Page 48 of Claiming His Christmas Angel

Laying his brush down, Atticus frowned at how cold and stiff his fingers were. Turning his head toward the fireplace, Atticus saw the faint glow of embers. The smoldering chunks of charred wood were all that were left of the three logs he’d added to the fire earlier this afternoon. He’d been so absorbed with his painting, he’d been oblivious to the time or how cold it had become in the studio.

Rising to his feet, he strode to the window. The snow had stopped early this afternoon. Now there were only a few snow flurries, and the small stable, along with the rest of the surrounding landscape, was visible for the first time since his arrival four days ago. Christmas Eve was tomorrow, and he would take Octavia home to Stapleton Hall. It was the last thing he wanted to do. With more time, he might have been able to make her see they were right for each other. Although how he could have done that when Octavia had remained locked in her room for the past two days was a point of contention. She’d ignored his knocks on her door when he’d tried to coax her into joining him for a meal.

Atticus flexed his fingers again from the cold. Of course, he needed to make sure the two of them didn’t freeze to death first. Without a fire for warmth, the cottage would become almost as cold inside as it was out.

Even if they were able to leave tomorrow, they’d be lucky to last tonight without heat. The thought of something happening to Octavia scared the hell out of him. At least he’d be able to replenish the firewood from what was in the small wood shed he could see a short distance away from the stable.

About to turn away from the window, Atticus froze as he saw the well-trampled path between the cottage and stable. Stunned, he realized Octavia had gone out to the barn. The path disappeared around the side of the cottage, and Atticus’s heart slammed into his chest with dread.

His stomach was in knots as if he’d been drinking all night and was about to be sick. Atticus dragged in a harsh breath. Had she been stubborn and foolish enough to try to ride home? It might have stopped snowing, but God knows how cold it was outside. It would be dark in less than an hour, and the temperature would drop even lower.

“Bloody hell,” he snarled. “I’m going to wring her goddamn neck.”

Spinning about, Atticus ran out of the studio and charged down the hallway. Octavia’s bedroom door was closed, and the possibility she might still be in the house made him stop and pound on her door.

“Octavia, are you in there?” Silence greeted his harsh question. “By God, woman, if you don’t let me in, I’ll break this door down.”

When she still didn’t answer, Atticus threw the door open to find her room empty. Dread twisting his gut tighter, he bolted toward the stairs and raced downward, calling her name. Her answer was a yelp of pain, followed by a lusty oath and metal clanging against metal.

Atticus strode into the kitchen as Octavia stuck her wrist beneath the cold water flowing from the water pitcher pump she was working with her uninjured hand. In three long strides, he was standing next to her. Capturing her hand in his, Atticus pulled her arm out of the water to examine the angry red mark just above her wrist.

“What happened?” he growled with concern, although his heart wasn’t racing quite as madly as it had been before he’d found her in the kitchen.

“You.” Irritation made her reply sharp, her mouth tight with pain as she directed an accusatory glare at him. Bewildered by her abrupt reply to his question, Atticus shook his head as met her angry gaze.

“Me?” he exclaimed.

Octavia’s mouth was tight with discomfort as she tugged her hand free of his grip and examined the red splotch of color on her arm. With a wince, she plunged the injured arm back under the stream of water. He didn’t enjoy seeing her in pain.

“Yes, you. I’m beginning to think you’re a health hazard where I’m concerned,” she snapped. “First my ankle, when you refused to return my stocking, and just now, scaring me half out of my wits while I was closing the oven door. Thank heavens, I’d already pulled the cottage loaf out of the oven or we wouldn’t have bread with our meal.”

“I’m sorry.” Atticus’s mouth twisted with regret at her fierce accusation. “Keep running water over it. It doesn’t look too bad, but it won’t hurt to use a poultice. Do you have any linseed oil down here, or do I need to bring some down from the studio?”

“There’s a large bottle in the pantry,” Octavia bit out between clenched teeth.

Atticus found the oil on one of the top shelves in the larder. With the linseed oil and a container of oatmeal, he returned to the kitchen. Adding linseed oil to the ground oats, bit by bit, he worked rapidly to mix the ingredients until a thick paste had formed. When the poultice was ready, he made her sit down and patted her skin dry, then layered her burn with the paste and wrapped the burn with a cheese cloth bandage.

“That should take the sting out of it in a minute or two,” he said as he straightened upright. Octavia cast a disgusted look in his direction, as she stood up and moved to tap the top of the round of bread in its pan. She appeared relieved that the bread sounded hollow. In silence, she popped the bread out of its pan and slid it onto a small baker’s rack. When she’d finished, she scooped up a pot holder and moved back to the oven.

As Atticus watched, Octavia pulled a half-filled pan of water out of the oven, then dumped it into the sink. He heard her muttering something beneath her breath, but couldn’t make out her words. The one thing he did hear was the aggravation in her voice.

Remembering the fear he’d experienced as he’d raced downstairs, he narrowed his gaze at her. The woman would be the death of him in his vigil to keep her safe from harm. Octavia dropped the oblong metal container unceremoniously on the table, then planted her hands on her hips.

“Why in heaven’s name were you bellowing my name like a madman, anyway?” she scowled at him with angry disgust.

“I saw the path out to the barn from the studio window.”

“And that’s why you were shouting?”

“You went outside.” Atticus wanted to shake her the minute her eyebrows arched in astonishment, as if he’d lost his mind.

“Yes, I did. I took care of the horses, and I brought in more wood so we don’t freeze to death tonight.”

“You disobeyed me, Octavia. You went outside without telling me.” His harsh tone earned him a mutinous glare.

“I did not disobey you, and I would appreciate you remembering you have no authority over me,” she huffed with annoyance. “You made me promise not to put myself in harm’s way, and I kept that promise.”

“And what if something had happened to you? What if you’d fallen or experienced some other mishap? How would I have known you were in trouble? It doesn’t take much for someone to die in that freezing cold.”