For a moment she thought he might be about to kiss her. She waited, unmoving, her face turned up to him, hoping the darkness hid her blush.
But he released her hands and stepped away, apparently unaffected by their brief contact. “I plan to make an early start in the morning. With luck, I’ll get this painting finished by tomorrow evening.”
“Tomorrow evening?” she exclaimed.
“Yes. I said I was quick.” He picked up the painting. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave this in the wagon to dry overnight, avoid the dew. It will smell a bit, I’m afraid.”
The smell wouldn’t bother her in the least—she was so used to the smell of oil paints, it was almost like perfume—but the idea that she was turning him out of his bed for a second night bothered her.
“If you like, I will sleep under the wagon tonight,” she offered.
He gave her a shocked look. “But what about all those shrieking, man-eating wild animals?” His eyes gleamed in the firelight.
“Now that I know what that sound is, it won’t bother me at all,” she said with dignity. “Besides, you will be here, and if wild creatures come, I will expect you to help chase them off.”
He laughed. “Brave words,ma belle. Nevertheless, I will continue to sleep under the wagon, and you will bolt thedoor and keep yourself safe from foxes—animal or human.”
Animal or human?She gave him a narrow look. Did he mean she should protect herself from him? But she didn’t like to ask and start what could prove to be an awkward and possibly embarrassing conversation.
She’d been very aware of the way he’d looked at her from time to time. She’d felt it and felt her body stirring in response. He was clearly attracted to her, and it was mutual, she knew. But it would be foolish to give in to a passing tendre for a vagabond. No matter how attractive she found him.
She thanked him, and once he’d put the painting inside and gathered his bedclothes for the night, she wished him good night and bolted the door.
Reynard arranged his bedding, wrapped himself in blankets and slipped under the wagon. The ground was perfectly dry, the faint scent of the crushed dry grass beneath him fragrant and pleasing. Lord help him if it rained, but farmer Gaudet had assured him the weather for the next few days would be clear.
The nights were getting chilly, though. They were well into autumn, and while the days were sunny and warm—almost hot on some days—the nip of oncoming winter was in the air. It would mark the end of his idyll here.
And it was an idyll. He knew it couldn’t last.
He sighed, thinking about what awaited him. He wasn’t looking forward to going home. But he’d made a promise and would honor it.
In the wagon overhead he could hear Vita moving around. He was glad she’d decided to stay a little longer. He was enjoying her company. Far too much, probably. He’d almost given in to his attraction and kissed her tonight. The way she’d looked up at him with those wide green eyes…
He’d been sorely tempted. But…no.
She was a virtuous girl who had lost her position and her home in defense of her maidenhead, and he was damned if he’d cheapen that by seducing her—much as he ached for her. And he was going back to England soon.
She was planning to go to Paris. No doubt like most young country folk, she had notions of a glamorous life there, the big city paved with gold, that sort of nonsense. He hoped that what awaited her there wasn’t a position in a brothel, which he thought the most likely, especially if she didn’t have a character reference, and given the way she’d left her previous employment, he doubted she had one.
He shifted uncomfortably. The ground was hard tonight.
Nearby a fox screamed. Reynard smiled. He knew how the poor frustrated devil felt.
He woke at dawn, rolled out from under the wagon, feeling a bit stiff—in more ways than one. He got the fire going and put the water on to boil. The first cup of tea of the day was always bliss. While he waited for it to boil, he fetched more water from the stream, had a quick wash, fed Rocinante a handful of oats and gave her coat a quick brush.
He ran a hand over his chin. The bristles were getting thicker: if he wasn’t careful, he’d have a beard. Should he shave? Would she prefer him clean-shaven or scruffy, like now?
He put the question from his mind—no, he wasn’t going there—and decided to stay scruffy.
As though his thoughts had conjured her, the wagon door opened. She stepped down, muttered something about going for a wash and disappeared into the bushes. She appeared a short time later, skin fresh and glowing, hair brushed, trying to conceal a small bundle of wet clothing.
“You can hang those up there,” he said gesturing behindthe wagon to a line he’d strung between two trees. She nodded, flushing, and hurried away.
By the time she returned the kettle was boiling and he’d sliced up some bread ready to toast. “Eggs for breakfast?”
Her eyes narrowed. “More eggs? Where did you get these ones?”
From her expression she thought he’d stolen them. He smiled. “The farmer’s wife.”
