Sarah carried the freshly laundered towels and bin to the door of Scots Pine. She had last seen Mr. Henshall in the parlour with a newspaper, while Georgie and Effie played draughts nearby. She was quite certain the bedchamber was empty yet knocked anyway.
When no one answered, she let herself in.
Inside, she found the bed neatly made. She laid the towels on the washstand and bent to pick up the room’s small rubbish bin, preparing to dump it into the larger one. When Jessie left, who would take on her duties?
Footsteps sounded behind her. Startled, she turned and found Mr. Henshall just over the threshold, no doubt surprised to find her in his room.
“What are ye doin’, lass?”
Embarrassment flared. “I only came in to bring fresh towels and empty the bin. Jessie would have done it, but she was needed belowstairs.”
He made no reply. For a moment longer he stood there, then he advanced into the room, the door swinging partway shut behind him.
He took the bin from her and set it on the floor. “You, my Jo, should be mistress of your own home. Not emptyin’ bins.” He held out both hands. “Give me that apron and I’ll do it myself.”
“What? Don’t be silly,” Sarah said, feeling incredulous until she recognized the teasing glint in his eyes.
“Why not?” He grinned and lunged for it, catching the half apron’s ruffled hem.
She chuckled and leapt back. In a rare streak of mischief, she threw one of the towels at him.
Catching it, he said, “Ah, a weapon. Excellent.” He unfurled the towel, twisted it into a rope, and snapped at her skirts with it.
She squealed, then began twisting the other towel, intent on revenge.
“Oh no you don’t.” He playfully grasped her around the waist, pulling at the bow that held the apron.
It fell to the floor.
She stilled, suddenly conscious of his nearness, the fresh scent of shaving soap, his strong arms around her.
Looking up, she found his face close to hers. Her breath caught, and her heart pounded.
For a moment both of his hands remained at her waist. Then he lifted one and cupped her cheek. His grin faded, his playful expression transforming into something far more serious. Even tense.
“Sarah...” he whispered, voice hoarse.
“Y-yes?”
His intense gaze moved to her lips, and the air between them thickened. “I have been wanting to kiss you again ever since I stole that kiss under the mistletoe....”
He slowly lowered his head. She leaned toward him, ignoring the warnings flashing in her mind.
When his mouth was a mere breath from hers, he paused, and instead of kissing her, he groaned and rested his forehead against hers. “Yet I should not. Not here and now.” He dropped his hands. “Oh, lass, when will ye put me out of my misery?”
The door to the next room banged open, and Sarah started, nerves leaping. She stepped back as Effie’s and Georgiana’s voices reached them from the adjoining room.
What was she doing? Flirting with a man in his bedchamber—a man who had been hurt by a woman before? Heaven help her.
Regret flooding her, Sarah ducked her head. “I should go.”
He stopped her with a gentle hand and lifted her chin. “You have done nothing wrong, Sarah. I started this. I want very badly to kiss ye, but I will wait for a more appropriate time and place. I pray ye won’t make me wait much longer.”
She wanted to reassure him, but the reply caught in her throat. “Excuse me.” Grabbing her apron, Sarah scuttled from the room. Were she his wife, she would have every right to be there with him. But she was not.
Longing to talk to Claire and ask her advice, Sarah dressed warmly and walked over to the boarding house.
When she crossed the marketplace, she saw Claire at Broadbridge’s front door, showing out an older woman with a leather case in hand.
