LITMIR.BIZ

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crimes.’

      ‘Indeed, sir? Very novel. If you could just bend your knee... Miss Holt, the owner, seems a kindly lady.’

      ‘Is she the owner? I assumed Mrs Perowne was.’ Brown eyes, hot, sweet mouth, the promise of oblivion for a while. He stirred, uncomfortably aware of how arousing that thought was. ‘Ow! Damn it, man—are you attempting to plait those muscles?’

      ‘No, to unplait them, sir.’ Collins moved to the other leg. ‘Miss Holt welcomed me to her home. That was how she worded it.’

      A ruthless massage was certainly an effective antidote to inappropriate erotic thoughts that made him feel unfaithful to Katerina. Which was a pointless emotion. An indulgence he was not going to wallow in, making himself feel like some tragic victim. They had not been lovers, they had not even spoken of that feeling between them, let alone exchanged protestations of love. There had just been those silent exchanges amidst crowds of others and that one, snatched, burning kiss when they had found themselves alone, passing in a corridor at the Danish royal palace. No words, no hesitation, only her body trembling between his hands, only her mouth sealed to his, her hands on his shoulders, and then her little sob as they tore themselves apart and, without a word, turned and walked away.

      It was a relationship that could never be, not without the sacrifice of her reputation, his honour. Cris set his jaw, as much against the pain in his heart as the agony in his overstretched joints. He was a man, he was not going to become a monk because of how he felt for an unattainable woman. Next season he must find himself a bride, get married, assume the responsibilities of his title. He would be faithful to his wife, but not to a phantom—that way lay madness.

      Tamsyn Perowne had kissed him back. He smiled into the pillow. It had probably been shock. Doubtless she would box his ears if he took any further liberties. Any fantasies about a willing widow to make him forget his ghosts were just that, fantasies. She was a respectable lady in a small community, not some society sophisticate. He’d be gone tomorrow, out of her life.

      There was a tap of knuckles on wood, the creak of hinges and a sudden flap of linen as Collins swirled the sheet over his prone body.

      * * *

      ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, I had assumed Mr Defoe would be in bed by now, not...’ Tamsyn put down the tray on the small table in the window embrasure and tried to forget the brief glimpse of elegant, sharp-boned bare feet as the sheet had settled over the man on the bed. She had seen all of him today, in the sea, in the bath, so what was there to discomfort her so in one pair of bare feet?

      ‘I have brought some more broth.’ Long toes, high arches, the line of the tendon at his heel... She was prattling now, looking anywhere but at the bed. But it was a small room and a big bed and there wasn’t anywhere else to look, except at the ceiling or the fireplace or the soberly dressed man who stood beside the bed in his shirtsleeves, hands glistening with oil. ‘It isn’t much, and dinner will not be long, but the doctor said to keep his strength up and it will help Mr Defoe’s throat.’

      ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ the valet said. ‘I will see that Mr Defoe drinks the soup while it is hot.’

      ‘Mr Defoe is present, and conscious, and capable of speech, Collins.’ The husky voice from the bed brought her head round with a jerk. His eyes were closed, his head resting on his crossed arms, his expression as austere as that of an effigy on a tomb.

      ‘Are you warm enough? Perhaps I should light the fire.’ She moved without thinking, touched her fingers to the exposed six inches of shoulder above the sheet, just as she would if it had been one of the aunts in the bed. But this was not one of the aunts and his eyes opened, heavy-lidded, watchful, and she did not seem able to move her fingers from the smooth, chill, skin. When they had kissed, those beautiful, unreadable blue eyes had been open, too. Now she tried not to show any recollection of that moment.

      ‘Yes, I will light the fire.’ The words came out in a coherent sentence, which was a surprise. Her hand was still refusing to obey her. ‘You seem a trifle cool.’

      ‘Cool? You think so?’ The question had a mocking edge that seemed directed more at himself than at her.

      ‘I will deal with the fire, ma’am.’ The manservant’s words jerked her back into some sort of reality, mercifully before her hand could trail down below the edge of the sheet.

      ‘Thank you.’ Tamsyn twitched the cover up over Mr Defoe’s shoulders. ‘I’ll just...’ The blue eyes were still open, still watching her. ‘You should drink that soup while it is hot.’

      She retreated with what dignity she could muster and did her best to close the door firmly, but quietly, behind her and not bang it shut and run. What was the matter with her? He was an attractive man. A very attractive man, and she had seen the whole of him, so was in an excellent position to judge, and she had been foolish enough to kiss him and she had saved his life. No, probably not. He was determined enough, and strong enough, to have kept going up the lane if he’d had to. He would have walked in through the kitchen door, in all his naked glory—and that would have made for a nasty accident if Cook had her hands full of something hot at the time. The thought made her smile.

      * * *

      ‘How is Mr Defoe, dear?’ asked Aunt Izzy. ‘You look very cheerful.’

      ‘Alive, a little warmer and, I suspect, in considerable pain, but his manservant seems highly competent and I am sure he is not going to succumb to a fever.’

      ‘That is good news. I suppose we may rely on his man to contact his wife, let her know he is safe.’

      ‘His what?’

      ‘Wife.’ Aunt Izzy stopped with her hand on the door into the drawing room.

      ‘Whose wife?’

      ‘Mr Defoe’s. He is more likely to be married than not, don’t you think? He is very personable, I am sure he is most respectable when he has some clothes on and, if he can afford such a superior manservant, he is obviously in funds.’ She cocked her head on one side, thinking. ‘And he is probably thirty, wouldn’t you say?’

      ‘About that, yes. Not more.’ His body was that of a fit young man, but there was something about him that spoke of maturity and responsibility. Doubtless marriage would give him that. It had not made Jory any more dependable, let alone respectable, but the man had been wild from a boy and his sense of duty and accountability was not one that most decent men would recognise.

      She had no desire to smile now, which was only right and proper. A woman might look at an attractive man and allow her imagination to wander a little...a lot. But a respectable woman did not look at a married man and think anything at all, nor see him as anything other than a fellow human being in need of succour.

      ‘Mizz Tamsyn, is it convenient for you to review the list of linen for the order I was going to send off tomorrow?’ She looked up to find Mrs Tape at the door, inventory in hand. ‘Only you said you wanted to look it over it with me, but if you’re busy I can leave it.’

      ‘Certainly. I will come now, Mrs Tape.’ She turned and followed the housekeeper. Linen cupboards full of darned sheets were exactly what she should be concentrating on. And then the accounts and a decision about which of the sheep to send to market would keep her busy until dinner time.

      All the humdrum duties of everyday life for an almost respectable country widow who should be very grateful for a calm, uneventful life.

      * * *

      ‘Do you think Mr Defoe will find our dinner time unfashionably early?’ Aunt Izzy sipped her evening glass of sherry and fixed her gaze on Tamsyn.

      ‘I am sure I do not know. I suppose seven o’clock is neither an old-fashioned country hour nor a fashionably late town one. But as he is either asleep, or will be having his meal on a tray at his bedside, I do not think we need concern ourselves too much with whether his modish sensibilities are likely to be offended.’

      ‘Mr Defoe strikes me as an adaptable man,’ Aunt Rosie remarked.

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