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Miles darted outside and returned in less than a minute with a backpack.
“Your clothes are in there?” I eyed it. “That doesn’t look like it holds warm clothes.”
“Warm enough,” he replied. “Anywhere I can change?”
“Oh, sure. Um, follow me.” I motioned to the stairs, hobbling slightly. “None of the spare rooms are made up, but I can get sheets and do that for you.”
“You can barely walk up the stairs.”
“A gentleman would carry me, especially since I just saved his arse, but I won’t judge you for not doing that. Besides, I need to get changed myself.” I made it to the top successfully and hobbled my way along to one of the spare rooms that was as far away from my room as possible. “Here,” I said, opening the door. “I’ll get some sheets while you change. If you put your wet clothes in the laundry basket there in the corner, we can wash and dry them tonight.”
“Sounds good. Thank you.”
“No problem.” I swallowed and backed away, heading in the direction of the airing cupboard where all the bedding was stored.
At least I hoped that was where it was stored.
Thankfully, I was saved the embarrassment of having to traverse a four-hundred-year-old manor house for spare sheets by the fact they were in the exact place I thought they would be.
Not that anyone would know I had to search everywhere, except perhaps Miles if he caught me.
That was enough to make me thankful. God only knew I didn’t need to be embarrassed in front of him anymore than I already was.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I gathered the clean sheets and limped back to Miles’ room. I really needed to sit down in the kitchen and bandage my foot. I was almost certain there was a first aid kit under the sink or in the mudroom that would have one in it.
Almost.
I cleared my throat and knocked on the door. Miles’ muffled, “Hang on,” came a moment later, and I leaned against the wall to take some of the weight off my ankle.
Did I mention my ankle hurt?
Stupid bloody rain.
Stupid bloody weather.
Stupid bloody—
“What are those?”
I looked down at the sheets in my hand. “Sheets. For the bed.”
“Oh.” He almost looked surprised. “Want me to take those?”
I blinked at him. “No, I can make the bed.”
“You can barely walk.”
“You’re my guest. If anyone finds out I didn’t look after you properly, I’m finished. Just move out of my way and let me make your bed up for you.”
“Ah, there’s the polite hostess I knew you had in you.”
“You’re getting on my nerves with your attitude.”
“Excuse me, princess, but I’m not exactly thrilled about this turn of events.”
“If you call me princess one more time, I shall haul you out of my house and throw you into a puddle.”
“Oh, I’m scared.” His lips almost twitched into a smile. Almost. Almost, damn it. Why did he never smile? And why did I want to make him smile so badly? “You couldn’t haul yourself out of the house in your current state, let alone me.”
“Just move.” I pushed past him and walked into the large room. It was as elaborately decorated as the others, with old, dark wooden furniture. The rug under the bed was almost threadbare, but Aunt Cat insisted it offered character, as did the slightly worn curtains.
Thank God she’d lost the blackout blind battle.
Those were currently closed, meaning the only light in the room was the old brass chandelier overhead. It had five lights, and the bulbs were energy savers that took forever to warm up, so Miles had the bedside lamps turned on as well as the one on the antique desk in the corner.
“It’s like Blackpool illuminations in here,” I muttered, setting the sheets on the storage trunk at the foot of the bed.
“You sound like my mum,” Miles said dryly. “God forbid one turned on a light before the streetlights came on.”
I fought back a giggle. My dad had always said the same thing when me and my brother were kids—and when he’d finally taken us to the famous Blackpool Illuminations one November, we’d laughed and told him our house was nothing like that.
For one, our lights were inside.
Two, we didn’t have hot doughnut stands lining the street.
We’d immediately petitioned for that but had wholeheartedly lost on account of us being under the age of thirteen and not considered reliable business sources. My efforts of pointing out that Harry Potter was only published because of a child were ignored, and I’d had the last laugh when, several months after we officially opened the gardens to the public, a snack stand had opened near the house.
With—that’s right—hot bloody doughnuts.
I mean, I had to pay for them, but it was so worth it.
It was like a funfair in my back garden.
I moved the pillows to the end of the bed and got the fitted sheet. It was folded perfectly—whoever had done this was surely a magician. Unfolding it was like unravelling fairy lights at Christmas. You know when you just wrap them around your hand and shove them in the box with the tinsel because it’ll be fine next year?
