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It was the thing he’d been waiting for her to realise, and he took great care to keep his voice neutral as he replied. ‘I’m afraid so.’

He could only hope his nonchalance was convincing. The thought of sharing a bedroom with her again was so hazardous he’d already tried—and failed—to banish it from his mind. Listening to her moving in her sleep in a room as big as the one at Wellbourne House was bad enough, but in smaller quarters it would feel as though she was actually on the floor with him; even pulling up his blankets over his head would be unlikely to be of much help. She’d be there, hardly more than a hand’s span away, wearing a nightdress as thin as gossamer, and he would somehow have to find the will to stop his dreams from turning down forbidden paths…

‘You don’t have to stay here. You’re under no obligation.’

He hadn’t intended to hold his breath but it seemed to have happened regardless as he waited for her to answer.

He watched her cast around the small but pleasant room, her gaze lingering for a moment on the bed hardly big enough for two. ‘I’d like to.’

She coloured, a deep flush like the petals of a summer rose. ‘On balance, the choice between sharing a house with you or your brother is no choice at all.’

Jacob exhaled.

‘Very good. I’ll arrange to have your things brought here.’

He stepped out onto the landing. Too much time spent standing around in bedrooms with her when it wasn’t strictly necessary wasn’t a good idea. When they retired for the night he’d sleep on the floor, just as he had at Wellbourne House, and he was quick to try to stamp out any flicker of disappointment at the thought.

The stairs were so old and uneven that he had to concentrate to make sure he didn’t trip as he descended them, but even so a sudden hand on his arm almost made him fall.

He turned back. Meg had followed him to the top of the stairs, and while she stood on the landing and he hesitated two steps down they were brought exactly face to face.

‘You’ve done so much for me. Why?’

She delivered the question in a rush so garbled, he nearly didn’t catch it, so unexpected that it started him speaking with no forethought.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Once I might have thought so. Now I’m not so sure.’

Jacob took a breath. She was so close: her lips couldn’t have been more than a few inches away from his and the yearning to kiss her again almost brought him to his knees. He wanted to do much more than that, in fact, the bed just visible from the stairs tempting him to let his imagination run wild, but his resolve had to hold firm.

Whatever had once existed between them had run its course. What was done was done, and there was no going back, and all he could do now was try to prevent himself from being hurt again.

‘I promised I’d protect you. It’s my job while you’re with me to make sure you don’t come to any harm.’

He tried to keep his voice level but the cautious confusion in her eyes was hard to endure. It made him want to take hold of her, to wrap her in his arms and surrender to the part of him that still wanted to call her his own—but of course, that was not to be.

‘I gave my word to your father that I’d keep you safe,’ he said quietly, aware that for himself danger might still lie ahead. ‘Whatever else you might think of me, I wouldn’t lie about that.’

Chapter Six

With her sleeves rolled up and her hands dusted with flour, Meg felt more at home than she had in a long time.

A blackberry pie cooled by the kitchen window, dark juice bubbling up through its lattice top. She’d picked the berries herself from a wildly overgrown bush in the cottage’s garden, and there were still plenty left if she had a mind to make jam, her mother’s recipe running through her head as she kneaded the dough now spread out beneath her fists. There would be fresh bread soon and her mouth watered at the thought of the warm crust, perhaps slathered in a thick layer of the butter she’d made the day before.

But did he mean anything by ‘whatever else you might think of me’?

With a groan of defeat, she thumped the dough into the middle of the table. For how long had she managed to think of other things: five minutes; ten?

Just when she thought she was doing so well in supressing the questions she was trying to ignore, they came swirling up again. She’d swept the already tidy cottage from top to bottom that morning in addition to her frenzied baking but all that activity still hadn’t been enough to divert her from how Jacob had looked when he’d awoken on the floor, lying even closer to her than he had at Wellbourne House. There was nowhere to run from the image of his disordered hair or the glimpse of chest she’d caught at the open neck of his nightshirt, and the cryptic words he’d left her with on the stairs the previous afternoon hadn’t helped one bit.

She dropped the dough into a bowl and covered it with a clean cloth before setting it to one side. Waiting for it to rise would give her too much time in which to think, and as such a thing was not to be encouraged she scanned the kitchen, looking for something—anything—to keep herself occupied.

At Lark Cottage the work was never ending, but here…

Meg felt a twinge of guilt. How were Pa and Peter coping without her? There was always something to do on their small plot of land, whereas the same couldn’t be said for her temporary home. It had been spotless when they’d arrived and the larder stocked with everything they were likely to need for the uncertain duration of their stay, leaving her with only light tasks that were hardly work at all.

A sudden shadow blocked the sunlight streaming in through the open back door. ‘Have you been baking? It smells wonderful in here.’