Her arms were strong around his neck. She was holding herself up. Those were a good signs.
And then pushing against a wooden door, a hall with a stone floor, a room beyond with light and warmth. They were inside the lodge.
There was a low stool here by the door. He put Arabella down on it and was glad to see she sat up straight and looked at him with her blue eyes. He closed the door and knelt down at her feet, taking off his hat and pushing the tartan scarf from his face.
“Are ye all right?”
She nodded, and he unwound the brown scarf from around her head and face, noticing for the first time that his fingers were numb and clumsy in his gloves.
And then the bottom half of her face appeared and although she was pale, she was not blue, and she smiled and when he leaned forward to kiss her lips they were not as cold as he had feared they would be.
“Ewen and Paterson have gone with the lodgekeeper to stable the horses.”
“Good,” she said. And he was so happy to hear her voice, he kissed her again. And again.
And then he realized he was kneeling in water. He looked down at the stone floor and there was a puddle there that had not been there before.
She cleared her throat. “We are melting.”
“Aye.” He grinned and got off his knees and into a crouch.
“I want,” she said and lifted her dress, and his breath hitched for a moment until she went on, “to get the snow off my stockings before they get too wet.”
He helped her then, using his gloved hands to pick off the pieces of snow that clung to her stockings and her skirt and her petticoat. And if at times his hand lingered on her stocking-covered calf or ankle, she did not say anything.
“Where are we, Dr. Andrews?”
“I assume we are in England, in Northumberland. Shall we take off our boots and find the fire?” he asked. “I dinnae think the lodgekeeper will mind if we avail ourselves of that before he returns.”
And then he took off his gloves and he had to laugh at how he fumbled at her bootlaces. He blew on his fingers.
“Give them here,” she said, and after unbuttoning her own coat, she took his hands and placed them by the sides of her breasts, under her own arms and held them there, sandwiched between her upper arms and her torso.
At first, he only had the perception of returning sensation. Then warmth. Then an acute awareness of the swell of her flesh next to his palms.
Only this morning, she had put his hand on her breast for the first time. Now both of his hands were next to both of her breasts.
Very slowly, he slid his hands toward the front of her body, his palms following the delicious curve of the sides of her bosom. Now it could be said that her breasts were actually being cupped by his hands. These lovely, miraculous, generous bits of flesh. Even encased in what he knew must be at least three layers—dress, stays, chemise—he could feel the heat and the paradoxically soft firmness. And very gently, he now dared to apply a bit of pressure.
Her body twitched slightly, but she did not pull away from his hands, letting her breasts stay where they were. He had been looking at his own hands and their placement, but now he looked up at her face, to gauge her reaction to his boldness. Her mouth hung open a bit and her gaze was far away. Then her eyes focused on him.
“I think,” she said. “I think you’ve shown that your hands have been warmed adequately.” Her tone was neutral. He could not read her. Had he ventured too far? Almost certainly, yes.
Feeling chastened and the rising heat of a blush on his face, he withdrew his hands and applied himself to the laces of her boots. “I’m sorry, Miss Lovelock.”
She spoke over his bent head. “No, you are very good, Dr. Andrews, to warm my bosom as well.”
He kept his head down, working on her wet laces, hiding his grin from her.
In just a few minutes he had her in front of a good blaze in a large but still cozy room, both of them on a bench close to the hearth, feeling the heat on their faces, putting their stockinged feet close to the fire. She took her bonnet off and her hair glinted gold in the firelight.
“When the lodgekeeper comes back, we will find out what kind of accommodations there are to be had for ye, Miss Lovelock.”
“I am not worried,” she said and folded her hand into his. “I was never worried.”
Seventeen
The lodgekeeper was a bachelor with a perfectly bald head and a stout middle. He found places for their wet coats and hats and gloves and scarves to be hung, and he put a kettle on the hob.
