He stepped inside and whipped off the dark blue cloak, sending cold droplets everywhere, before hanging it on a hook. The water immediately began to pool beneath it. “I must have slipped and fallen at least a dozen times. It’s like a frozen lake that’s been flooded with water out there. I’m soaked through.”
She stilled. His white shirt was plastered to his chest and his wheat-colored pantaloons accentuated each nuance of his thighs. As the implications of his condition finally registered, her heart clenched. He could take a chill! “Take your clothes off.”
He looked at her and grinned. “As you wish, my lady.”
She ignored his grin, her worry crawling up her back like a monkey she’d seen at the Tower of London who’d crawled up a visitor. “You’re going to become ill if you don’t take them off right now and go stand by the fire.” She turned away from him to search for something he could dry himself with. She’d brought the purple silk back to the house, but she’d worn a shawl under her own cloak two days ago. Quickly, she strode to the armchair in the far corner and pulled the soft shawl from its back.
Turning toward the fireplace, she opened her mouth and froze. Andrew stood before the fire naked, bent over, shaking out his hair, water hissing as it hit the hot grate. Then he lifted his head and laid his hands on the mantel. The view of his wet backside had her crumpling the shawl in her hands. Heat as hot as any fire filled her, but she couldn’t look away. He was magnificent in a predatory animal way. The realization was validation for her vision of his painting.
Finally, moving forward, she held out the shawl. “This might help with drying off.”
As he looked over his shoulder, his whole body shivered once. “Thank you. I didn’t realize how cold I was until I came inside here.” He took the shawl and began wiping his arms when he suddenly sneezed.
“Oh, no.” Her chest tightened with fear. The sound of his sneeze echoed the one which had initially separated she and Belinda when Belinda had taken ill. Her heart pounded. She didn’t want him to die. Spinning around, she strode back to the entrance and pulled her warm, dry cloak from the hook. It had a few droplets from Andrew’s, but otherwise it was dry. She returned to him to find him drying the calf of one leg, by resting his foot upon the straight back chair. Though she could see part of him beneath his thigh, she resolutely raised her gaze. The man could be dying. It was not time to ogle him. “Here.” She held out the cloak, turning her face away to give him privacy.
“What is this?”
“It’s a dry wool cloak to put about you and help you warm. I don’t fancy marrying a corpse.”
His soft chuckle was his only response before the cloak lifted from her hand.
“I’m covered. You can look. What do you think? Does it suit me?”
She turned her head, her tension leaving for a moment as she laughed. “You look like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
He wiggled his brows. “Perhaps I am.”
Relief filled her that he hadn’t sneezed again or coughed yet. “Now sit while I heat the tea again. You need something warm inside you, so you don’t take a chill or worse.”
“What could be worse? Dying in your arms would be a happy way to leave this earth.”
She spun on him. “Don’t! Just don’t.” She swallowed hard, her fear gaining ground inside her.
He was halfway to sitting, but at her outburst, he rose again and stepped forward, clasping her shoulders. “What is it? Tell me.” His brown eyes searched hers, concern etched in his brow.
Angry, and not knowing why, she tersely complied. “Belinda came home chilled, then sneezed. She was immediately separated from the rest of us. She had contracted scarlet fever.”
His hand cupped her chin. “I promise you; I will not die of this blasted cold.”
She grabbed his hand and yanked it down. “You can’t promise that. Mother promised that Belinda would recover. Joanna promised to get her better, but she died anyway.” She expected him to argue with her, prepared to make her point.
He dropped his hands. “You’re right. I’d best get warm as quickly as possible. I don’t want to miss being married to you.”
At his words, her heart filled and relief flooded her. “Thank you.” He truly wanted to be married to her, the painter, the least perfect daughter. She didn’t understand it, but it filled her with anticipation to be his wife. Quickly, she poured the remaining tea from the silver setting into the hearth teapot and set it over the fire. Then she added more coal to make the single room warmer.
“Come here.”
Though it sounded like a command, his statement was softly spoken. She brushed her hands against her painting apron and stood before him.
He pulled one of her hands and guided her onto his lap. “This warms me. Having you with me.”
She smirked. “More likeonyou.”
His brown eyes seemed to darken at her words. “Yes. I want you on me. I also want you under me and next to me.”
His words brought the sketches in the book to life, and she clasped her hands, staring at them as her cheeks heated. She didn’t know how to respond.
“Will you kiss me again?” His voice seemed lower, more like when he’d dressed as the friar. “That will warm me more than wool or tea or the fire.”
