‘Major Crawley.’
‘I would ask what you were doing in my bed,’ he said, his eyes all the time flitting over her face as if taking in every last detail. ‘But I’m cold and wet with an awful headache, so I think your explanation can wait.’
‘I thought you were going to assault me,’ she blurted out, even though the information hadn’t been solicited.
He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze assessing her. ‘I wasn’t.’
‘I know that now...’
How could she explain her fears to an honourable man? He wouldn’t understand how she’d spent the last six years dodging the advances of her guardian and more recently the attempts to thrust his reluctant son upon her. How finding a man sliding into bed next to her made an overwhelming panic rise up inside her.
Gently he let go of her wrist and she let go of the sheet she’d been gripping on to. He stood, wrapping the sopping sheet around him, and they faced each other. It was only then that Cecilia remembered she was standing basically naked in front of this man. When she’d jumped up she’d pulled one of the covers around her body, but her shoulders were bare, as was one of her legs as it poked out of the split in between the embroidered blanket.
‘I shall let you get dressed,’ Major Crawley said, not attempting to hide how his eyes took in the pale skin of her shoulders. He walked slowly over to the chair where Cecilia could see he’d thrown his clothes and picked up the discarded garments, before limping to the door.
She’d heard he’d been injured, listened to all the gruesome details as Elizabeth had retold them, knew about the festering wound that had nearly claimed Major Crawley’s life. She also knew how he’d become a recluse since returning to health. How he only ever visited his very close friends or family and spent much of his time secluded away, not wanting to engage with society. Cecilia could understand that. Society was draining even for the most dull and un-noteworthy. A decorated major with a war wound would have been mobbed by the ladies wanting to hear about his heroic deeds. All made worse by the fact he was an attractive man, of course.
Once the door had closed Cecilia sank back down on the sodden bed and closed her eyes. Her heart was still thumping in her chest from the shock of finding a man climbing into her bed. His bed, she corrected herself. His bed. His cottage. His sheets she’d poured water over. His naked chest she’d spent far too long looking at.
With a sigh she stood. Tonight had been one poor decision after another and now she was snowed in inside the little cottage with a man she’d assaulted with a candlestick. Major Crawley might be a reasonable man, but already she could tell she’d pushed him to the limit of his tolerance and she felt apprehensive of what the rest of the night would bring.
Chapter Two
Joe poked at the fire, watching with satisfaction as the logs crackled and spat, sending plumes of smoke up the chimney. During his youth he’d been pampered and indulged like all sons of the nobility, even second sons. He’d never had to make his own bed, chop wood for a fire or make even the simplest of meals. Everything had been done for him. He’d even had a man to help him dress for dinner.
The army had knocked most of that out of him. Sometimes one of his men would make him a cup of bitter tea or bring him a plate of the evening meal when he was busy working at his desk, but unlike many of the senior-ranking officers Joe hadn’t bothered with a manservant or singling out one of the soldiers to take on his domestic tasks. He’d needed his men to see they were in everything together.
War was a great equaliser and, for his men to follow him into battle, to believe he would bring them back out again, he couldn’t afford a great chasm between them. So he’d washed his own clothes. Made his own bed. Brewed his own tea.
And now he was home...well, he couldn’t imagine relying on someone else to do these basic and personal tasks so he continued to do them himself, despite his mother telling him, ‘You’ll never find a wife’ or ‘You’ll never be accepted into society’. One day she would realise that he didn’t want a wife, didn’t want a place in society. He just wanted the solitude of his little cottage and his own company.
There was a hesitant knock on the door and Joe grumbled for her to come in. Lady Cecilia Bronwen, who had no right to be in his little cottage. No right to disturb his peace. Yet she’d been in his bed, assaulted him, thrown water over him and almost entirely exposed his naked body to her gaze and he’d only been home twenty minutes.
‘Warm yourself up,’ he said without looking up.
‘Thank you.’ Her voice was soft and melodic. Joe wasn’t interested in society gossip, but his sister still insisted on telling him snippets whenever he visited the family home. If Elizabeth was to be believed, this young woman standing in front of him was the richest and therefore most sought-after heiress in England. You could tell she was high-born by the refined accent and the way she glided into a room rather than walked, although Joe was a little perplexed as to how she was so handy with a candlestick.
She paused before him and waited until he looked up.
‘I’m sorry, I had to borrow some of your clothes,’ she said. His eyes raked over her, taking in the too-large trousers she was holding bunched around her petite waist and the shirt that was just a little bit see-through in the flickering light of the fire. He swallowed, reminding himself who it was standing in front of him. Lady Cecilia would only want one thing from a man—marriage—and that was something he couldn’t give. He tried to pull his eyes away from the silhouette of her body. ‘My clothes were still completely sodden,’ she said in explanation.
‘Sit,’ he said, motioning to one of the armchairs. He didn’t much care if she was comfortable or not, but he needed her to move so he would stop staring. His eyes didn’t seem capable of looking away by themselves.
She daintily wrestled with the trousers, took two steps and promptly fell over the excess material that pooled around her feet. With a squeal of surprise she catapulted forward, letting go of the waistband of the trousers and falling towards Joe. Instinctively he held out his arms, catching her before she went head first into the fireplace, and carefully set her back on her feet.
He tried not to look, tried not to allow his eyes to travel up the length of her now bare legs, but it was impossible. She was standing right in front of him and he was only human.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice trembling a little, and for the first time Joe realised that he wasn’t the only one who’d had a shock. Lady Cecilia might not have been whacked over the head with a candlestick, but she hadn’t had the night she’d planned.
‘Sit,’ he said again, trying to sound a little less gruff. He watched as she looked down at the trousers pooled around her ankles and deliberated. Carefully she stepped out of them before retreating to the chair. The shirt she was wearing reached almost down to her knees, but as she sat she quickly tucked her bare legs up and under her body before she raised her head to meet his eyes.
Turning back to the fire, Joe chastised himself. For an entire year, ever since his injury, he’d barely thought of women. Now was not the time to suddenly start fantasising about one. And certainly not Lady Cecilia.
‘I must apologise,’ Lady Cecilia said after a minute.
‘What for?’
‘Breaking into your cottage. And hitting you over the head. And throwing cold water over you.’ She coughed in embarrassment.
‘Why are you here, Lady Cecilia?’
She sighed and Joe could hear the mountain of pain behind the sigh. He watched as she played with a strand of damp hair, twirling the blond ringlet round and round her finger—it was hard not to be mesmerised.
‘I was travelling to your parents’ Christmas Eve party.’
‘On a night like tonight?’
‘You must have set out in the snow, too,’ she shot back.
He grimaced, remembering the long walk in the thick snow, and fou
nd he was unconsciously rubbing his injured leg. The muscles felt tight and sore and no doubt his limp would be more pronounced for days.
‘I am not always free to come and go as I please,’ she said slowly, as if selecting her words carefully. ‘I saw an opportunity to slip away this evening and took it, despite the poor weather conditions.’
Joe frowned. Not always free to come and go as I please. It was a strange thing to say. He knew young ladies had more restrictions on their activities than men, but surely no one would keep her from a friend’s ball.
‘But you found you couldn’t make it to Hawthorn House?’
‘The snow was too thick. I saw the cottage and I thought your parents would not mind if I sought shelter...’ She paused, waiting for him to look at her. ‘I had no idea you would be staying here.’
He believed her. Not many people knew what he did with his life nowadays.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I was desperate so I broke the window in the kitchen, the one by the back door.’
‘A drink,’ he declared, deciding he would worry about the broken window in the morning. ‘I need a drink. Would you like one?’
He’d warmed up sufficiently now and the fire was roaring fiercely in the grate. What he needed now was something to distract him from the half-naked woman sitting only a few feet away.
Inappropriate, he told himself. She was Lady Cecilia, his little sister’s friend. The last time he’d seen her she couldn’t have been much more than nine or ten, still a child. He’d noticed her, of course he had, he noticed everything, but he hadn’t paid her any attention.
She wasn’t a child now, though, far from it. She was an attractive young woman. An attractive young woman he couldn’t stop looking at.
‘Pull yourself together,’ he murmured. He’d been too long without a woman, that was all. In the past year he had barely thought about his baser needs, but he was only human, it was natural for him to want a woman’s touch every now and then. Just not this woman. And certainly not right now.
‘Pardon?’ Lady Cecilia said, swivelling her neck round to follow his progress across the room. He felt large and lumbering under her gaze.
‘Whisky?’
‘Yes, please.’
He poured two glasses, looking on with surprise as Lady Cecilia drank hers in two large gulps without spluttering. She closed her eyes and Joe could imagine the warmth the liquid had given her deep in her belly. He took a mouthful of whisky himself and lowered his body into the other armchair.
‘Why were you out in the snow?’ she asked, hugging her arms around her body and unconsciously pulling the shirt a little tighter against her skin. Joe tried to avert his eyes, but found he just couldn’t get them to obey the command.
‘My parents’ Christmas Eve ball,’ he said.
‘You were travelling to it, too?’
He laughed and heard the note of bitterness in his voice. ‘Away from it.’
‘Oh.’
‘I don’t dance,’ he said, motioning to his injured leg.
‘A ball is so much more than dancing,’ Lady Cecilia said with a shrewd look in her eye.
‘I don’t socialise,’ he corrected himself.
She would know about his injury. Everyone knew about his injury. He’d been lauded a hero, awarded a medal for bravery and his friends had told him he’d been the talk of the town for weeks. What people didn’t know about was the rest of the pain, the hidden damage. The men he’d lost whose faces he still saw in his dreams every night, the irrational panic he felt when there was a loud noise. The injury to his leg was easy to understand, easy to explain, it was the rest of the damage that made him shut himself away.
‘You were fleeing before any of the guests arrived.’
‘I prefer to think of it as making a timely exit.’
Lady Cecilia smiled then, the first true smile he’d seen, and it lit up her entire face. She shifted, allowing one delicate little foot to poke out from under the shirt, and leaned forward.
‘I’m sorry I’ve invaded your sanctuary,’ she said perceptively.
He did think of this cottage as his sanctuary. No one else ever came here, only Mrs Green from the village who cleaned twice a week, but his family never came or his friends. This was where he retreated when he needed space and time on his own.
‘It’s only for one night,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m sure even I can cope with company for one night.’
They sat in silence for a moment and Joe watched as Lady Cecilia closed her eyes and turned her face to the fire. She looked tired, not just physically but emotionally. He’d become good at spotting the signs after seeing it in the mirror every day this past year. Wondering what could be bothering the richest heiress in England quite so deeply, he tried to push the thought from his mind. It was none of his concern. Tomorrow Lady Cecilia would be out of his cottage and on her way. He might never set eyes on her again. And tonight he refused to get drawn in by those deep, dark eyes.
‘I’m sure you’re tired,’ he said stiffly. ‘You should take the second bedroom, the bed in the main bedroom is soaked.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll sleep here.’
‘I couldn’t allow you to do that,’ Lady Cecilia said. ‘Not when it’s my fault your bed is ruined for the night.’
‘What do you suggest, Lady Cecilia?’ he asked, his voice low and his eyes fixed on hers. ‘That we both squeeze into the single bed in the second bedroom?’
He saw her swallow, saw the flash of something that looked very much like desire in her eyes, then she stood and smiled at him.
‘Very well,’ she said with the composure of a queen. ‘I hope your night is not too uncomfortable.’
He handed her a lighted candle to guide her way and couldn’t help but watch as she walked away. The outline of her body was visible through the thin material of the shirt she wore and never had Joe been so tempted to do something so foolish. Silently he chastised himself, but still watched her retreating form, exhaling loudly as Lady Cecilia closed the door behind her before she ascended the stairs.
Chapter Three
Cecilia woke to the sunlight streaming in through the window. It had been so dark when she’d slipped into bed the night before she hadn’t noticed the curtains were not closed, but this morning the watery winter light had woken her from sleep. She stretched, feeling the soft cotton of Major Crawley’s shirt, and felt a moment of guilt. No doubt he had spent the night uncomfortable in an armchair, all because she’d doused his bed in cold water.
Trying to forget the memory of how he’d looked at her the night before when she’d risen to go up to bed, she closed her eyes, but all she could see was his face. The unruly blond hair, the first shadow of stubble across his jaw, the pale blue eyes that seemed to take everything in and the pain in his expression he tried to hide so carefully.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ she told herself primly. She’d lost her parents at the age of fifteen and not long after had experienced her first fortune hunter. He had pursued her relentlessly, as had the many men who’d followed and over the years Cecilia had learned it was best never to even dream of a happy ending. Not that she thought Major Crawley was a fortune hunter, just a man who had made it clear to the world he had no interest in marriage.
Quickly she rose and donned the dress she’d been wearing the day before. It was now only slightly damp and, once her skin got used to the coolness of the material, only a little uncomfortable.
Quietly she descended the stairs, unsure if Major Crawley would still be sleeping and reluctant to disturb him after her antics of the night before. She listened at the door for a few moments, her hand raised to knock, but waiting for some signs of life.
‘I don’t know what you expect to hear,’ Major Crawley’s voice came from behind her. He’d just exited the other downstairs room, which Cecilia had ente
red the cottage through the night before, a small but functional kitchen.
She straightened up, the blush burning on her cheeks.
‘Unless you were peeking through the keyhole.’
‘I would never...’ she began to protest before glancing at the door and realising it didn’t have a keyhole. As she turned back to Major Crawley he had a small smile on his lips.
‘Breakfast?’ he asked, stepping back and allowing her to go into the kitchen ahead of him.
There was a small table in the room, made of smooth wood with notches and scratches all over its surface. Along one side was a bench and on the other a couple of chairs. The rest of the kitchen was unremarkable—a fire, worktops, and an assortment of knives and ladles stacked at one end. The window she’d smashed on her quest for an entry point the night before had been boarded over neatly and the door was firmly closed against the snow. What hit Cecilia as she walked in was the delicious smell coming from one of the pans hanging above the fire.
She looked around for a maid, someone who would be cooking the bacon that was sizzling in the pan. There was no one and nowhere else anyone could be hiding.
‘Are you cooking?’ she asked, surprised.
‘Of course. There’s only the two of us here.’ Cecilia shifted uncomfortably—she didn’t need the reminder of how inappropriate her being here was.
‘It smells good,’ she said, taking a step forward and inhaling the scent.
‘Nothing like toast and bacon to start the day. Sit. Have some tea.’ He seemed a little more jovial this morning, less like a bear ready to pounce. Still, she could hardly begrudge him his gruffness the night before after everything she’d put him through.
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