“I do when they’re as comely as you are.” He returned to fill Emilia’s manger to the brim.
“I wish you’d stop saying that.”
He carried the bucket back to the oat bin. “Whether I say it or not, it’s true.”
He swore he heard her grinding her teeth, but she didn’t pursue the argument. “I’ll go and make you something to eat.”
“Thank you. I’ll check the tack room for something to put on Emilia’s leg.”
“Mr. Welby keeps it well stocked. But if you can’t find what you want, let me know.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll see you inside in a few minutes.”
She dipped into a curtsy. “Yes, sir.”
Before he could protest, she marched away. The saucy sway of her hips put the lie to any lip service she paid to deference.
Chapter 4
“Good morning, Margaret.”
Maggie looked up from where she fried bacon and eggs for Mr. Hale’s breakfast. “Good morning, sir,” she said warily, wondering why he was in the kitchens, instead of safely waiting for her to serve him upstairs in the dining room.
For the last two days, she’d mostly managed to stay out of his way, in the hope that lack of contact might discourage him from seeking her out. If they encountered each other, as they inevitably did when she gave him his meals, she’d managed to act like a servant, despite his best efforts to crack her composure.
Curse him. The house, although modest by manorial standards, was big enough to ensure that they met infrequently at other times. Three floors. Six bedrooms. A couple of public rooms of manageable size.
Two people positively rattled around inside it, and it should be easy to ignore Mr. Hale. But with every second, she was more and more conscious that an alien presence invaded her territory.
She didn’t want to share more of those disturbing conversations where he effortlessly slid beneath her defenses, so she found herself treating him like a friend. He couldn’t be her friend—he was a guest in the house, and she was a servant. She didn’t want him to be her friend—she was painfully aware how unbearable the loneliness would be once he left.
At first, she’d been grateful that he hadn’t made any improper advances. In that, at least, he played the gentleman, even if he wasn’t a gentleman in much else. But last night, she’d woken, perspiring and restless, from dreams where Mr. Hale had behaved in a most improper fashion, and she’d surrendered to his kisses with wild abandon. As she’d lain staring into the thick darkness, she’d finally admitted that the prospect of Mr. Hale putting his capable hands on her was far from distasteful.
Yet more reason to shun his company and raise the barriers of rank high between them.
He wore the coat and breeches he’d had on yesterday. Of course he did. He wouldn’t wear his greatcoat inside. While he might cut a formidable figure in the billowing coat, she preferred that. When he was in indoor clothes, she was far too aware that his impressive size was all brawn.
The wild mop of inky curls showed traces of a comb—just. And he’d shaved. By evening, black whiskers usually shadowed that square jaw. The nascent beard always made him look a ruffian, but something secret and female in her liked to see a touch of the pirate about big, powerful Joss Hale.
Maggie tried to tell herself it was natural to notice the details of his physical appearance, seeing he was the only other person in the house. But she couldn’t help feeling that her fascination with this young, virile man was inappropriate. And dangerous.
Because he was fascinating. Since his arrival, the air crackled with energy. A good morning from that rumbling bass made her very bones vibrate. Yesterday, she’d found herself surreptitiously watching from the windows, as he’d crossed to the stables from the house. Even as she warned herself how risky it was to feed her interest.
He always moved as if he knew where he was going. To a woman who had stagnated so long in this backwater, that quality was breathtakingly attractive.
Breathtakingly attractive? She was asking for disaster.
Now she needed to shoo him out of her kitchen as quickly as possible. “I’ll bring your breakfast up in a moment.”
“There’s no need to go to that trouble.” He leaned over her shoulder and sniffed appreciatively.
She stifled the urge to sniff appreciatively herself. The scent of healthy male animal pleased her senses even more powerfully than frying bacon. “It’s no trouble,” she said, without looking at him.
With Mr. Hale standing so close, she was irresistibly aware that he was so much bigger than she was. Who knew the thrill a girl could get from the contrast between her slender smallness and a huge brute of a male?
He wasn’t touching her. If he was, she could protest. But the breath jammed in her throat as she imagined him bridging that tantalizing gap between them.
When he’d hoisted her about that first night, she’d wanted to slap him. How odd that since then, when she recalled how effortlessly he’d hurled her across his shoulder, her heart raced with giddy excitement.