“Pardon?”
He swallowed and cleared his throat. “I’m a fog?”
“You certainly are, Lucas. Did you drink Ole Grim Reaper? We didn’t get anything shod in the village after–”
“I’m a soldier, not a blacksmith or a horse-breeding earl, and us soldiers can hold our liquor.” He sat up, swaying slightly. He smelled of icy air, leather and The Green Man inn – a mix of hops, smoke and sage. “I’m in a fog, fair maiden.”
Rosalind frowned. “It’s not foggy out, Lucas. ’Tis a clear night.”
“Stone said it, and I thought I’d filch it. It’s superb…poetry.”
“That you feel foggy?”
“No, no. Without you, I’m in a fog.”
“Oh, that’s…sweet. How did you get to the window?” She watched his brow furrow.
“Ladder. Stone held the… Oh hell’s teeth, I’m supposed to shout him when I’m in.”
“Is Stone in the same state as you?”
“Oh no, much worse. Absolutely stewed to the gills. Six tankards, he had. It was all his idea.”
“I think we’ll leave him to freeze to death then; you could have fallen. Stupid men!” She scowled at him, hoping he took her words to heart, but he just grinned back, a foolish look on his face.
“Our fears always outnumber our dangers…” he said, flinging his arms out.
Rosalind continued to look unimpressed. “Don’t play proverbs with Benedict. He comes out with an absurd one about a cow.”
“That’s how I ended up here.” And he gave her a mournful look.
“Well, now you are, you may as well make yourself useful. I’m freezing as someone left the window open.”
She shouldn’t let him stay. She should direct him to his own quarters, but he had climbed a ladder in the snow and ice, which did demonstrate determination if not intelligence.
He rose, swayed and started to tear off his jacket, leaving it crumpled on the floor. The cravat, it seemed, gave him more problems. He pulled at it, only making it tighter.
“Billy tied the cravat,” he said hoarsely, “and now I’m going to die.”
She rolled her eyes at his dire prediction and started to help, but the man was just too tall.
Looking around in the moonlight, she spied the perfect item and scurried over to it. Lucas swayed, choking slightly as the neck cloth tightened further with his ineffective fumbling. She came back with the jade silk-covered footstool and placed it directly in front of him. With a hand on his chest to steady her, she stepped onto it, eye level with Lucas.
“Stay still,” she said sternly. All of a sudden, it seemed a bad idea as he was too close. In the moonlight, she could see the intense silver flash of his eyes, his full lips, slightly raw from the cold wind.
“What a pretty night-rail,” he said grinning. “I like you there. Perfect height.”
She didn’t ask and started to unravel the complicated knots.
“I love you, Rosalind, all of you. I mean it.” It was slightly slurred.
“You’re half-cut. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Say what I think. Doesn’t make me say what I don’t mean,” he garbled.
She finally untied the knots in the cravat, but couldn’t untie the knots in that sentence. She felt a hand on her face. It brushed down her neck and then rested on her shoulder. His eyes followed the trail of his fingers as he brushed against her breast and then rested his hand over her heart.
“You’re my chateau in the fog.”
