and waited, telling himself it was better if she did it anyway. Her nipples were hard berries beneath the soft, well-worn fabric. Cold, not desire, he told himself savagely. He handed her the warm, dry nightgown and the shawl, stepped away, and turned his back.
Behind him, fabric rustled. He gritted his teeth, imagining her slipping the damp nightgown over her head, leaving her naked curves bathed in firelight. From the corner of his eye he saw the muddy-hemmed nightgown hit the floor. It took every shred of willpower he had not to turn around, not to take her in his arms, carry her to the bed, and warm her in the most elemental fashion of all.
What had possessed him to make that blasted promise?
It seemed an age before she said, “You can turn around now.” He turned slowly, half hoping she’d decided to live up to his imaginary view of her and greet him wearing nothing but firelight, but she was buttoned to the chin and wrapped in the shawl.
“You’re still wearing those slippers, dammit.”
She frowned. “I forgot. I can hardly feel my feet, they’re so cold.”
Muttering under his breath, he grabbed a towel, knelt, pulled her slippers off, and dried her feet carefully. They were icy to the touch. He chafed them gently in his hands and she moaned, with pleasure or pain, he wasn’t sure.
“The children slept right through it all,” she said in a wondering voice. “So much destruction and they slept right through it. He was so quiet this time.”
“That’s something to be grateful for, then, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it would have been dreadful if they’d seen the bees burning. So distressing . . . And Jane and Susan would fret about the hens and want to go out and make sure they were safe—you will check them later, won’t you?” She didn’t wait for him to reply. “The boys will be so upset, they’ve worked so hard in the garden. And Lucy—oh dear, Lucy loved the bees. She used to tell them s-stories.” She bit her lip and fell silent. He could tell she was fighting tears.
He fought the urge to haul her into his arms and kiss the tears away.
He rubbed and kneaded her feet until they were warm and rosy and she was arching against his hands in pleasure—and this time he was sure.
“Bed.” His voice came out hoarse.
She didn’t move. He glanced at the expanse of stone flags between herself and the bed and didn’t blame her; her feet would be cold again by the time she got there.
Unable to help himself, he bent and scooped her off the chair.
She started. “What are you doing? Your ankle!”
“Seems to have recovered.” He was limping, but that was because of his ruined boot and the shuffling gait it required. His ankle ached, but not unbearably. “Must have been a sprain after all.”
He carried her to the bed and slid her between the sheets. She pulled the bedcovers around her and curled up on her side like a little girl. “You’ve been very kind—” she began but he didn’t wait to hear.
He stomped away, back to the hearth. Kind! He didn’t want to be kind. He wanted to slide into that bed with her and take her, strip that blasted patched nightgown from her, and take possession of her, learning her inch by inch, driving every thought, every fear from her brain, drowning her in sensation. He wanted her arching against him, the way her feet had arched against his hands, moaning with pleasure. He wanted to taste her, to know her, to bury himself deep within her and to feel her shudder and cry out as he brought her to ecstasy. The gift of oblivion.
His body shuddered uncontrollably at the mere thought. He was rock hard and ready. And she was warm and pliant.
And vulnerable.
He grabbed the tongs and pulled the two hot bricks from the hearth. He wrapped them in rags until they were easy to handle, then brought them to the bed.
Her eyes were closed. She looked exhausted. He lifted the bedclothes and slid the hot bricks in, locating her feet and settling a brick at each foot. She sighed in contentment and her feet curled around them.
She didn’t need him, he told himself savagely: a hot brick would do just as well.
As for himself, he had a cold, stone floor and that was all he needed. He dragged off his good boot and kicked off the other, removed his breeches, and climbed into the roll of bedding by the hearth. He tossed and turned. Could a floor be any colder or harder? At least the fire threw out some heat and he was marginally warmer on that side.
Jane and Susan would be fretting about the hens . . . You will check them later, won’t you?
Cursing, he untangled himself from the bedclothes, pulled on his breeches and boots, and stomped outside to check on the blasted hens. Why did he make so many stupid, damned inconvenient promises?
It took Nash forever to get to sleep again. Never had he kissed a woman so briefly, not a woman he wanted. And he wanted Maddy Woodford; his body thrummed insistently, his blood singing and alive and wanting.
That moment when her lips had parted slightly, softly under his . . . The sweet, elusive taste of her, just like her scent. What he wouldn’t give to taste her properly . . .
He groaned and turned over on the stone floor, wishing its coldness would pull the heat from him, but it was a different kind of heat keeping him awake.
