Page 20 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

Aquiet sound made Octavia blink sleepily. For a brief moment, she thought she was in her room at Stapleton Hall, until her cold nose said differently. One hand slipped out from beneath the bedcovers to rub the sleep from her eyes.

Gasping at the chilly air sweeping over her arm, she immediately tucked it back under the thick layer of blankets. Covers up to her chin, she raised her head to look over at the fireplace. All she could see were embers glowing in the grate and remembered she’d not put another log on the fire before going to bed.

“And you have the audacity to call others half-wits, Octavia.”

Warm and cozy beneath her covers, she snuggled deeper into the bed. She wasn’t ready to brave the cold room just yet. Turning her head toward the window, Octavia gasped with dismay at the snowflakes spinning madly outside. Thick and white, the snow had completely blocked out the countryside, normally visible from her bed.

Scrambling out of her pleasant cocoon of warmth, she hurried to the window to confirm her fears. Octavia uttered a low groan of dismay at the thick, white curtain of snowflakes blocking her view. Christmas Eve was in three days, and the hope of spending the holiday with her family was fading with every falling snowflake. Octavia closed her eyes to block out the image of the white powder blowing hard against her window.

Resigned to nature’s refusal to end the storm, she reached for her robe. She tied the garment closed, she winced at the memory of how inappropriately she’d been dressed last night. She’d been so discombobulated by Atticus’s arrival that she’d forgotten all about the fact she’d been dressed for bed. It wasn’t until he’d had stepped into the room she’d been making up for him that she’d realized the scandalous nature of her dress.

Tension etched its way through her muscles as she remembered the way his gaze had roved over her. There had been an odd gleam in his eye that had made her heart race. She shivered at the memory and banished the image from her mind.

Another tremor rippled through her, and Octavia glanced at the brass bin full of wood. While she was trying to be conservative with fuel, allowing the fire to die out completely meant the room would be freezing by nightfall. Setting the fire screen to one side, she added two of the smaller logs to the embers.

Huddled in front of the fireplace, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Despite the thick wool dressing gown, she was still cold. She’d be warmer if she dressed, but that meant venturing out of her bedroom and at some point, encountering Atticus. Arms wrapped around her, Octavia stared bleakly at the small flame running across the bark of one of the logs she’d added to the fire.

Sleep had eluded her last night. She’d done nothing but toss and turn, and when she had slept, Atticus had haunted her dreams. Ever since Octavia had seen him standing on the back stoop, she’d been reeling.

Dumbfounded by his arrival, she’d stared in disbelief as the man had stepped into her kitchen. Silence had been her best weapon of defense as she’d sat opposite him to finish her dinner before retreating to the kitchen. By the time Atticus had finished eating, Octavia had recovered enough of her wits to question his reason for being here.

Atticus had stunned her a second time when he’d included himself in having been worried about her. Not only that, she’d been dumbfounded that the man had volunteered to come ensure she was safe. Octavia had still been grappling with the question of why he was concerned, when he’d surprised her once more.

The revelation that he’d not told his sister that Octavia had overheard their conversation had sent shock waves rippling through her. But it was his apology that had changed everything. The sincerity and remorse in his quiet request for forgiveness had made it impossible to refuse him.

After several seconds of debating whether or not to forgive him, Octavia had accepted his heartfelt apology, then fled upstairs to ready his room. The entire time she was making his bed, she’d struggled to grasp the significance of everything he’d said.

She’d also been forced to admit the dangers of being trapped with him in the close confines of the cottage. She’d just finished spreading out the last layer of covers on his bed when Atticus had stepped into the room, satchel in hand.

Instantly, the room had shrunk in size. The instant his gaze had swept over her, she realized how vulnerable she was in his presence, especially considering how she was dressed. Cheeks burning at the wicked gleam in his dark blue eyes, Octavia had moved even faster in order to flee his room.

Everything about those few moments emphasized just how dangerous it was to be alone with the man. Twice she’d been forced to come within inches of him as she’d circled the bed to pull a pillow from the wardrobe. The fresh, cool smell of the outdoors wafting off of him had mixed with warm notes of spice to create a tantalizing aroma.

The moment Atticus’s male scent had filled her senses, breathing had proven difficult. She sniffed with derision at her attempt to convince herself last night had been the only instance the man had affected her. Any time Atticus was near, it was difficult to breathe normally. But it was the tension charging the air between them last night that had made her heart pound wildly.

It had been an energy just as potent as the day she’d fallen into his arms outside her father’s study. Instinctively, Octavia knew it would take only a small spark to ignite something uncontrollable inside her, and that would mean disaster. What man would reject a woman willing to throw herself at him?

Worse, Atticus’s stormy gaze had narrowed as she’d looked up at him. It was almost as if he knew what she was thinking. With difficulty, she’d averted her eyes from that hypnotic gaze of his before mumbling goodnight, then hastily retreating to her room.

The fire snapped and crackled as it engulfed the logs she’d added to the fireplace moments ago. The small blaze began to strengthen, and the room’s temperature was slowly rising, but she was still cold.

Octavia muttered a few choice words beneath her breath and chided herself for being afraid. It would be easy to avoid the man. She could paint while he fended for himself. Although her library was small, there was a wide selection of books. It wouldn’t be her fault if he couldn’t find something to do with his time.

Pulling a wool gown from her wardrobe, she began to dress. As always, it took her several minutes, and a few choice words, to do all the buttons up the back. She had a few dresses that buttoned down the front, and other than the one hanging near the salon’s fireplace, they needed laundering.

When she’d finally managed to secure the last button, Octavia breathed a sigh of relief. As she drew in another breath, she caught the whiff of something pleasant drifting beneath her nose.

Coffee? Did Atticus know how to make coffee or was something burning? Without thinking, she hurried toward the door and tugged it open, ready to race downstairs. In her haste, Octavia almost stepped on the wood tray sitting in front of her door.

She recovered and took a small leap backward. Amazement made her jaw sag as she stared down at the food-ladened tray. The aroma she’d smelled was stronger now. The small pot on the tray had to be filled with freshly brewed coffee as she saw the swirling smoke of steam floating out into the chilly air.

Several scones she’d stored in the pantry two days ago sat on a small plate. Beside it was one of the small jars of jam she’d purchased from Mrs. Barton weeks ago, as well as a knife. Even though there was only one person who could have set the tray in front of her door, Octavia shook her head in disbelief.

Somewhere close by, she heard Atticus whistling a Christmas song with cheerful exuberance. Octavia tipped her head to one side before she poked it out into the hall. She looked in both directions along the corridor, expecting to see Atticus strolling toward her. The instant she saw light spilling out of the studio into the hallway, panic spiraled through her.

Octavia was certain she’d closed the door last night, but she knew Atticus was in the well-lit room. When his whistling came to an abrupt stop, her chest constricted in fear. Dear God, he’d seen the painting.

Terror chilling her blood, Octavia leapt over the tray and raced down the hall. Flinging herself through the studio’s open doorway, she slid to a halt and froze in horror. Arms folded across his chest, Atticus stood in front of the painting she’d completed yesterday. Dear Lord, how was she going to explain this?