She bent to pick up a crate that had been set beside the doorway.
“Rosalind?”
She whirled around, her heart hammering against her ribs, only to find Yuri standing near the storeroom in the back, droplets of rain clinging to his hair and coat.
“What are you doing here?” He came forward, his brow furrowed.
She felt like she should be the one asking that question. A moment ago she’d been completely alone; then he’d appeared out of nowhere. “I’ve done a little cleaning, but I’m mainly sorting through the books. I underestimated how much dust there would be, though, or I would have brought cleaning supplies.”
If she could have found a way to get them out of the house without her father noticing, that is. The idea of her cleaning might have tested his good mood.
Perhaps she’d ask Foster and their French chef to see that cleaning supplies were placed in the coach before she came to the library next time.
Yuri gave his head a small shake. “You shouldn’t be cleaning in that, Ros. At least not while I’m here getting the floor wet enough to be mopped.”
Ros? Since when did he call her Ros? No one called her that, except maybe her mother when she was a small girl and before Father decided that the nickname didn’t sound sophisticated enough. But there was something almost tender in the way it fell from Yuri’s lips. What might it be like to hear him say it every day?
Which was a ridiculous thing to think. Goodness. What had gotten into her?
“I’ll bring more serviceable clothes tomorrow, if Father gives me permission to come shelve books again, that is. But where did you come from?” She pulled her gaze away from his and peered around his shoulder. “Is there a back door?”
“Through the storeroom, yes.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.
“Ah, well...” She wasn’t quite sure what to say. Had he come through the front door, the coachman would have seen him, and she would need to leave to prevent questions. But since the coachman hadn’t seen him and the rain outside was coming down so hard it was impossible to see through the windows, she could stay a little longer.
“Are you here to work? I have permission to stay until five thirty. But do you mind building a fire?”
He just stood there looking at her, the side of his jaw flexing, almost as though there was something he wanted to say. Then he turned and headed toward the stove and the small pile of dry wood.
She bent to pick up the crate she’d been about to move before Yuri had come in. But the moment she tried to lift it, her wrist protested, and she let out a small cry, dropping the crate back to the floor.
“What’s wrong?” Yuri was by her side in an instant.
She straightened to her full height, then winced as she stretched her wrist, trying to get the pain to subside. “It’s just my wrist. Nothing to be concerned over.”
She expected him to head back to the woodstove then, but he didn’t. He stayed there, right beside her, so close that she could almost feel the warmth of his body through her coat.
“Can I see it?” he asked, his eyes riveted to her hand.
“I, ah...” She slid it behind her back. “That’s unnecessary. It’s healing just fine.”
“If that were true, you would have been able to pick up that crate.”
She swallowed and took a step back, but that only caused her to bump against the bookshelf.
“Rosalind...” Yuri’s voice was calm and patient, but the muscle on the side of his jaw pulsed, a tiny movement she couldn’t help but notice given how close they were standing.
It almost made him seem angry. But why would he be angry? She was voluntarily helping with the library. That meant he should be thanking her, didn’t it?
“You really don’t need to see it. I promise.” She slid her wrist even farther behind her back. “The doctor said I could take the sling off after two weeks, and it’s been two weeks and three days.” What she didn’t tell him was that she’d taken the sling off more than a week early, and that she’d convinced her father he didn’t need to send for Dr. Hollis to inspect it at the end of the two weeks.
Yuri took another step closer, that muscle still pulsing on the side of his jaw, and suddenly he was too big, too close, too dangerous. His frame loomed over her as she stood against the bookshelf, completely and utterly trapped.
She pressed her eyes shut and sucked in a breath through lungs that felt as though they’d been coated in glass shards.
He muttered a word under his breath, low and harsh, and backed away.
How she could feel such a thing with her eyes closed, she didn’t know, but when she opened her eyes, he was standing several feet away, his hands splayed wide in a gesture of innocence.
