“Then why not read to sleep?”
“Are you shivering?” she asked, noticing a tremor as the light caught a billow of his white shirt.
“Ja. I am very cold.”
“Then stand closer to the fire! Are you daft?” Without thinking, she pushed him back towards the impressively large decorative iron stove, with its open glowing grate. He let himself be guided, her hands on his shoulders. Justine was very aware of how much taller he was than her, and he stared down at her, amused.
“I am to help you,” he said. “I am trying to be of service.”
“You won’t be of service to anyone if you catch your death,” Justine snapped. “Do you not have thicker blankets?”
He chuckled again, a soft rumble from his chest that was more akin to a cat purring than a man laughing. “Why, when I am next to a big fire?”
The heat was powerful. Already, Justine’s forehead prickled with sweat. She dropped her hands from where they had inadvertently started to droop to his chest. Oh dear. It was a firm and solid chest. Not at all like the soft, padded London men she was accustomed to chasing her. But then she realized that his clothes were damp. “Why are your clothes wet?”
“You ask many questions. I ask one. Will you please answer my one question, and then I promise I will answer whatever question you have. Promise?”
Justine looked up and blinked at him. She felt strange. Like the world had tilted in some way. Was it vertigo from the altitude change? Was she becoming ill? She was likely ill from all her travels. But there was nothing on God’s green Earth thatwould persuade her to go to bed now. She felt like she needed to run for a full day to be rid of whatever energy possessed her right now. “Fine. What’s your question?”
“May I help you?” he asked again, his words slow and emphasized.
“Oh. Erm, no? I can’t sleep, that’s all.” She trailed off, not knowing how to describe the sensation in her limbs, so she shook them to demonstrate.
“Ah.” He nodded as if he not only understood her flailing, but could sympathize. He held up his hand. “Moment.”
He padded off into the darkness, and there was something about being able to see the bare bottoms of his feet that made Justine feel as if she were doing the most inappropriate thing possible. Her.Bad News Brewer, who had repeatedly stolen whole bottles of sherry from her parents’ wine cellars to consume with Ophelia, getting drunk and playing stupid games as the room spun.
Bad News Brewer, who wore two dance cards so that the men who filled the same dance slot could argue or possibly fistfight over who got to have the waltz with her.Bad News Brewer,who once climbed the ancient oak at the Bridewells’ London townhouse to dance on the slate-tiled roof because stupid Tristan had said she would be too scared. And that same Bad News Brewer was worried that the bottom of a man’s foot was too much? What was the world coming to?
“Get ahold of yourself,” she whispered to the giant iron stove.
He appeared out of nowhere, holding a bottle and two of the tiniest wine glasses in the world. “Hold what?”
Justine shook her head. “Nothing.”
He gave her a confused smile, and Justine was reminded of Prudence, who smiled at every bloody turn of the day becauseshe couldn’t stop the facial tic. Bloody Americans and bloody Swiss.
But he didn’t question her, only raised the bottle and the glasses and said, “Brandy.”
“Of course,” Justine said, relieved that there would be an activity, even if the activity was drinking some kind of alcohol, which had been drilled into her since practically birth that a young lady did not do in the company of men.
And for good reason. Because the middle of the night was a strange time, bound by its own rules, populated by its own sounds and scents. The dictums of day had no business interfering with whatever nighttime prowling discovered. Which was precisely why Justine preferred it.
The man poured the two glasses and handed her one. She accepted it and sniffed at the goldish-looking liquor. It smelled like apples and honey and the low burn of alcohol. Frankly, it smelled delicious. He held his glass out as a toast. “Proscht.”
“Bless you,” Justine said, knowing it was rude, but he smiled at her. “Cheers.” She didn’t move to touch his glass with hers, though he did with her. She didn’t realize it was something she should have done, but she knew for next time that touching glasses was preferred here.
She sipped, tasting what seemed like a very nice French apple brandy. “Is this from here?” she asked. “Locally made?”
He shook his shaggy blond head. “Imported from Calvados. For the English. For you.”
Justine laughed. “Of course the Swiss import French liquor for the English.”
“You like it?”
She giggled. Oh God, shegiggled. “Of course. Calvados is excellent.”
He gestured to the seat near the fire, clearly where he had draped his clothing to dry. “Sit, please?”
