Reid rolled his eyes and followed her inside. “Some people are never pleased. Are you not grateful for a dry shelter and—even if I say so myself—an amazingly clever fireplace?”
He walked to the hollowed out shelf in the rock at the back of the cave, noting the simmering logs that filled the space with welcome warmth. The smoke dissipated through several small holes that wandered away from the fire and eventually appeared some way away from their present location.
“Neither Brent nor I ever found out what caused these channels, but they still work well, I see.”
She shed her cloak, putting it on the old chest that still took up most of one corner. “They do indeed. May I offer you tea?” She took a kettle full of snow from just inside the door and put it on the rocks that ringed the fire. “It will take a little while to boil.”
He took off his outerwear, putting them next to her cloak. “I remember this chest. My friend Brent worked very hard to repair that corner inside. He did it, too. It was mouse-free when we finished.”
She was watching him, smiling at his reminiscences. “You must have loved it here.”
“We did.” He turned to her. “It was private. Unique. A special place where we could play and read and nap if we wished.” His eyes drifted to the ledge at the very back of the cave. It was high, but wide and warmer than the rest of the area. “I slept well there.”
“As have I. It is still comfortable. With a few extra blankets, of course.”
There were blankets folded next to a large plaid cushion and all were on top of a massive fur spread.
“I see you are well provisioned.” His eyes sought her face.
“For a few days, yes. It’s quite fun being here.”
“And you’re not afraid to be here alone?”
Her eyes widened. “Should I be? Nobody is aware of my presence. I need only one candle at night, and wake at dawn, so there’s scarcely a light to attract the attention of anyone who might, on some remote chance, be in the area.”
“You’re not planning on staying long, I hope?”
“You wish me gone?” She turned away and busied herself with two metal mugs and an old battered teapot.
“That’s not what I meant.” He cursed himself for his poor choice of words. “I was more concerned for your comfort. This is fun, yes. I agree with that wholeheartedly. But after a little while, I should think even this peaceful place could become…lonely.”
She remained silent as she spooned tea from a tin into the pot. The tin went back into a large bag she had stored to one side of the fire. Her other victuals, he assumed.
“Excuse me.” She swept past to the door, opened it, and retrieved a jug from outside. “Milk,” she said. “An obliging cow wanders by now and again.”
“Convenient.”
He felt in the way, but the lack of a chair was annoying. For want of anything better, he walked over to the bed and boosted himself up, sitting on the edge and watching her as she made tea.
She could have been any London hostess entertaining a guest. Her movements were graceful and steady, her fingers long, her hands elegant, her wrists delicate. And yet he would never think her weak. She had a strength that showed in the tilt of her head and the set of her shoulders. She had stayed here, a tiny shelter in a deserted bit of the countryside, and in the middle of a winter storm, no less.
She approached with a mug in each hand and passed one to him.
“Give me both,” he ordered. “Then you may sit here as well.”
“All right.” She did as he suggested, then nimbly hoisted herself up onto the fur next to him.
He passed her tea. “There. Not quite the drawing room but close.”
“I was never much enchanted with drawing rooms.” She turned her mouth down at the corners. “Too restricting by half.”
He sipped his tea, carefully, since it was hot. “You sound as if you dislike formalities. Restrictions…?”
She nursed her mug, waiting for the liquid to cool. “I’ve never cared to be molded into someone else’s idea of what I should be. A fate, I might add, that awaits most women today.”
“Is that why you’re here? Did you perhaps run away from something? Someone who tried to moldyou?”
She shook her head. “I would not bore you with my history, Mr. Chillendale.”
