“It is acave, is it not?” she asked. “Unless I’m mistaken, we areunderground?”
She looked so very delighted by the notion, he heard himself say, “Yes, it is a cottage built out from a cave.”
“Astonishing,” she breathed. “And yet you cook and raise heat by a hearth. There are proper floorboards and a window. You come and go through a door that locks. But is it damp? There are caves on Guernsey but the sea is a constant source of wet.”
“It is not wet,” he answered, looking to her. She had effectively trapped him in his own doorway. Did she mean for him to pad, shoeless, across the floor, to stand—where would he stand? The cottage was barely large enough for him, and now he was to navigate a woman?
“Will you stand before the fire?” she suggested. “I went to the grate immediately when I came in.”
“When you came in,” he corrected, “you ransacked drawers and cabinets.”
“And, I made coffee. Will you take some?”
He watched her maneuver around him, taking up the kettle with a cloth to the handle. Her feet, he now saw, were bare. Oval toes poked beneath the muddy hem of her dress. He glanced around until he located her shoes; they were lined neatly beside the fire with her stockings draped across them. He looked away.
“Can you direct me to the cups and saucers, Mr. Rein?” she said from the kitchen. “Sorry to say that I failed to locate your dishes whilst engaged in my diligent ransacking.”
“Above the basin,” he said, his eyes returning to the stockings. They were ivory wool, splattered with mud, spread limply over muddy shoes. Even so, the sight of them felt like walking by the open door of a church and catching a glimpse of the beauty inside. Was it a sin, he wondered, to compare women’s stockings to church? Certainly the sight of them felt a little spiritual. He was reminded of the feel of her legs beneath his arm when he carried her. He thought of her small bare feet.
Gabriel’s adult life had afforded him with fewer women’s undergarments than it had churches, and he’d not been to church in years. Any public gathering felt like a luxury; his true identity always put others at risk.
Women, on the other hand, could be arranged. When he absolutely could not take the solitude another night; when he was out of his mind with need; when he had the money. Endurance work with horses sometimes took him to the low hills on the opposite edge of the forest, near the town of Marlborough. It was his practice to never leave the wilderness in the light of day, but could slip into Marlborough’s southern-most quarter after sunset and pay for an hour in the company of a woman. Stockings were never part of these encounters; they were dark, and silent, and anonymous.
Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out memories of Marlborough. The women were perfectly cordial and seemed pleased that he was generouswith his tips, but the interludes were unsatisfying and transactional. And that was the sum total of his experience with females: nameless brothel workers and...thisperson. She stood in his kitchen, pouring coffee, and strewing wet garments about the hearth. She challenged his identity and claimed to be the grown-up version of his childhood fiancée. And he couldn’t stop looking at her.
He watched her crane up to the cabinet on her tiptoes, reaching for a stack of cups.
“Oh, but look at your sturdy stoneware,” she was saying.
You mean primitive and crude, he thought. He was just about to turn away when she tumbled backward. She’d reached too high and the cups were too heavy. He lunged just as the pottery fell. She windmilled backward, trying to both avoid the cups and catch them.
He grabbed her from behind, snatching her back to his front and banding an arm around her waist. She made a small gasping noise and grabbed his outer thighs in each hand. Four cups hit the wooden floor with a thud, but the fifth landed directly on her foot and she yelped. Wincing, she curled her body into the shape of a nine, bowing against him.
“Careful,” he rasped, holding her tightly.
“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” she whispered in short, pained breaths. With each word, she burrowed more deeply against him. Gabriel molded around her, tucking her head beneath his chin. As he bent, he felt the tickle of her hair on his throat; her ear against his chest; her hip to his groin; the arch of her feet against his shins. He memorized all of it, the woman-shaped imprint burning into him.
“I’m alright,” she breathed. “I’m alright. That hurt like the very devil but, remarkably none of your cups are damaged. Look.”
“You needn’t make a fuss with coffee.”
“I’m not usually so clumsy.” She chuckled and relaxed the hand on his left thigh, laying it on top of his arm. Her other hand remained on his right thigh and he would feel her handprint forever.
“I’m really rather handy,” she went on softly. “Everyone says it.”
“I’m sorry,” Gabriel breathed.
A chuckle. “For what areyousorry?” She lifted her chin, trying to see him.
I’m sorry, he thought,that I’m inarticulate and mannerless. Sorry that you’ve been forced to make coffee like a servant. Sorry I snatched you up like you were trying to hurl yourself off a cliff. Sorry you found the letters.
He didn’t say this—he didn’t know if it was true. She began to jostle against him, her hands sliding from his arm and his thigh. He loosened his grasp, a concession that felt akin to breaking off his hand, but she didn’t pull away.
She pivoted, spinning in his arms until they were pressed together in a sort of face-to-face embrace. Her chest pressed against his ribs, the most urgently needy part of him pressed into her belly.
“Will you give me a tour of your house?” she asked quietly.
He ignored the question and looked down at her. Was this really Lady Marianne Daventry? Here? In his house—in his arms?
