The raw hurt in her voice tore at his defences. He enfolded her fine-boned fingers in his. Ice cold. ‘Come back to the fire. I’m sorry if I sounded harsh—my concern is for your reputation.’
She snatched her hand out of his.
‘Is it not mine to r-r—’ she took a ragged breath ‘—risk?’ Despite the defiance in her gaze, she let him lead her back to the glow of the fire.
He shrugged. ‘Then think about my position.’
Her shoulders slumped. She raised her lashes, eyes dark with regret and something else he couldn’t make out. He could not read this woman. It was an odd feeling when most of them had been an open book.
Her soft mouth trembled. ‘I am s-sorry. You are right. I should not have troubled you.’
Right now, looking into those fathomless eyes through the muzz of alcohol with heat from the fire warming his body, he didn’t care about his job or her reputation. He desperately wanted to chase away the shadows in her face and see her smile.
‘Apology accepted. Sit closer to the fire.’ With hands that shook only slightly, he undid the strings of her oilskin cloak and tossed it aside. Beneath it she was as dry as a bone.
The grateful curve of her lips tempted him more than he dared admit. He cupped her face in his hands, small and chill and buttery soft to his work-roughened skin. The muscles in her jaw flickered against his palms. All he had to do was bend his head and claim those lushly formed lips.
A brush of his mouth against hers, a taste of heaven, one little sip.
Trust shone from her eyes.
The dregs of his conscience pierced his beer-soaked mind. Inwardly he groaned and dropped his hands to her shoulders and nudged her away.
Even the glow from the fire could not hide her blush. So pretty. So innocently knowing. So arousing.
He forced himself to turn away. He stripped off his coat and hung it behind the door.
‘You are soaked through,’ she said, sounding surprised. ‘Did you not wear your oilskins?’
‘It wasn’t raining when I left.’ He wasn’t going to tell her this coat was all he had. He retrieved a towel from the dresser and rubbed at his hair.
She was frowning. ‘You really ought to get out of those wet clothes. You could catch an ague.’
He’d have been out of his clothes and under his covers the moment he walked in the door if she’d not been standing on his doorstep. He’d like to be under his covers with her.
‘Why did you come here, Miss Bracewell? You said you wanted to ask me something.’
‘I did. But I think perhaps I was mistaken.’
Women. Now he’d have to charm it out of her.
A shiver ran down his spine. Despite the fire, the cold was creeping into his bones. She was right. He did need to get out of these clothes. He couldn’t afford to get sick. And even if he was going to take her home immediately, he should at least start out dry. ‘Turn your back.’
Her little gasp reminded him that it was not his place to issue orders.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘I am going to change and, short of going outside, there is nowhere to do it but here.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Come closer to the fire.’ She moved away from the hearth and faced the corner near the dresser. She looked like a child being punished for some naughtiness.
He couldn’t help smiling. She was naughty coming out here. He ought to smack her sweet little bottom. Damn. He did not need thoughts like that right now.
His glance fell on the brown-paper-wrapped parcel on the dresser top. He’d set it there before he went out.
He turned his back and set to work on the buttons of his vest with numbed fingers. ‘That package is for you.’
‘For me?’ She sounded astonished. And pleased. Almost as if she’d never before received a gift. What did she think was in there, a diamond necklace?
He scowled. His days of giving gifts of jewellery were long past. ‘Open it.’
Another shiver hit him. The effects of the ale were wearing off rapidly. He edged closer to the fire, stripped off the waistcoat, stripped off his neckerchief and shirt.
The sound of paper tearing was followed by a gasp. ‘Oh. It’s a book.’ She sounded just as pleased as if it was diamonds.
‘I thought you might find it useful. It has information about foxes and badgers. Their habits and habitats.’
‘Won’t you need the book? For your work?’
‘Mr Weatherby is teaching me all I need to know.’
A feeling invaded his chest. A feeling he had not felt in a very long time. Happiness. Because she was pleased. And something more. Something he wouldn’t acknowledge, not with this young woman who didn’t have a subtle bone in her body. She was just too vulnerable for a man like him.
Damn. Between her and the beer he was so confused he didn’t know what he was thinking. Then don’t think. Get changed and get her home.
He shed his boots and stockings and peeled his trousers off. He scrubbed at his damp skin, focusing on nothing but getting dry.
Frederica listened to the sounds behind her. A man undressing. The rustle of cloth. The thump of boots. The sound of a towel plied vigorously. The urge to watch battled with modesty. Her mouth dried. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Warmth flooded her skin.
Just one little peek.
He’d asked her to turn her back, to respect his privacy. She wasn’t going to betray his trust. But she did want to draw him and had promised herself she would pluck up the courage to ask.
She drew in a quick breath. ‘Will you sit for me?’
‘What?’ His voice was deep and very dark and laced with danger.
She started to turn.
‘Hold!’ The word was harsh.
She heard him move across the room. Away from her. Away from the fire.
She huffed out a breath. ‘I’ve always wanted to draw a person. In the flesh. I came to ask you if you would sit as a model.’
She heard a swoosh of fabric and turned to find him wrapped neck to toe in the quilt from the cot. Disappointment washed through her. How wicked she was, to be longing to ogle a naked male.
It wasn’t just about drawing. It was him. The desire to look at him made all the more tantalising because of the glimpses she’d already seen.
No wonder he wore a disgusted expression. He must think her completely wanton.
‘Do you have any idea what people would say if they found you drawing me naked?’ he asked.
Well, that wasn’t a no, was it? ‘I-I don’t care what they say. I want to be an artist. One day I want to go to Italy. Take lessons from a master. Right now, I am using what I have to hand.’
‘Using?’
Now he sounded angry.
She waved an impatient hand. ‘Not you. I meant squirrels and foxes.’ She hesitated. If she told him and he betrayed her, it would ruin all her plans. Like everyone else, he wasn’t taking her art seriously. So galling. Why couldn’t anyone respect what she wanted to do? She inhaled a shaky breath. ‘I am being paid. For local animals. For a book about British fauna.’
He raised a quizzical brow and sat down on the bed. ‘Are you now?’
Was he laughing at her? His face was perfectly serious, but there was that slight curl to his mouth. If she could