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orderly, even in her privacy.
    She liked pretty things, embroidered pillow cases, aromatic roses, a soft, quilted bedspread nearly the same color as her eyes, white lace curtains. Frilly, female things that belied the no-nonsense composure of her countenance.
    He withdrew from the bedroom and found her still by the sitting room door, her teeth chattering.
    “Get your wet things off. I’ll be back with some hot water for your ablutions, and a tray.”
    He left her before she could insult him again, which meant he moved quickly, replacing the lamp on the sconce and heading for the kitchen. Putting together a tray of buttered bread, cheese, and raspberry jam took no time at all. Neither did filling an ewer of hot water from the well on the range.
    He didn’t knock on Mrs. Wyeth’s door, because his hands were full. He pushed the door open with his hip to find the sitting room empty. The door to the bedroom was closed, so he put the tray on a low table—lacy runner, bouquet of roses in a crystal vase—and tapped on the bedroom door.
    “Don’t you dare come in here.”
    “I’ve brought you water and sustenance. I’m off to fetch a teapot. You’re quite welcome.”
    He took the time to change into a dry shirt, pajama pants and dressing gown along the way, happy to find his trunks already waiting in his room. When he returned to Mrs. Wyeth’s suite with the tea tray and set it beside the food, she still hadn’t emerged.
    “Either present yourself now or expect company in your bedroom, Mrs. Wyeth. I can’t have you falling and banging your head again.” He couldn’t shout, either, else he’d wake the house, and it wasn’t time for that maneuver in any case, because she opened the door, a wrapper having replaced his jacket.
    But, still, she was cold. Her lips were blue, her teeth chattered, and her eyes had turned to chips of periwinkle ice, for her discomfort was no doubt all his fault .
    “For God’s sake, come here.” He grasped her by one fine-boned wrist and pulled her into his embrace. “You will catch an ague with all this damned pride, pardon the language.” He scooped her up against his chest and settled with her on the sofa, her “d-d-don’t you d-d-dare” hissed right in his ear. He twitched an afghan down from the back of the sofa and draped it over her as she squirmed in his lap.
    “Hush, woman. You’re cold, I’m warm, and a chill can be dangerous. Tolerate my proximity for five minutes, and I’ll leave you in peace.”
    He ran his hand over her back, feeling the tremors of her shivering.
    “Cuddle up and hold your tongue,” he admonished. “You know you will otherwise crawl between cold sheets and fall asleep without getting warm. That misery can be avoided if you’ll simply—”
    “I hate you.”
    Then she subsided against him and didn’t even lecture him when he rested his chin on her damp hair.
    “Of course you do, but might you care to enlighten a fellow as to why?”
    She burrowed closer and remained silent, suggesting her body didn’t hate him.
    “I have it.” He gathered her into a more snug embrace as another chill shuddered through her. “If I have to ask, I don’t deserve to have it explained to me.”
    “Brilliant.”
    “But hardly original. One wants a little originality in a lady’s vituperations.”
    She made a huffy noise against his chest, but at least she’d stopped shivering.

    * * *
     

    Jacaranda gave up verbally fencing with the wonderful heat source in whose arms she was nearly drowsing. She’d pay a price for this folly tomorrow, and likely for the remaining weeks of her tenure in his employ, but Worth Kettering was wearing silk and velvet, he smelled like a fresh breeze through a cedar forest, and in his arms Jacaranda felt, at least for these moments, safe .
    He was big, brusque, officious, and far too astute, but he was offering her—pushing on her, really—a comfort more seductive than wealth or chocolate.
    How long had it been since she’d