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Feeling restless, he sorted through the basket from Mrs. MacBean. Inside were bowls of stewed beef, buttered parsnips, oatcakes, and crowdie cheese. For good measure, there was also a large flask of wine and two spiced apple tarts. He took a nip of the cheese. Fresh, tangy. Delicious. They wouldn’t go hungry; that much was certain.
“Your cousin has a talent for cookery, it seems,” he called through the bedchamber door.
“Do you mean Mary?” came the muffled reply. “The only cooking she does is her tinctures and salves. I’m certain the food came from the inn.”
He wandered into the kitchen to set more water to boil. His gaze snagged on the tea tin. He blinked. It was from his favorite purveyor, Twinings on the Strand in London. Returning to the front room, he lifted the lid on the teapot and took a whiff. His favorite blend wafted upward on a curl of steam.
“Euphemia,” he called. “The tea in the kitchen. Did you bring it with you from England?”
The bedchamber door opened. “No. It was here when we arrived. An odd coincidence, but a welcome one.”
Odd, indeed. He covered the pot and turned.
Every thought flew from his head. Hardness reclaimed parts of him it had earlier relinquished. Heat returned in a rush.
She wore only a shift and white dressing gown. Modest enough under ordinary circumstances, he supposed. But her hair was down, her nipples hard, and her spectacles gone. She was holding them, attempting to bend the wire while nibbling her plump lower lip.
He swallowed. Licked his own lips. “Would you like a blanket?”
She glanced up, squinting vaguely in his direction. “Hmm, no. Thank you. It’s quite warm in here now with both hearths lit.”
“Warm. Yes.”
“By chance, did you pack your tool kit?” she asked. “I can’t seem to grip firmly enough.”
Her hair was damp but drying into waves of moonlit gold. Her skin shone faintly pink against white muslin. Her delicate collarbone flirted with the lace of her dressing gown. Lower down, petite breasts boasting proud, hard peaks waited beneath two layers.
Only two. Scarcely anything, really. He could strip her bare inside a breath.
“A pair of pliers, perhaps,” she continued. “You always keep those close to hand.” A wry smile curved her tempting mouth. Celadon eyes lifted to twinkle with amusement. “As you often say, a treasure hunter is lost without his necessities.”
Blood pounded beneath his skin. In his ears. In his cock.
“Andrew?”
“Pliers. I’ll look outside.” He backed toward the door.
“But your valise is—”
“Shan’t be long.” He tugged it open, reveling in the icy gust.
“Don’t you want your—”
He closed the door behind him, hoping when he returned, his sanity would return with him.
