Page 29 of Beloved Beast

She reached across the table and clutched his right hand. “As long as we have, as often as you wish.”

“Let’s go upstairs now,” he said, his voice rough with passion. Her touch, her emotionally spoken words, along with her warm affection, sparked his enthusiastic passion to life. Again.

Her light, feminine laugh sounded like champagne trickling into crystal stemware. “My. You are insatiable.”

Damn, if only she knew. The breadth and depth of his lust had alarmed him more than once through the years. He fought back his primal, carnal urges and decided changing the topic would be a prudent plan. “After we eat, we will dress you in your disguise and send you off to the grocer. Did you bring the ration book Fred gave you?”

She nodded while biting into the jam covered bread. A drop of blackberry preserve lingered at the corner of her mouth and she darted her tongue out to capture it, the motion innocent, yet arousing.

“Have you thought of a story?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Yes.” She wiped her mouth with the napkin. “I will tell them—if anyone asks—the place I worked in London, a book publisher, was bombed out and the Parkers, who are acquaintances, offered the use of their home in order for me to be alone and rest.”

Luke nodded in approval. “Excellent. Hopefully anyone listening will get the hint you wish to remain undisturbed. I will give you extra money. These small village grocers sell eggs and whatnot under the table. Ask if there will be freshly butchered chicken during the two weeks we are here. Pay no more than four times the going price. Same with a little fresh milk instead of canned if you can manage it. Buy no more than is needed for one person, as we do not want to draw any suspicion.”

Gillian sipped her tea. “How long do you think we’ll be here?”

Not bloody long enough. Easy. Don’t fall for her. “Hard to gauge. Fred will be in touch by telegraph messenger. Two weeks at the most perhaps.”

“I want to say this.” She placed the cup on the saucer. “Last night. It was beyond anything I’ve experienced before. I have the feeling I could easily fall for you.”

Her honest words made his breath catch in his throat. “You are quite frank.”

She popped another piece of bread in her mouth and gave a slight shrug. “I’ve had enough of keeping emotions bottled up and hidden away.” She rose to her feet. “Guess I’d best make ready to head for the village.” She exited the kitchen, leaving Luke stunned.

Fall for him? Thing is, if he permitted it, he could fall for her as well.

Chapter 13

With her wig pinned in place and the black-framed glasses slipping down her nose, Gillian had to admit she looked rather drab. Wearing the padding and her old coat, the long, straight, straggly hair of the wig screamed “plain spinster,” which is what her and Luke wanted to convey. The glass frames were huge, obscuring part of her face. With a wool muffler tied about her throat and her gloved hands clutching a battered purse, she made her way to the village proper.

The ground was slushy under her boots, and small banks of snow still remained where the sun could not reach. By the time she crested the hill, her ankle boots were covered with a viscous mud. The gray clouds hung low as if threatening a possible snowfall. As she made her way toward the village, her thoughts turned to Luke. Why did she mention she could fall for him? Despite her spy training, in matters of the heart she found it hard to falsify any deeper emotion. A good thing she became smitten with Otto or the mission would not have lasted as long as it did. Or have been as successful.

But the previous night. Dear God, it was the most intense, sensuous experience of her life. Granted she’d only been with one other man, but Luke’s lovemaking was a curious and enticing mix of savage tenderness. She craved him. The most feminine parts of her throbbed from the ardent sex as if he were still inside her. She would have to make an effort to keep a tight grip on her emotions, as she could not put her battered heart through this again. Yet, she agreed to the affair. Shaking her head in confusion and sadness, Gillian picked up the pace.

The village was smaller than she thought it would be, but still a fair size. The main thoroughfare consisted of two rows of buildings on either side of the pavement with an ancient stone church sitting at the head of the long street. Numerous trees and hedgerows surrounded the area, giving the place a stately look. But the businesses appeared to be thriving. In one brick structure was a small pub called The Stag and Keg. The old wooden sign swinging above her head claimed it was established in 1888. Boisterous laughter emitted from the structure. Already? She glanced at her watch. It was barely noon, perhaps the lunch crowd.

There was a bookseller, a draper, a chemist, a dry goods shop, a post and telegraph office, and a repair shop. The largest building was the grocer, T. Robertson and Sons. A sign in the window claimed they sold baked goods. She entered and the bell jingled over her head.

A few customers mingled about, but there wasn’t much merchandise on the counters. No doubt kept out back to dole out according to the ration rules. However, the enticing scent of freshly baked bread filled her nostrils. Thankfully, there was a large display. Picking up a basket, she selected a loaf of bread and a dozen pan rolls along with oatmeal biscuits and raisin cake. She did like a little jam spread on a roll with her cup of tea. Luke told her they had salt but could use coffee, an item not rationed. She tucked a small container in with the baked goods.

“Can I help you, miss?” The woman behind the counter called out. She was gray-haired and appeared to be in her mid-fifties. The look on her face was friendly, but also showed she would not tolerate any nonsense.

Here we go. “Yes. Thank you.” Gillian handed the older woman her ration book.

“Miss Ethel McKinnon. New to Charlwood, are you?” The older woman looked her over thoroughly.

“Temporarily. I’m staying at the Parker house for a few weeks.” She gave the woman a brief, polite smile.

“Welcome, I’m Mrs. Robertson.” She pulled a ledger out from under the counter. “You will have to register while you’re staying in the area.” Mrs. Robertson busily scribbled her name and address, obviously familiar with the Parker residence. “And you are alone at the house?” she asked briskly.

“Yes, I am.”

“From London, are you?” Mrs. Robertson asked as she continued to write.

Gillian innately understood she would be inundated with questions, so she decided to put her false story out there all at once. With a sad note to her voice, she explained about working for the book publisher, it being bombed, and her trying to recover from nervous exhaustion.

Mrs. Robertson clucked her tongue in sympathy. “It’s hasn’t been easy to be sure. Well, if there is any place you can enjoy a quiet rest, it’s here in Charlwood. What can I get for you today?”