simple stone barn attached to the back.
He passed across the small yard and long-forgotten garden that fronted the house, the mist licking at his waist and legs. He paused at the closed door and raked back his damp hair, but a lock of it sprang forward to poke him in the eye.
Nothing he could do would make up for unkempt hair, a lanky, starved body, and rotting clothing.
He braced himself. He hadn’t seen the inside of the cottage yet, but he could picture it. It would be a place of refuge, intended only for a man—or a family—who lived off the land.
Which meant it was mainly shelter for a bed.
A disguise would be prudent, Lady Madeline had coolly advised.
Spending a night alone with her, in a small cottage filled almost entirely by the bed? Not prudent.
Jack’s lips lifted in a rueful smile. Two years ago, he’d wanted to prove he could become a better man. Now was his chance. Squaring his shoulders, he pushed open the cottage door—and then stood stupefied on the threshold.
Lady Madeline had been in the cottage a mere twenty minutes, but a fire now crackled merrily in the hearth, and a lamp threw off both sweet-scented smoke and light. A delectable aroma wafted out of the door to greet him and make his stomach clench with desire.
Astounded, Jack ducked his head to cross the threshold. He’d no idea Lady M. could start a fire or knew how to cook. She ruled a great household—she ordered all others to do her bidding.
Yet she stood at a simple wood worktable dressed once more in her country gown, her hair caught up beneath a cap. Two piles of potatoes flanked her—one brown and dirty, the other peeled.
The scene of domesticity made his heart ache. Lady M.’s cottage was starkly primitive, but right now it gave him a welcoming sensation of home that he’d never known before. Never in the grotty, stinking flash house where he’d grown up. Not even in his grand London townhouse, built on the money from his gaming hells and racehorses.
“It is to be stew. I kept some things here in case we needed a place to hide.” With the small paring knife, Lady M. pointed to the one bed that sat in the corner and a neat stack of clothing on it. “Those are for you. There is some water—I can warm it and put it in a basin.”
As she spoke, she held a potato and bit into her lower lip as she took off a slice with the knife. He closed the door behind him and slid the iron deadbolt home with a grunt of self-recrimination.
She had not done all this for him. She’d done it for the man he’d pretended to be—the gentle, charming, good-natured groom who had a magical touch with horses. The man she thought had been wrongfully punished.
“There was no lock at first, of course,” she said, as cool and collected as he had ever seen her on the estate. But she took care to watch her fingers as she cut her vegetables into chunks. “But I had to be safe.”
“You’ve made it very secure. But you must have been uncomfortable.”
She half-turned, giving him a glimpse of a tendril of blond hair and the smooth curve of her cheek. Freckles blossomed there, where they never had before. Playing the country maid, she hadn’t used a parasol.
It seemed stupid to let that trouble him, but it did. “Let me, my lady. I’m more accustomed to cooking.”
“I’ve fended for myself for a fortnight, Jack. There’s cheese and bread, as well as the stew.”
He nodded but moved behind her. She leaned over her table again, handling a carrot now with hesitant care, as though she was about to take off a limb. The tang of cut onions stung his eyes but didn’t entirely blot out her richly feminine smell. Her neck, smooth and graceful, was so close he could readily bend down and breathe more perfume.
You’re making stew, Travers, and saving her fingers. That’s all.
He reached around her. Lady M. gasped as his hands suddenly appeared by hers. She jumped back. “I’ll do it,” he murmured.
“Chopping carrots is the least I
He passed across the small yard and long-forgotten garden that fronted the house, the mist licking at his waist and legs. He paused at the closed door and raked back his damp hair, but a lock of it sprang forward to poke him in the eye.
Nothing he could do would make up for unkempt hair, a lanky, starved body, and rotting clothing.
He braced himself. He hadn’t seen the inside of the cottage yet, but he could picture it. It would be a place of refuge, intended only for a man—or a family—who lived off the land.
Which meant it was mainly shelter for a bed.
A disguise would be prudent, Lady Madeline had coolly advised.
Spending a night alone with her, in a small cottage filled almost entirely by the bed? Not prudent.
Jack’s lips lifted in a rueful smile. Two years ago, he’d wanted to prove he could become a better man. Now was his chance. Squaring his shoulders, he pushed open the cottage door—and then stood stupefied on the threshold.
Lady Madeline had been in the cottage a mere twenty minutes, but a fire now crackled merrily in the hearth, and a lamp threw off both sweet-scented smoke and light. A delectable aroma wafted out of the door to greet him and make his stomach clench with desire.
Astounded, Jack ducked his head to cross the threshold. He’d no idea Lady M. could start a fire or knew how to cook. She ruled a great household—she ordered all others to do her bidding.
Yet she stood at a simple wood worktable dressed once more in her country gown, her hair caught up beneath a cap. Two piles of potatoes flanked her—one brown and dirty, the other peeled.
The scene of domesticity made his heart ache. Lady M.’s cottage was starkly primitive, but right now it gave him a welcoming sensation of home that he’d never known before. Never in the grotty, stinking flash house where he’d grown up. Not even in his grand London townhouse, built on the money from his gaming hells and racehorses.
“It is to be stew. I kept some things here in case we needed a place to hide.” With the small paring knife, Lady M. pointed to the one bed that sat in the corner and a neat stack of clothing on it. “Those are for you. There is some water—I can warm it and put it in a basin.”
As she spoke, she held a potato and bit into her lower lip as she took off a slice with the knife. He closed the door behind him and slid the iron deadbolt home with a grunt of self-recrimination.
She had not done all this for him. She’d done it for the man he’d pretended to be—the gentle, charming, good-natured groom who had a magical touch with horses. The man she thought had been wrongfully punished.
“There was no lock at first, of course,” she said, as cool and collected as he had ever seen her on the estate. But she took care to watch her fingers as she cut her vegetables into chunks. “But I had to be safe.”
“You’ve made it very secure. But you must have been uncomfortable.”
She half-turned, giving him a glimpse of a tendril of blond hair and the smooth curve of her cheek. Freckles blossomed there, where they never had before. Playing the country maid, she hadn’t used a parasol.
It seemed stupid to let that trouble him, but it did. “Let me, my lady. I’m more accustomed to cooking.”
“I’ve fended for myself for a fortnight, Jack. There’s cheese and bread, as well as the stew.”
He nodded but moved behind her. She leaned over her table again, handling a carrot now with hesitant care, as though she was about to take off a limb. The tang of cut onions stung his eyes but didn’t entirely blot out her richly feminine smell. Her neck, smooth and graceful, was so close he could readily bend down and breathe more perfume.
You’re making stew, Travers, and saving her fingers. That’s all.
He reached around her. Lady M. gasped as his hands suddenly appeared by hers. She jumped back. “I’ll do it,” he murmured.
“Chopping carrots is the least I
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