‘We’re going to have to work on your sense of humour,’ she said.
His mother had always had a sense of humour. Being in the house again was making him remember those things.
Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and handed Blake her dress before slipping on his trousers. He stood to belt them, watching her as he did so. She was skin and bones compared to the noblewomen he had been with. ‘I have cheese, black bread, and salted fish.’
She climbed off the bed to adjust her dress. ‘I’m going to have a quick wash in the creek first.’ She glanced at the window, trying to gauge the time. It was passing too quickly.
‘The water will be freezing.’
‘Not as cold as the ocean I dragged you from.’ Her eyes returned to him. ‘I can fetch some water to heat over the fire if your sensibilities can’t cope.’
He reached up and ran his thumb over her lips. He was quickly becoming obsessed with touching them—especially when they were wet. There his body went, getting ahead of itself again. ‘Let’s go.’
The creek was fast running but clean. Harlan stripped off first and stepped in. The rocks along the bottom were smooth but not exactly stable. He reached back for Blake. ‘Take my hand. I don’t want you to fall.’ He was overprotective to the point of insane, he knew that, but he could not seem to help it.
Blake let her dress fall all the way down and covered herself with her other hand, as if he had not just seen every inch of her body up close. He guided her over the rocks until they were at the deepest point, and then they both sank down into the water. She seemed to look everywhere but at him.
‘Why won’t you look at me?’ he asked.
Her eyes returned to him briefly. ‘I’m looking at you.’
‘Not really.’
She drew a breath and focused on him—hard. ‘Better?’
‘Yes.’
She shook her head. ‘Can I ask you something?’
He nodded.
‘What age were you when your father moved you to the barracks?’ She swam closer.
‘Eleven. After my mother died.’
Blake sank lower in the water, watching him. ‘Do you remember her well?’
A nod. ‘She was a lot like you, actually.’
‘Funny and good with knives?’
He splashed her, then wiped her face. ‘She put everyone else first—until she couldn’t.’
Blake reached up to touch the angry scar on his shoulder. ‘How did she die?’
Lonely. Isolated. Rejected. Humiliated. He would never know exactly what pushed her over the edge in those final days. ‘She hung herself from the stairwell.’
Her fingers stilled. ‘I’m sorry.’
He moved the conversation on. ‘Your turn. How did your father die?’
She went to withdraw her hand, but he caught it and brought it to his neck. He wanted her to keep touching him.
‘His heart just gave up one day.’ Blake moved her other hand to his shoulder, and he pulled her closer so she was straddling him. ‘Mother always said he would die on his feet. He was doing work outside the business, always looking for ways to earn a little extra.’
‘Did the shop not provide enough income?’
Her fingers drew circles on his skin, making his eyes want to close.
