There were few things that would have pulled me from a warm bath after escaping buildings in Paris. Food was one of them—I was starving. The other thing…
When I would have reached for the towel, an enormous, soft extravagant thing with a large ‘W’ stitched into one corner, Brodie grabbed it then wrapped it around me.
“Ye’ll catch yer death.” He then began to dry me off from head to foot.
“Ye’ve some fine bruises there,” he said as his ministrations traveled down one leg then the other.
“A caution regarding climbing out of three-story windows,” I replied, not at all put off by his attention as he proceeded to dry off my other leg, his mouth curving down in a frown.
He stood and wrapped the towel, that reached from neck to foot like a blanket, around me.
“I suppose that will do.”
It would have to, I thought, as I returned to the bedroom. The attendant who brought the food had set out silverware, damask napkins, and included two covered plates. The aroma that filled the room was quite wonderful.
“Escargot!” I exclaimed as I uncovered one of the serving dishes. “I was quite famished.”
“Snails,” Brodie added with disgust.
“I ordered them for myself,” I informed him as he poured more whisky.
In deference to his simpler tastes, in addition to the escargot for myself, I had ordered beef Bourguignon, or as he preferred to call it, beef stew, with fresh croissants.
We ate in silence until the food had started to warm my stomach. Or it might have been the whisky.
“Was there any trouble sending the telegram?” I buttered another croissant and took a bite.
“I waited to see if there would be a response. It seems there has been development regarding Sir Collingwood and perhaps the reason he was murdered.”
“Did he say what that was?”
He shook his head. “His reply was very cryptic. He mentioned only that there was a development. Based on what we discovered, he wants us to continue to Brussels to attend that exhibition. He’ll be sending more instructions at that time. He didn’t want to explain in a telegram.”
Most interesting. However, while there were instructions, there was obviously a great deal that had been left unspoken. Even in my somewhat hazy condition, it was obvious that Sir Avery was taking additional precautions regarding information that was sent back and forth.
“Are ye still hungry, lass?”
I caught that last part, even in the glow of my aunt’s whisky. Then there was the way his voice softened and the sound of a faint smile when he asked if I was still hungry.
“Ye have an appetite like no other,” he teased.
“It’s due to climbing out of buildings.”
“Which ye are quite good at,” he added. “Except, perhaps, for the bruises.”
I held out my empty glass. “More, please.”
He poured more for both of us, with a critical glance at the bottle that now contained substantially less than before supper, then handed my glass back to me. I gathered my towel about me and went to the fireplace where it was warmer. And he was there.
He lifted my hair from my shoulder as he had dozens of times in the past before...
“Yer hair is still damp from yer bath.” He removed the tie from the end.
When I didn’t protest, he slowly began to unwind the braid, and I watched as those fingers gently tugged, until my hair wasloose about my shoulders and he fanned it before the heat of the fire.
I blamed it on the whisky, of course, or it might have been the escargot. Or quite simply it could have been the man whose hands rested gently on my shoulders as he turned me toward him.
His hands skimmed my throat, then his mouth found mine. The taste of whisky was there, along with that faint scent of cinnamon and orange as he kissed me on one corner of my mouth then the other.
