“Nicholas, where are we going?”
“There is a bed up here, a place where we can get you warm and dry and where you can rest through the night.”
“But shouldn’t we return to Blackwell tonight? I will need dry clothes. And Nan must be beside herself with worry.”
“No, I will send Pawly back to Blackwell to reassure Nan. But you need to rest. And I do not want to take you back until we have a better sense of what happened out there today. Someone, possibly my father, tried to kill you, perhaps because you are too close to the truth. I want answers before I return you to Blackwell Hall.” Nicholas’s tone brooked no argument, and Mira settled back into the cradle of his embrace.
The upstairs of the cottage was a single, spartan room, dominated by a large bed covered with an array of colorful quilts.
Nicholas carried Mira to the bed and set her down carefully on the edge. Pawly appeared with a lantern, but left after setting it on a low table.
Kneeling at Mira’s feet, Nicholas began removing her walking boots with brisk efficiency.
She sat in stunned silence, watching the top of his head as he worked.
With a sigh of impatience, he glanced up at her. “Mira, you need to get out of these wet clothes. Do you need assistance?”
Hot and fast, the blush overcame her. “Um, no. No, I am certainly capable of, uh, un…well, yes. I do not need assistance, I need…” She paused, mortification turning her tongue to lead in her mouth. He continued to stare at her expectantly, until she was finally forced to explain. “I need privacy,” she choked.
For a brief moment, he looked utterly taken aback, as though she had just told him she needed a coal scuttle and a periwig. Then a sultry smile spread across his face, his eyes turning to molten silver. “Mira,” he murmured, raising a hand to stroke the curve of her cheek, “your days of privacy are numbered. But I suppose I shall honor your maidenly sensibilities for the moment.”
With brisk, sure movements, he finished removing her sodden boots, then stood and fetched her some toweling and a long linen shirt from a chest set against the wall. “Until Pawly returns tomorrow, this will have to suffice,” he explained with an apologetic shrug.
Nicholas ducked down the stairway. Mira heard the low rumble of quiet male voices then the slam of the door. Pawly was gone. She was alone with Nicholas in a remote cottage for the entire night. She sat frozen in wonder at the enormity of the situation.
“Mira, I do not hear you disrobing,” Nicholas called up the stairs. “If you do not do so posthaste, I shall be forced to renege on my agreement and come handle the chore myself.” His silky tone left no doubt that he did not consider the prospect a chore in the least.
As quickly as her aching body would allow, she stood, scrambled out of her clothes, chafed her frigid skin with the toweling, and pulled the linen shirt on over her head.
She held her arms out straight in front of her, and the sleeves of the shirt slipped over her small hands to hang several inches below her fingertips. Such fine fabric it was, sliding over her skin like a whisper.
Such fine fabric. Mira suddenly glanced down and saw how very fine the fabric was. Without a shift or any stays, the lamplight penetrated the delicate linen revealing the clear outline of her breasts, the large dark circles that tipped them, and even the tangle of fiery curls at the juncture of her thighs. She might as well be naked.
She looked around frantically. The sudden movement of her head made her feel faint, but she had to find something more substantial to wear. On the edge of the bed lay a throw of some sort. On feet still stinging with cold, she moved around the foot of the bed and snatched up the soft woolen lap-rug.
But as she swung her arms around to wrap the makeshift shawl about her shoulders, a wave of darkness swept over her, crowding out the light, and she dropped like a stone to the floor.
…
Nicholas bounded up the stairs as quickly as his bad leg would allow. He saw Mira immediately, lying in a heap upon the floor, the nearly transparent linen of her shirt tangled about her body.
“Bloody hell.” He lifted her gently, careful to hold her head steady. She was so soft, the flesh of her backside rounded and full like ripe fruit. Yet her curves were offset by the trim length of her legs, the lithe arc of her waist, and she was rather short, so even the lax weight of her body was slight.