He stared at her before letting loose a sharp laugh. “Stealing? Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“What else would you be doing with that chair?”
“I,” he said with precision, turning and walking to a blank spot against the wall, “am moving it.” With that, he placed the piece down and turned to face her. In the deep shadows cast by the lantern, she just barely discerned an agitated tick in his jaw.
“Why in the world are you moving Lady Tesh’s furniture?”
“Have you tried being as large as I am and sitting in something that is made likethat?” He motioned to the chair with a disgusted jab of his finger.
Lenora very nearly dismissed that. A chair was a chair, after all. But something in his voice made her pause, a strange tightness to his words. She took him in, noting the fabric stretched tight over his broad shoulders, how he towered above her. She then turned to peer closely at the offending piece of furniture. For the first time, she saw it as he must. The legs were things of beauty, carved into graceful arcs that flayed outward. Yet they looked to be of no more substance than a twig.
“Ah. Yes, I do see what you mean.”
“And so you will understand why I choose to sit in something that will not collapse at a mere breath.” He moved across the room where a much sturdier—albeit much rougher and not at all attractive—chair sat waiting. He hefted it and, with impressive ease, placed it carefully down where the other had been, then stood back to look at it with grim satisfaction.
Lenora moved closer and considered it as well, though with far more pessimism. “It’s…er…”
The smile fell from his lips. “What’s wrong with it?”
Even in the dim light, the faint uncertainty in his eyes was evident. It was a vulnerability she had not expected to see, and it made her heart ache in the strangest way.
A moment later and she called herself ten times a fool. The man didn’t have a vulnerable bone in his body. It must be the light playing tricks with her, as it had with that blasted portrait. “You don’t care what I think,” she dismissed.
“Yes, I do.” His answer was quick, the ring of truth in his voice.
“Oh.” She blinked, her cheeks warming under his piercing stare as she turned to truly look at the piece to find something kind to say about it. “It looks…very comfortable,” she finally managed.
She thought she heard him exhale. In relief? Surely not.
Regardless, some frozen bit of her heart thawed. Which was not good. Not good at all. She was here on the Isle to come to terms with Hillram’s death, not to develop feelings for the man who had taken his place.
A suffocating sense of being closed in fell over her. Suddenly she was intensely aware of the heat from Mr. Ashford’s arm where it nearly touched hers, the faint sound of his breaths, that wonderful scent of spices that was uniquely his own. She took a hasty step away from him.
“Well then,” she said, pulling her thin robe tightly closed with trembling fingers, unable to look him in the eye, “I’d best be getting to bed.” Without waiting for his response, she spun about and hurried from the room.
The gradual but unrelenting absence of light, however, made her realize how foolish her hasty escape attempt was. Letting loose a frustrated breath, she turned back around, embarrassment rising up that she would now have to ask him for a light after her display.
And ran straight into Mr. Ashford’s very wide, very firm chest as he exited the room.
She stood there, stunned, feeling like she’d hit a brick wall. That feeling was intensified as she looked up into his frowning face. What little breath she had retained left her, those harsh features uncommonly beautiful for all their starkness in the flickering light of his lantern. She swayed toward him, her free hand bracing against the broad width of his chest. Immediate heat filled her, radiating through her tightly strung body, pooling low in her belly.
With a low oath, he stepped back. For a devastating moment, she felt the loss of his closeness down to the very marrow of her bones.
“Did you need something?”
His voice rasped through her, jarring in the quiet, bringing her back to her senses.
Her cheeks heated. “I haven’t a light, sir. Would you mind?” She held up the candlestick, still clutched tightly in one hand.
He heaved an exasperated sigh. “I’ll escort you back to your room. You shouldn’t be up and about at this time of night alone.”
And the surly brute was back. Annoyance flared at his patronizing tone, the change in her feelings toward him such a relief that she purposely stoked it until it burned bright. “I’m not a child, sir,” she bit out, “and am perfectly capable of seeing myself to bed. I certainly do not need your reluctant help.”
He stared at her, his eyes wide. Then his gaze softened a fraction, a small smile lifting his lips. The expression changed his looks so drastically that once more Lenora forgot to breathe.
“The princess who roared,” he murmured. “Very well, Miss Hartley, I shall light your candle and leave you to your independence.” So saying, he did just that.
Lenora watched him go, the small flame of her candle dancing with her shaky breath. With a frown, she headed back for the stairs and her room. For she knew, without a doubt, there was no amount of warm milk that would help her sleep tonight.
