5
Snow Struggles
“Would you share them with me?”
Anne imagined the husk of his breath between them, the night so dark not even the vapor visible.
Share the hours until sunrise with him? This blustery yet refined former soldier returned from the continent in search of—
What?
Peace, mayhap? Healing? A spot of tenderness?
Have your wits gone begging? You cannot be considering—
“No matter that I might wish it,” he interrupted her mental musings, “I do not mean anything untoward. This eve, I ask for your company. To—”
That wild thing cried out again, causing Anne to hug him tighter. “What is that?”
“I know not,” he spoke with haste, “but all the more reason for you to accompany me, so I can find shelter and warm our frozen selves with a bit of nourishment.”
“Food?” He’d mentioned it twice now. That thought alone was enough to compel her to cry Yes.
You forget yourself!
Nay, for once, she was thinking of herself.
“Simple fare, naught but bread and cheese,” he said, “but filling nonetheless.” His hand slipped from her face, exposing her cheek to the biting cold, when he squeezed her shoulder. “So… I?”
Now that their fiery embrace had eased, her body burned with cold, shivers assailed, knocking her teeth together. Knocking any sense into your noodle? Seemed not, because… “Yes. Time, tonight, I can grant you.” Grant us. “And I confess, after everything that has come since I awoke today, food and secure lodgings will not come amiss. But come morning,” she said with conviction, “I must return.”
Time. ’Tis all he asked for after all.
And if he demands more? Once you find yourself alone?
If he demanded more?
Anne doubted that he would demand.
In all honesty, he wouldn’t need to. If he asked for more, she would be very tempted—
You would play the harlot for this stranger?
Nay. But she might consider playing the woman for herself.
“We have both been foolish to remain outside for so long and—”
That petrifying roar sounded again, followed by a strange, rough purring noise, something she might think her cat Beatrice would make after eating a herd of mice, that came from within the trees, calling Anne back to her purpose. “Lord Grayson! The hole—”
How could she be so selfish? The lure of a warm bed—do you not mean a warm man?—sufficient to snaffle her wits and send her into a veritable fluster over the thought of escaping the cold and retreating inside. Getting a chance to, perhaps, sample his kiss again?
She dropped to the ground, flailing her hands as she sought the shovel. “Where in heavens is—”
“Stop,” he commanded without moving, just as she touched the handle.
“But I found it.” With a bit more clumsy than she might wish, she gained her feet.
“Mary, I will see the blame cat buried at first light. Or first thaw, to be completely accurate. I promise. Hand me the shovel.” She did—for it was easier than arguing.