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“English,” she said quietly, clearing her throat, attempting a smile. It felt tight on her lips. “I speak English.”
His square jaw flexed a little, his arms lifting to cross his chest. He was imposing enough, let alone standing several steps above her, and with his muscular arms drawing her attention to his abdomen.
He wore jeans that were low on his hips, a faded denim, they looked well-loved. His feet were bare, his chest heavily inked.
“And what the hell are you doing in my house?”
It occurred to Isabella for the first time since setting off for the sole light in the woods that he may not let her seek shelter here. Perhaps he intended to slam the door in her face and send her back to her car? Or trust her fate to the wild weather?
Anxiety skidded down her spine, sending little arrows through her blood.
“My car – skidded off the road.”
“You mean you were driving? In this?” He gestured with his thumb towards the outside and though there were no windows in that direction, she followed the direction he’d indicated, nodding jerkily.
“It wasn’t so bad when I set out. I didn’t realise –,”
He interrupted her with a curse. “What kind of fool –,” the invective tapered into nothing as he shook his head with obvious disapproval. “This is a blizzard. You shouldn’t have been out on a night like this.”
“I know that now,” she said, and even though his words had driven her to anger, even though she’d been challenged by people before, her voice shook a little, as though tears were close at hand. She dug her fingernails into her palms, refusing to admit them. “Unfortunately, I didn’t have my crystal ball when I left the roadhouse, and so couldn’t have known that the whole sky would open up and dump down on this hillside.”
“A crystal ball is beside the point. I presume you know how to read a weather forecast.”
Heat bloomed in her face and she didn’t dare admit that the thought hadn’t occurred to her. “In any event,” she said stiffly, her throat thick, her body shivering from head to toe now. “My car skidded off the road and my phone has no reception, your house was the only light I could see, so I walked here –,”
“From the road?” He interrupted flatly, his expression unchanging.
She nodded once.
He swore under his breath then reached down, surprising her by gripping her elbow with his firm, warm fingers. “You are ice.”
“Yes, well, it’s rather cold out there,” she said unevenly, surprised at the little bursts of electricity that were bursting from his touch, warming her up even when she knew that shouldn’t be possible.
“Come upstairs. There’s a fire.”
The prospect of such a thing overrode every modicum of concern she felt. For a fire, it was worth risking almost anything. She jerked free of his grip, moving ahead of him, shivering uncontrollably by the time she reached the top of the stairs. But it was warmer up here – much, much warmer.
“This way.” His hand in the small of her back had exactly the same impact as his earlier touch. Flames seemed to burst wherever he touched. She tilted her face towards him, but he wasn’t looking at her. On the contrary, he kept his face averted and his face bore all the signs of complete irritation at her intrusion.
Her spine was ramrod straight as she walked, Isabella quite indignant at his impatience. After all, this had hardly been her plan! She thought longingly of the accommodation she’d angsted over and eventually reserved, the sweet, cosy little cottage that would be sitting empty, awaiting her arrival. A kitchen she’d been looking forward to getting to know, as she experimented with the recipes she’d gathered for her cookbook during her travels so far.
At the door to a large room – a library? Books lined three of the four walls, and on the fourth there was an enormous fireplace, at least twice the width of any she’d ever seen before. It had dark marble sides and a mantle that looked to be timber, a red oak. Above it sat a mirror, as ancient as the castle. The floor was timber, polished floorboards, with a rich burgundy rug in the middle. It was the room she’d spied from outside, and guessed a light to be on. She’d been wrong. There was no light, only the glow cast from the fireplace.
“Sit,” he grunted, gesturing to a single high-backed armchair set a short distance from the fireplace. She paused, dumping her bag, rucksack and coat on the seat before moving directly in front of the fire, hugging herself as she waited for the heat to sink into bones that had turned to ice chips.
“Your shoes are wet. You will be more comfortable if you remove them.”
She looked down at her feet and realised with a slight yelp that he was right. She’d traipsed a watery trail behind her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”
His eyes glared at her, but not with anger about the water marks. She suspected these were the least of her sins.
Compressing her lips, she turned her back to the fire and did as he’d said, using her toes to kick the impractical white joggers from her feet, then peeling off her saturated socks. It offered some relief.
“I’ll get you a rug.” It was said with what could only be described as resentment. As though accommodating her in any way was wounding him personally.
She ground her teeth together, aware that she couldn’t exactly demand he treat her like a welcome guest. He was under no requirement to act as her gracious host – at this point she’d settle for him not kicking her out before she’d thawed completely.
“Thank you.”
