Ben waited several beats before he responded. “If that’s what you want.”
Anything more with Ben was impossible. She had a responsibility to her family, an entire life, albeit a dull one, waiting for her back in England. She did not belong in Ben’s world.
But what if she were to try? She opened her mouth to speak, and the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling flared then burst. Ben cursed in the darkened room, and Rose chuckled.
“Right now,” she said, shifting until she had tucked herself under his arm, her head on his shoulder, “I think Harvey wants us to go to sleep.”
Chapter 20
Benhadalmostfinishedhis second cup of coffee when Rose emerged from his bedroom, wearing one of the simple blouses and skirts Abby had given her, and a thrill rushed through his chest. When she looked up and met Ben’s eye, she paused and brought a hand to her sleep-tousled hair as a pink flush spread on her cheeks.
He rushed to his feet. “Good morning.” His voice was gruff and unpleasant; he wasn’t in the habit of using it so early in the day.
Nor was he in the habit of watching a beautiful woman walk out of his bedroom.
“Good morning,” she replied.
As she left the door frame, Ben saw beyond her to the bed where the sheets lay in a tangled heap, and heat rushed down his spine. At some point during the night, he had found himself wrapped around her and couldn’t keep his hands from stroking her long thighs, skimming the silky skin of her stomach. Before he was fully awake, Rose had turned to explore him in return, resulting in an awkward fumbling to find another sheath in the dark and a broken lamp.
Hence the need for a second cup of coffee.
As she sat, Ben pulled a plate from inside the oven and placed it in front of her. “I didn’t know how you took your eggs.”
Her green eyes met his, followed by a brilliant smile. “How did you know how I like my eggs?” His shoulders relaxed in relief. Ben wouldn’t mention the half dozen in his garbage pail because he hadn’t poached them correctly, or the batch of scrambled eggs that came out too watery. His omelet had fallen apart, so he settled for fried eggs on a toasted slice of the bread Mrs. Dunlap had delivered the day before. He didn’t know her well enough yet to prepare her breakfast; this level of intimacy was unusual, unexpected. Instead of guessing, he would give her everything.
He pushed the plate in her direction and nodded at it. With a grin, Rose reached for the coffeepot. Ben shot out his hand, stilling her before reaching for a smaller, deep black pot and filling a palm-sized bowl with golden green liquid. He handed it to her and watched as she wrapped her long fingers around the clay cup. “I thought you might miss having tea at breakfast.”
Her forest eyes blinked at him as her smile spread. “Thank you.” She took a tiny sip then sputtered, putting the cup down as she blinked rapidly. “Oh, it’s—is it…”
“Sencha,” he said. “Despite wanting to make me as American as possible, my mother never convinced herself that coffee was a superior beverage. She always said the tea of her homeland would keep me healthy and strong.”
Rose took another delicate sip. “This is quite different from what I’m accustomed to, but I like it.” Another tiny sip and a nearly imperceptible wince.
He grinned as she fought to avoid showing her dislike. As though his feelings mattered to her. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it.”
“I do like it!” She took a sip and wrinkled her nose. “I’ll grow to like it. Thank you for thinking of me.”
Ben grunted, unable to find words in the glow of pleasure spreading through him at sharing something so meaningful to him.
“Was this your mother’s?” she asked, gesturing towards the tea set.
“It was, and her mother’s before her.” He lifted the pot to show her the kanji etched into the base. “My grandfather cast it for my grandmother when they married using clay from her family’s island. She left everything behind to marry him, knowing nothing about him or his people. He wanted her to know her home would always be a part of her.”
“That’s beautiful,” Rose said, dragging her finger along the side reverently, as though the love infused into the clay would be passed on to her.
He pointed at the handleless mug cradled in her hands. “My grandfather made six cups, hoping they would have a large family. They did, but they were rambunctious. That’s the only one remaining.”
Her eyes widened, and she sat up straighter. “I’ll be careful with it.”
Ben nodded, not wanting to slow down and examine how he felt seeing Rose protective of something that meant so much to him.
“Tell me about your mother.” Rose took another sip of her tea, smiling serenely as she swallowed. “She must have been a brave woman.”
“She was.” Ben sat back. Aside from Rose, he’d told no one about his mother; as much as he loved her, he could never understand her decision to remain loyal to Gerald North when he wouldn’t acknowledge her publicly, when he took over lovers and left them with children. Did his mother not have enough pride in herself to walk away? Or was she willing to diminish her worth to protect her child?
Rose raised a brow expectantly, then pushed her empty cup forward and nodded toward the pot.
He refilled her cup before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his coin. “She was the strongest person I’ve ever known, despite her circumstances.” He paused, considering. “Perhaps she was strong because of them.”
