Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor by Rue Allyn Page A

rail. She left the pan to heat and stepped to the table where a large onion rested on a chopping block. Taking a sharp knife in hand, she set to dicing the onion.
    She loved the early morning quiet, when street sounds were distant and birds sang a cheerful counterpoint to the small clicks, bangs, and sizzles created in the kitchen. She’d learned to cook out of self-defense, for her grandfather never came to the kitchens in the Alden mansion, and if he could not find her, he could not beat out his anger on her.
    This morning she even dared whistle a small tune. There was no harsh grandfather to darken her day. She was making breakfast for a man who, while he seemed to have a temper like Carlton Alden IV, also seemed to have much more control over that temper. Dutch Trahern had not struck her once, and she knew he’d felt powerful motivation to do so.
    She whistled more, tapping her foot in time to the tune, and concentrated on slicing the knife carefully through the onions that already made her eyes water.
    “Edith?”
    Startled, her hands jerked. The blade drew a thin red line across the long knuckle of her opposing thumb. “Ow!” Still gripping the knife, she stuck the wounded digit in her mouth and looked up.
    The knife clattered to the floor.
    Trahern stood in the doorway, a dark rag in one hand. Patches of blood and muck covered him from head to toe.
    Her small pain forgotten, Edith dropped her hand to her side and rushed forward. “You’re hurt.”
    He brought a hand up, holding her at arm’s length. “No, but you are.”
    His palm slid down her arm, leaving a trail of dirt on her sleeve. He picked up her injured hand and examined the thumb. “It’s not too deep. Should be okay if you get it washed and bandaged right away.”
    He lifted his gaze to her face. She stared at him. She knew she should pull away. She should check him for injuries. So much blood on his clothing, surely he must be hurt. She should get soap and water. She should cook breakfast. She could do none of those things.
    What was passing between them she did not understand, but she could no more break away from his gaze than she could breathe under water. Indeed, she felt as if the breath had been knocked from her. She sucked in a deep lungful of air. As she exhaled, she shook herself from the odd trance.
    “It’s nothing,” she said of her minor cut, while tying a strip of clean cloth around it. She took a pot holder and moved the pan off of the stove then picked up the knife from the floor and turned to the sink. “Sit down,” she spoke loudly to be heard over the creak of the pump handle and the gush of water. “I’ll bring you water, soap, and a cloth to clean up with.”
    “I’ll need more than a basin of water.” He moved to stand beside her.
    He stood there as if fascinated, watching her move, his sharp-sighted eyes soft with some unknown and unacknowledged emotion. Each muscle of his face was tense with an interest and an energy belied by the weariness written over every long inch of his body.
    “That may be, but this will have to suffice until Tsung returns from the market and can help to haul water for a bath.” She brought the things to the table and sat.
    Slowly, as if every bone ached, he joined her at the table. “I can haul my own bath water. Instead, tell me why you so desperately wanted to go back to Duval’s bordello. You’re not stupid. You must have had a reason.”
    She stared at him, the damp cloth in her hand poised above his, ready to soothe away the bloody grime and bind his injuries. What could she tell him?
    I came to San Francisco to find my sister and bring her home. Duval’s brothel was the only clue I had to trace Kiera.
    Edith would rather not have any further dealings with the devious madam. Would telling Dutch about Kiera, about Grandfather’s coma and the outrageous will be enough to satisfy him that she knew what she was doing?
    Perhaps, but he was practically a stranger. She was beginning