The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,91
from her person as if it were some sort of contagion.
“Change into it.”
“I don’t want to ruin it—this is one of your new coats.”
It amused him that she knew his clothing so well. “Change into it,” he repeated, using his doctor’s voice.
Once she took the blanket Jago turned his back, trying not to think about the fact that she was stripping behind him.
The last time the cabin had been stocked was when his brother was alive, so at least a year ago. There was a canister of tea that, while not exactly fresh, was better than nothing. There were also several ceramic pots that had been sealed with wax, and he recognized them as Cook’s handiwork. His stomach growled with anticipation at the thought of their contents.
A moment later he felt movement beside him and turned.
She had wrapped the blanket around her waist and put his coat over her shirt and vest. For all that she was so tall, his coat swamped her delicate form.
How she managed to appear so bloody alluring damp, disheveled, and wearing a man’s clawhammer was a mystery.
“Hold out your arm,” he ordered, reaching for her sleeve.
“You’ll wrinkle it,” she said, when he began to roll up the cuff.
“Then Toomey will have something to do.” As he turned up the sleaves his gaze lingered on her work-scarred hands. The nails were chewed to the quick and the callouses on her palms spoke of hard work. When he glanced up, she was staring at him with an unreadable expression, although her pale eyes had gone as dark as the storm clouds currently blotting out the sun.
Jago could imagine what expression was on his face; he was so hard that his prick actually hurt. It had not escaped him that he was alone in a cottage with the object of his desire.
A bolt of lightning illuminated the room and they both turned to stare out the cottage’s only window.
“One … two …”
They spoke at the time.
She met his gaze as they continued the count. “Three … four …”
A deafening boom rocked the small building.
“A little over half a mile, I’d guess,” he said.
“But moving this way.”
“I’m afraid so. Are you bothered by storms?”
“I find them less than soothing.”
While she made tea, Jago moved the table and chairs closer to the fire. The storm was indeed coming their way and the windowpane rattled as if it were being pummeled by pebbles.
“I’m going to quickly check on the horses.” Jago pulled on his wet overcoat and ventured into the tempest, hoping the beasts had not spooked and ran.
But they were crowded together in the corner, Penny Bright’s eyes showing white as she cowered against Asclepius; the big gelding looked anxious, but not terrified.
The rotted wood of the enclosure would offer no resistance if the horses decided to bolt, but there was nothing Jago could do about that.
He soothed them as best he could, taking the time to calm his own over-active body while he was at it.
If he were truly a gentleman he would have insisted they return to Lenshurst. But he suspected that he was far from decent because he hoped—to his shame—that the storm raged all night.
He stood out in the wind and cold until he was no longer hard.
When he finally returned to the cottage it was to find two mugs, a steaming pot, and three little tubs of preserves on the table.
“Strawberry, brambleberry, and apricot,” she said.
He took the spoon she offered and waited until she sat before taking the chair across from her. She should have looked comical with the loose coat hanging off her shoulders and the rough handspun blanket about her hips. Instead, she was the most arousing sight he’d ever seen.
She poured the fragrant-smelling liquid into the mugs. “In Russia they take their tea with jam in it.”
“I didn’t know that. Where did you learn such an interesting fact?”
“I like to read.”
She’d lighted a few tallow candles but the room was dim as the storm raged. The glow cast by the firelight illuminated her, turning her face and throat a sensual golden-red.
Jago didn’t usually take sugar with his tea but put a spoonful of apricot into his steaming mug and smiled at her. “Today we shall be Russians.”
She spooned a glob of strawberry jam into her mug, stirred, and then sipped. She then reached for a spoonful of apricot. “I have a sweet tooth,” she admitted, her spoon clinking softly against the stoneware.