“Francesca,” he said, turning slightly away from her so that he could continue to rub his hands together by the fire, “do you have any idea how long it takes for mail to reach London from India?”
“Five months,” she answered promptly. “Four, if the winds are kind.”
Damn it, she was right. “Be that as it may,” he said peevishly, “by the time I decided to return, there was little use in attempting forward notice. The letter would have gone out on the same ship I did.”
“Really? I thought the passenger vessels were slower than the ones that take the mail.”
He sighed, glancing at her over his shoulder. “They all take the mail. And besides, does it really matter?”
For a moment he thought she would answer in the af-firmative, but then she said quietly, “No, of course not. The important thing is that you’re home. Your mother will be thrilled.”
He turned away so that she wouldn’t see his humorless smile. “Yes,” he murmured, “of course.”
“And I-” She stopped, cleared her throat. “I am delighted to have you back as well.”
She sounded as if she were trying very hard to convince herself of this, but Michael decided to play the gentleman for once and not point it out. “Are you cold?” he asked instead.
“Not very,” she said.
“You’re lying.”
“Just a little.”
He stepped to the side, making room for her closer to the fire. When he didn’t hear her move toward him, he motioned toward the empty space with his hand.
“I should go back to my room,” she said.
“For God’s sake, Francesca, if you’re cold, just come to the fire. I won’t bite.”
She gritted her teeth and stepped forward, joining him near the blaze. But she kept herself somewhat off to the side, maintaining a bit of distance between them. “You look well,” she said.
“As do you.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“I know. Four years, I believe.”
Francesca swallowed, wishing this weren’t so difficult. This was Michael, for heaven’s sake. It wasn’t supposed to be difficult. Yes, they’d parted badly, but that had been in the dark days immediately following John’s death. They’d all been in pain then, wounded animals lashing out at anyone in their way. It was supposed to be different now. Heaven knew she’d thought of this moment often enough. Michael couldn’t stay away forever, they’d all known that. But once her initial anger had passed, she’d rather hoped that when he did return, they’d be able to forget that anything unpleasant had ever passed between them.
And be friends again. She needed that, more than she’d ever realized.
“Do you have any plans?” she asked, mostly because the silence was too awful.
“For now, all I can think about is getting warm,” he muttered.
She smiled in spite of herself. “It is exceptionally chilly for this time of year.”
“I’d forgotten how damnably cold it can be here,” he grumbled, rubbing his hands together briskly.
“One would think you’d never escape the memory of a Scottish winter,” Francesca murmured.
He turned to her then, a wry smile tilting one corner of his mouth. He’d changed, she realized. Oh, there were the obvious differences-the ones everyone would notice. He was tan, quite scandalously so, and his hair, always midnight black, now sported a few odd strands of silver.
But there was more. He held his mouth differently, more tightly, if that made any sense, and his smooth, lanky grace seemed to have gone missing. He had always seemed so at ease, so comfortable in his skin, but now he was… taut.
Strained.
“You’d think,” he murmured, and she just looked at him blankly, having quite forgotten what he was replying to until he added, “I came home because I couldn’t stand the heat any longer, and now here I am, ready to perish from the cold.”
“It will be spring soon,” she said.
“Ah yes, spring. With its merely frigid winds, as opposed to the icy ones of winter.”
She laughed at that, absurdly pleased to have anything to laugh about in his presence. “The house will be better tomorrow,” she said. “I only just arrived this evening, and like you, I neglected to send advance notice. Mrs. Parrish assures me that the house will be restocked tomorrow.”
He nodded, then turned around to warm his back. “What are you doing here?”
“Me?”
He motioned to the empty room, as if to make a point.
“I live here,” she said.
“You usually don’t come down until April.”
“You know that?”
For a moment, he looked almost embarrassed. “My mother’s letters are remarkably detailed,” he said.
She shrugged, then inched a little closer to the fire. She ought not stand so near to him, but dash it, she was still rather cold, and her thin nightrobe did little to ward off the chill.
“Is that an answer?” he drawled.
“I just felt like it,” she said insolently. “Isn’t that a lady’s prerogative?”
He turned again, presumably to warm his side, and then he was facing her.
And he seemed terribly close.
She moved, just an inch or so; she didn’t want him to realize she’d been made uncomfortable by his nearness.
Nor did she want to admit the very same thing to herself.
“I thought it was a lady’s prerogative to change her mind,” he said.