She didn’t know what to say. Her mouth was swollen, her body alive and tingling. The desperation of her circumstances, and the heartbreak still frozen inside made her uneasy.
“Emily.” His use of her name was intimate and rough. “I didn’t come here for this. I came to look after you.”
“I know it.” She crossed her arms, drawing his coat around her. All of a sudden, she felt the cold, the dreariness of the house. For a single moment, he’d made her forget her loneliness and how awful it was living here.
Whitmore seemed lost in thought, as though deciding what to do. From the intensity on his face, she knew she’d affected him just as strongly.
“I’ll—I’ll prepare something for us to eat,” she said at last. “You can try to build a fire to warm the house.”
But Stephen caught her arm, refusing to let her go. His gray eyes stared into hers, his gaze penetrating. “You need someone to take you away from this place. You’re a baron’s daughter, not a scullery maid.”
Bittersweet feelings tightened her throat, and she willed herself not to let the tears fall. “I’m more of a servant than you’d know.”
Chapter Three
Stephenmadeseveraltripsup to her bedchamber, his arms loaded with wood. Emily was downstairs in the kitchen, preparing a meal for them with God only knew what. He wasn’t sure if she was planning to spin straw into bread, but perhaps by some miracle his coachman would return to the house with supplies. From the way the weather had worsened, it seemed unlikely.
He dumped the last of the wood on the hearth, using the physical labor to distract himself from thinking about their kiss earlier. Try as he might, he couldn’t forget the sweet surrender of her lips beneath his or the way her arms had embraced him. Emily had offered a piece of herself back to him, of the innocent girl who had loved him long ago. And he couldn't deny that he craved her with every breath.
What kind of a man took advantage of a woman living in distress like this? Only a damned reprobate. He wouldn’t let himself fall into temptation again. He’d come here to rescue her, not to ruin her.
It took him nearly an hour to get the fire started, and even more tinkering with the damper to keep the room from filling with smoke. Once it was done, he turned and saw Emily’s bed. At least four quilts covered it, lending evidence that she’d slept without a fire on more than one night. It bothered him to think of her huddled beneath the covers, struggling to stay warm.
“I’ve made us something to eat.” Emily’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and she stood at the doorway, a covered tray in her hands. There was no table, and she looked around as if searching for a place to set it down.
“Wait a moment.” He lifted one of the quilts off her bed and spread it on the floor. “We’ll eat here, in front of the fire.”
“An indoor picnic.” Her lips curved upward, as though she hadn’t expected it. “At least it’ll be warm.”
He took the tray from her hands and set it down between them.
“I apologize in advance for the food,” she began. “There wasn’t much in the house, and I haven’t had the opportunity to go and get more.”
“You didn’t have the money for supplies, did you?”
Her cheeks flushed, and she shook her head. “Not really. But we won’t starve.”
He lifted the cloth covering the tray and found two chipped plates. Thinly sliced potatoes were roasted and seasoned with salt and pepper. She grimaced at the plate, but forced herself to take a bite. “I’ve been eating potatoes for the past fortnight. I’ll be happy if I never eat another.”
“You won’t have to,” he promised. “I’ll see to it.” Guilt slid over him, and he decided that once he got her out of Hollingford House, he’d feed her the greatest of feasts, with succulent meats, soft breads and exquisite cheeses. He didn't exactly know what that would mean for her, but he couldn't turn his back on Emily Barrow. She had been his friend all those years ago, someone who had made his father's overbearing control more bearable. She didn't deserve a life like this, and by God, he was going to change it.
Upon his own plate, he spied something unusual. “Are those…ginger biscuits?”
Emily stiffened, though he hadn’t meant to insult her. “Taste them before you decide you don’t want them.”
“I’m sure they’re fine. It’s just that I didn’t expect to see them as part of my dinner.” Stephen reached for one to pacify her. Even if the biscuits were dry and tasteless, he’d eat them. It was possible that she’d only had flour and spices on hand.
As she sat across from him, nibbling at the food, he saw the circles beneath her eyes, as though she hadn’t slept well. And was it any wonder, given the way she’d been living? It was unacceptable. Even if she were a complete stranger, he couldn’t allow a lady to live like this.
But Emily Barrow wasn’t a stranger—she’d been his closest friend once. And though years had passed, tonight it seemed like only yesterday since he’d seen her last. It was impossible to tear his attention away.
He found himself staring at everything about her, from the way she savored each bite of the food, to the way she tried to hide the jagged seams of her gown. She sat with her posture straight, as though she were a princess locked in a tower, waiting for someone to steal her away.
To distract himself, Stephen bit into one of the biscuits. He was startled to find it moist and delicious. Rich black treacle blended with ginger seamlessly, and he found himself reaching for another.
“What do you think?” Emily prodded the potatoes on her plate as though she weren’t certain she wanted to hear his reply.
“I’ll have to taste a few more before I decide if I like them or not.” He devoured the others and eyed the two resting on her plate.
