tone. "Eight days of travel can exhaust the strongest fellow. You need a good meal and a rest, before I put you to work." He passed two slices of bread onto her plate, as if she'd asked for them. In the next moment he leapt up to fetch more bacon from the pan for her son. Again, anticipating the need before it was uttered.
He looked over his shoulder and paused his whistle. "I'll try to keep my thoughts to myself from now on, Duchess. I won't pay you any compliments, if you promise not to bite me in the hindquarters."
Apparently he had caught her straying gaze. Mortified, she quickly looked down at her butter knife and considered gouging her eyes out with the blade. It might be the only way to keep them out of dangerous territory, if she was going to live there. But she needed her sight to watch over her son, so she would just have to fight the temptations that came her way. After the trouble she'd endured with men, she ought to be immune by now.
She thought she was.
* * * *
When his new housekeeper slowly removed her bonnet and set it on the table beside her plate, a single lock of hair fell adrift of its pins and spiraled down her sleeve. He saw how long it was, thick and curled, but he tried not to notice, because then he might have to spurt out another comment which would, once again, be unwelcome. She professed to be angry because he called attention to her good looks, yet she liked pretty things, clearly— her riding coat for one, and those hidden stockings with the climbing roses.
He wasn't meant to have seen those, of course, but that simply added to their allure.
She didn't look like any housekeeper he'd ever seen. Certainly different to sturdy Mrs. Blewett, who had served both him and his father for years.
Odd that she hadn't tried to fib about her work experience. It was almost as if she wanted him to send her away again.
Not a chance.
Finders keepers.
Now she removed her gloves and he noticed a bandage wrapped around her wrist. "You hurt yourself," he said, pointing.
She paled and gripped it with her other hand.
"Ma cut her arm when she was choppin' wood," the boy explained.
"Chopping wood?"
"Of a sort," she replied, eyes down.
"At least I know there's one job you can do then," he teased. "Might have known it would involve a bladed weapon."
She shot him a look.
"I've a salve to help the cut heal," he offered.
"Don't concern yourself." Then she added in a softer tone, "I'm alright, thank...thank you."
"That must have cost you," he muttered, bemused.
"I beg your pardon?"
Storm changed the subject. "When you've eaten, I'll show you to your room. I wasn't expecting a boy too, but there is plenty of space upstairs and he can take his pick. I usually get my forty winks here before the fire. I don't care much for beds and the like." For sleeping in, he might have added.
"My son can sleep in my room with me," she replied hurriedly, very tense again now, her expression guarded.
"If that suits you."
"He won't be any trouble."
"No." He had a feeling his new housekeeper would cause him more trouble than her son. And the sort of trouble he had not foreseen.
Simply put, he liked looking at her. She brought a bit of color to his house. In the light of the fire her hair had a shining copper tint to it, tempted his fingers unbearably.
Storm knew nothing about art— thought it was a waste of time and money mostly— but suddenly he could appreciate the pleasing effect that possession of just one beautiful piece might have on a man's mood.
Even if the piece was stubborn and prickly.
"I am in possession of weaponry and wholly prepared to make use of it!"
He didn't doubt that for a moment.
"What are you looking at, sir?" With nervous fingers she touched her cheek and the fallen lock of hair.
"Your lips," he replied honestly. Well, she did ask.
She looked askance. "Please don't. It's not polite or proper to stare."
Oh, so she could stare, but he couldn't? He sighed. "Suppose they do things
He looked over his shoulder and paused his whistle. "I'll try to keep my thoughts to myself from now on, Duchess. I won't pay you any compliments, if you promise not to bite me in the hindquarters."
Apparently he had caught her straying gaze. Mortified, she quickly looked down at her butter knife and considered gouging her eyes out with the blade. It might be the only way to keep them out of dangerous territory, if she was going to live there. But she needed her sight to watch over her son, so she would just have to fight the temptations that came her way. After the trouble she'd endured with men, she ought to be immune by now.
She thought she was.
* * * *
When his new housekeeper slowly removed her bonnet and set it on the table beside her plate, a single lock of hair fell adrift of its pins and spiraled down her sleeve. He saw how long it was, thick and curled, but he tried not to notice, because then he might have to spurt out another comment which would, once again, be unwelcome. She professed to be angry because he called attention to her good looks, yet she liked pretty things, clearly— her riding coat for one, and those hidden stockings with the climbing roses.
He wasn't meant to have seen those, of course, but that simply added to their allure.
She didn't look like any housekeeper he'd ever seen. Certainly different to sturdy Mrs. Blewett, who had served both him and his father for years.
Odd that she hadn't tried to fib about her work experience. It was almost as if she wanted him to send her away again.
Not a chance.
Finders keepers.
Now she removed her gloves and he noticed a bandage wrapped around her wrist. "You hurt yourself," he said, pointing.
She paled and gripped it with her other hand.
"Ma cut her arm when she was choppin' wood," the boy explained.
"Chopping wood?"
"Of a sort," she replied, eyes down.
"At least I know there's one job you can do then," he teased. "Might have known it would involve a bladed weapon."
She shot him a look.
"I've a salve to help the cut heal," he offered.
"Don't concern yourself." Then she added in a softer tone, "I'm alright, thank...thank you."
"That must have cost you," he muttered, bemused.
"I beg your pardon?"
Storm changed the subject. "When you've eaten, I'll show you to your room. I wasn't expecting a boy too, but there is plenty of space upstairs and he can take his pick. I usually get my forty winks here before the fire. I don't care much for beds and the like." For sleeping in, he might have added.
"My son can sleep in my room with me," she replied hurriedly, very tense again now, her expression guarded.
"If that suits you."
"He won't be any trouble."
"No." He had a feeling his new housekeeper would cause him more trouble than her son. And the sort of trouble he had not foreseen.
Simply put, he liked looking at her. She brought a bit of color to his house. In the light of the fire her hair had a shining copper tint to it, tempted his fingers unbearably.
Storm knew nothing about art— thought it was a waste of time and money mostly— but suddenly he could appreciate the pleasing effect that possession of just one beautiful piece might have on a man's mood.
Even if the piece was stubborn and prickly.
"I am in possession of weaponry and wholly prepared to make use of it!"
He didn't doubt that for a moment.
"What are you looking at, sir?" With nervous fingers she touched her cheek and the fallen lock of hair.
"Your lips," he replied honestly. Well, she did ask.
She looked askance. "Please don't. It's not polite or proper to stare."
Oh, so she could stare, but he couldn't? He sighed. "Suppose they do things
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