Just as she’d known he would come for her.
She had spent so many years looking after others. Strangers at the inn and tavern. The regular village patrons. Then, when her da began to show signs of his age, and then decline completely, her father.
Aunt Nettie.
Uncle Tasgall.
Lucy wasn’t one to complain. She loved her family. And family cared for their own. And being in the business of inn keeping, well, an innkeeper cared for everybody.
She hadn’t been looked after in so many years. She’d become so accustomed to carrying the mighty weight of her small world upon her shoulders and existing as a servant, Lucy had forgotten how wondrous it was just being seen.
And Arran saw her.
With him, she didn’t have to silently beg for his attention. She didn’t have to go out of her way to earn his notice.
He saw her as a living, breathing woman. A desirable one.
He didn’t dismiss her or see her differently because the great class divide between them.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
Why, he even rolled up his long sleeves and joined her in baking.
He saw her as a woman to confide in, and not in the way the fellows who drank too much at The Spotted Elk did. He spoke toher on life and things that mattered. He inquired about her and her life. He actually wanted to know something about her.
Aye, at first, it had been a result of his suspicions. That had changed in the span of a single night.
Now, she would never be the same.
Lucy hugged her arms more tightly to herself.
The winter wind carried the deep rumbling of Arran’s voice, along with the faint shade of amusement. “Are you going to keep pretending you don’t know I’m here?”
Somehow, even on the cusp of losing him, she managed to smile.
How effortlessly it came with him.
“That depends,” she said huskily, casting a glance back.
“On?” As his powerful strides brought Arran nearer, his gleaming black leather boots churned up the white snow beneath his feet.
“On whether you intend to keep pretending you aren’t there.”
Chuckling, Arran shrugged out of his jacket. “Well, since I took it upon myself to announce my presence, it is fair to say I’m no longer going to skulk in the shadows.”
Already anticipating the gentlemanly intent, Lucy protested. “It is cold. You shouldn’t—”
Arran scoffed. “Do what?” He swept his richly made garment around Lucy’s shoulders, instantly blanketing her in warmth. “The gentlemanly thing and see a lady warm?”
Her eyelashes fluttered closed. The heat of him and the rich, masculine aroma of sandalwood emanated from his jacket. And she melted within the fabric.
God, how she loved him. It’d happened so fast.
Now, she understood the tale her father shared at the end of each night and the bards journeying through who’d read poems and sonnets.
When Lucy opened her eyes, she discovered something had shifted in his eyes. His expression was solemn as the grave.
And she wanted to cry at the loss.
