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Why is she not wearing slippers, at least?

“William and I picked elderflower today,” she explained. “We made some cordial earlier, and he relished it. As I could not sleep, I thought I would make some more and bottle it, so there is a fair reserve of it for him to drink.”

Anthony had to smother the smile that tried to curve his mouth, for he, too, relished elderflower cordial. Although, he had not had it since childhood.

“You should get the cook to do that,” he said crisply. “And you should not be walking around with nothing on your feet. The floor is too cold.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I like the cool of it.”

It was at that moment that he noticed marks on her right hand, a small bandage wrapped around her left hand.

He covered the distance between them in no time at all, reaching for her hand before he could stop himself. Sure enough, there were scratches all across her skin, and he dreaded to think what was beneath the bandage.

“How did this happen?” he demanded to know, his tone harsh.

Who hurt you? his mind whispered, bristling with anger that someone could have done this to her while he was otherwise occupied.

With a shaky breath, she pulled her hands out of his and crossed her arms. “I was just playing with William. We climbed a tree and I scraped myself on the way down.” She shrugged. “You should see my legs; they bore the brunt of it.”

He almost stopped breathing, his eyes glazed as he stared at her. Had she really just said that?

“Then there were some thorns where the elderflower was growing,” she continued, oblivious. “It is nothing. It will heal. Believe me. William came away unscathed though, so do not worry about him.”

Frustrated that she seemed so nonchalant about her injuries, Anthony noticed another scratch just below her right cheek. His fingertips burned to touch it, as if he could somehow heal it with willpower alone.

More than anything, he wanted to tell her not to do this to herself again, not to put herself in the path of any sort of harm just to entertain William. But he knew it would sound like a contradiction, when entertaining William was the very reason she was here, to give his son a mother and a friend.

“It really is nothing,” she insisted.

He looked past her arm to the pot of boiling syrup. “As I said before, you should let the cook do that.”

“I would rather do it myself,” she countered firmly.

“And if you burn yourself?”

She shrugged. “I know how to fix it.”

He narrowed his eyes, frustrated by her demeanor. “Just… be more careful. I cannot afford for you to have any incidents.”

“If this unnerves you, you would not like my workshop at Stadley,” she said with a smile so compelling, so coy, that it brought him closer to her by a half step.

“I do not want William in danger,” he told her, as if that was his primary concern, and not the thought of hot syrup landing on her smooth skin, hurting her as she had doubtless already been hurt.

She dipped her head in a small nod. “Neither do I, which is why I made him stand back once the syrup got too hot. I am not a fool, Anthony. I would never let any harm come to him.”

“Ensure it stays that way,” he said coolly, his chest tight at their proximity, while he fought against the urge to gaze at her lips.

They were close enough that he could have kissed her if he wanted to. And if she kept looking at him like that, so fierce and defiant and intense, then…

You should leave.

“I shall wake Mrs. Havers and have her keep you company,” he said, forcing himself to take a step back.

“No, please do not. I am almost done and then it is just a matter of waiting for the cordial to cool,” she urged. “You could… wait with me, if you are so concerned about my safety. Did you not just say you had come for some supper?”

He had said that. If he left without making himself something to eat, it would look rather suspicious.

“Would you like me to make you something, since the cook is not here?” she asked.