than Ripon?”
“Galphay is the nearest village, about a mile farther on along the lane, but it’s much smaller than Ripon, more like a hamlet. Another mile or so beyond Galphay is Kirkby Malzeard. That’s a decent-sized village with an inn and the usual shops.” She shot him a swift glance. “Are you a Londoner born and bred?”
“I’ve lived most of my life in London, but I was born in Wiltshire, and I frequently visit there and also at my brothers’ and sister’s houses, which are scattered about the country, so I’m not unaccustomed to country life, if that was what you were really asking.”
She smiled and looked back at her sewing. “It was. It helps to know you won’t have unrealistic expectations of life here, at the Hall.”
As to his expectations…
Even with a generous yard between them, he was conscious of the visceral tug drawing his senses in her direction. His focus was wholly on her, his attention transfixed in a way that was strange to him. While physical desire was there, it was only a part—and possibly not even the major part—of the attraction. The compulsion fixating him on her was novel, unique to her, leaving him curious and intent on further exploration. She was like a new form of artwork to him, fascinating and intriguing. “I promise not to be too demanding.”
He’d intended his tone to be light, even flippant, but his underlying thoughts crept in, and the words emerged too intent, too deep.
She glanced swiftly at him, her greeny-hazel eyes a touch wider than they had been. He was fairly certain nothing of his covetous thoughts showed in his face, yet after scanning his features, she looked down again, then after a moment’s hesitation, she bent and rummaged in the basket at her feet.
She gave an irritated huff. “I’ve left my shears in the parlor. I’ll have to fetch them.” She bundled up the linen she’d been working on, dropped it into the basket, rose, and only then met his eyes. “I won’t be long.”
Impulse prodded. Struggling up on one elbow, he waved her nearer. “Before you go, could you plump these pillows, please? It’s better for my lungs if I sit up.”
She hesitated for only a second, then briskly came to his side.
Warily, he sat up, grateful when no more coughing ensued. She steadied him with a hand on his linen-clad shoulder—and that light, impersonal touch sent heat streaking through him.
He froze, and she quickly removed her hand, pulled the pillows from behind him, shook them, then piled them high.
“There.” She lightly patted the mound.
When he hesitated, then gingerly started to lean back, as he’d hoped, she once again laid a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
He smiled and relaxed against the mounded softness and, before she could remove her hand, raised his and closed his fingers about hers. Once again, her fingers fluttered at the contact, then stilled. He turned his head, met her eyes, and smiled his most charming smile. “Thank you.” His eyes locked with hers, he raised her hand and brushed a kiss across the backs of her fingers. “You are, indeed, a ministering angel.”
Her eyes had widened; for an instant, as they searched his, her expression stated that she didn’t know how she wanted to react. Then she firmed her lips, straightened, and drew her fingers away; he released them only because he knew there was no point trying to hold on to them—not yet.
She hesitated for a second, her eyes scanning his face as if puzzled she couldn’t see past his façade, then she stepped back, reiterated, “I’ll be back shortly,” and made for the door.
Ellie stepped into the corridor and shut the door on the Hall’s best guest bedchamber. She released the knob and straightened. Standing in the dimness, she blinked—and blinked—trying to get her mind working again, to drag her wits and senses from dwelling on the feel of his fingers about hers and the even more disconcerting brush of his cool lips over what had proved to be unaccountably sensitive skin.
She realized she was brushing the backs of her fingers—where his lips had touched—with the fingers of her other hand.
Really? Anyone would imagine I’d never had my fingers kissed before.
She had, many times, yet those other instances had never resulted in her feeling flushed all over. She shouldn’t, she supposed, be surprised that he’d done such a thing; quite aside from his rambling when he’d thought he was dreaming, ever since he’d woken, whenever she’d been