As I stepped in the house, it was clear Miss McAllen had done more work than I’d expected. The sheets were removed from furniture and several rooms had been dusted. The kitchen was warm and inviting and the shepherd’s pie smelled wonderful—especially given the limited resources.
Xander patted the seat beside him and across from the others at the table, then handed me a whiskey soaked rag as he took a swig directly from the bottle. “Didn’t have any scotch.”
“I don’t recall any instruction from Lock to drink it.”
“I’ve been sticky all day—that you thought I wouldn’t require a stiff drink is frankly astonishing.”
The rag made quick work of my tacky hands, and I used the opportunity to follow Xander’s lead with a drink of my own. That my lips touched the same bottle his had was a coincidence—it certainly wasn’t a thought that made my heart flutter like a lovestruck debutante.
The burn was pleasant and another sip quickly began to soothe my aching muscles. I was both exhausted, bone-deep, and on edge. Xander’s presence at my side was painfully difficult to remain nonchalant about. He smelled more like pine than usual but also retained that herbal edge. His warmth burrowed into the side of my body as he bickered, a rhythmic sniping in time with Miss McAllen.
I was too tired and too aware of him to contribute to the conversation. If I truly considered it, the shepherd’s pie was surely quite good, but I could taste nothing as I shoveled it down at an unreasonable pace. Presumably I was hungry, but I couldn’t feel that gnawing in my stomach. There was nothing, save the humming awareness of the man at my side.
As though it was possessed by someone, something else, my left hand found Xander’s knee of its own volition. He stiffened, tripping over his words for a second before I felt him forcibly relax and continue the conversation. The fabric under my fingers was a fine buckskin. Velvet softness over rigid muscle. The thought popped into my head unbidden and I couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably as it lingered there. Other, even more desirable, parts of Xander probably felt similar.
I let my fingers trace the seam lining the inside of his thigh and catch on lines and divots of firm, well trained muscle. He must ride—it was the only way a gentleman of his standing would have such thighs. What else did he enjoy that I hadn’t known about?
His swallow was loud—but it seemed I was the only one who noticed. A fork clattered to a plate seconds before a warm, masculine palm covered the back of my hand. I froze, making to pull away. Instead, that hand squeezed mine before pressing it more firmly into his thigh and dragging it upward.
My own breeches tightened uncomfortably, my heart racing, as I risked a glance. Xander’s jaw ticked, but otherwise he was unaffected.
And wasn’t that the way of things? I could barely breathe for wanting and he was not even ruffled. In irritation, I pulled my hand away—only for him to grab and tug it back—not to his thigh—no. Xander placed my palm directly over his prick where it tented his breeches.
My heart threatened to pound right out of my chest. He was hot—hotter even than his thigh. And so hard.I did that.I made him that way.
He squeezed my fingers in his once more, then shifted his hips to thrust against my hand before releasing me with a sly look.
At some point, he had bowed out of the conversation, and Miss McAllen and Godfrey had taken over, planning meals for the coming days.
In a desperate attempt toward equilibrium, I took another, heartier, swig of the whiskey before passing the bottle to Xander.
He chuckled quietly and took his own sip, before letting his hand fall between our stools and catch my fingers with his.
I must have flushed because Miss McAllen glanced at me curiously before asking, “Are ye well, Mr. Grayson?”
“I’m a bit tired. I should see about finding some bedding for the floor.”
“What?” Xander said at the same time that she replied, “Oh, no, I will go sleep in town.”
“Absolutely not,” he added, directing his comment to Miss McAllen. “You’re not going to run away, Sorcha.”
She huffed but said nothing. Clearly I was missing a part of the story, but I was too exhausted to care about piecing it together.
“One of the servants’ beds is still in good nick,” Godfrey nodded toward a closed door on one end of the room. “I will take that one.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly ask you to give up your bed. I’ll take it,” I insisted.
Godfrey looked like he planned to protest before Xander added, “It makes the most sense, Godfrey.” There was an eager note to his voice with an unknown source. He accompanied it with a finger squeeze for me to enjoy.
Eventually, the valet relented, slumping back against his stool and the conversation swirled around me.
I couldn’t recall a time I had ever been this exhausted or this content. Sleep had eluded me for most of the journey, which had been an irritant—under normal circumstances, I quite enjoyed allowing the swaying of the carriage to lull me to sleep. But from the moment I realized my letter had been sent, I’d been at least slightly on edge. Only once I arrived and assigned myself an occupation did I begin to relax. And that occupation left me aching in places I couldn’t even name.
With everyone else, I stumbled to my feet to wash the dishes before Godfrey showed me the servant’s room that was still standing.
It was small, but serviceable. Barely wide enough to walk beside the bed, but they had managed to cram a washstand anda trunk in there as well. The far wall was entirely taken up with a window, and I suspected the curtains had been taken down to cover some piece of furniture or other. If I wasn’t mistaken, it faced eastward as well—the sun would greet me first in the morning.
“Perfect,” I said. Godfrey eyed me warily but nodded.
