Within minutes, he was trekking through the heavy, wet snow toward the shed. It was little more than a lean-to built up against the stable wall, but it kept most of the wood high and dry. Even over the rather fierce-sounding wind, the wooded roof creaked and groaned alarmingly. Rather than have the somewhat haphazard structure collapse, Oliver helped himself to a shovel from inside the stables and used it to rake most of the snow off the shed roof. The wind worked against him, blowing most of the powdery substance back onto him where it promptly melted and drenched his clothes. Still, he worked through the chill and discomfort.
When that task was done, he used one of the heavy, waxed canvas totes for firewood and filled it full, packing it back to the house. While his burden was heavy, it was less about its weight than the difficulty of trudging through snow that, courtesy of heavy drifts, was nearly knee-deep in places.
By the time he’d reached the kitchen door once more, he was soaked through and chilled to the bone. The moment he stepped inside, he deposited the burden of the firewood on the floor just inside the door and began shrugging out of his drenched coat. Immediately, it was taken from him and hung on a peg to dry.
“You’re soaked through!” Miss Winters chided softly. “Had I known that it was snowing that hard I should never have had you go outside!”
“It’s not the snow so much as the wind,” he explained. Briefly, he told her about the shed.
“Oh, dear. Hampton wanted to get that fixed before the winter weather came in earnest but he was very ill not long ago and I forbade him to start such an arduous task alone,” she replied. “But let us get you warm and dry. There is a fire blazing in the parlor as we speak. I’ll run up to your room and fetch you dry clothes.”
Oliver shook his head. “Absolutely not. You are not a servant to wait on me so. I will go up and change, then I will join you in the parlor.”
She shook her head. “There is much work to be done in the kitchen if we are to have a meal tonight.”
“What would you prepare for your meal were I not here?” He demanded
“I would have the bread I baked yesterday, some cold meat and cheese with a bit of fruit,” she replied. “But that is hardly suitable fare for a guest!”
“I am not your guest. I am an interloper, Miss Winters. Thrust upon you uninvited by circumstance and the vagaries of English weather. It will be fine. I shall join your shortly… I want to learn more about your cousin, Cecil, and what he might be planning.”
She nodded at him. “Very well.”
At that moment, Oliver realized just how close they were standing. Close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of brown and gold in her bright, green eyes. Close enough that he could smell a hint of vanilla and lemon from her hair which hung over her shoulder in a braid thicker than her slender wrist. He also knew the precise moment she realized it too. Her cheeks flushed, not with embarrassment, but with awareness.
He no longer felt the cold. His damp clothes might well have sizzled from the heat of his own skin as her tongue darted out to nervously wet her lips. Never in all of his life had he wanted to taste a woman’s lips desperately, to feel the light touch of her tongue on his skin. It was an ache inside him that was almost unbearable.
Miss Winters stepped back, abruptly breaking the sensual spell and allowing reason to return.
“I will go change and join you shortly,” he said stiffly… formally. After all, he was not there to court her or to seduce her. He was there because he’d been sent to remove her from her home. And if her brother failed to return by the time he left, there was likely little that could be done to halt that unfortunate outcome, no matter how bitterly he wished otherwise.
She will hate me. And if I treat her with anything more than formality and civility, I will hate myself.
Oliver turned on his heel and practically fled the room at a run.
FIVE
December 16th—evening
They had settled companionably into the parlor after their light lunch of cold meat, bread, cheese, and some fruit. There was a small spinnet in one corner and Miss Winters had played several tunes. He enjoyed the music, though truthfully, he enjoyed watching her more. When she played, she did so passionately and with a kind of abandon that he had rarely witnessed in anyone else. It was certainly not the staid and rather boring sort of musical entertainment from the young ladies that he had encountered when in society. Nor was it the raucous banging of a pianoforte in the gambling dens and music halls where he often boxed.
While he still frequented those shadier locations from time to time, when he needed the release of a good match to stave off the monotony of his life, he was no longer welcomed by society. Having chosen to take up the law, even as the younger son of a marquess, the people with whom he had once socialized so freely would no longer speak to him. Now, he was considered to be in trade and far beneath them. How being gainfully employed was somehow less desirable than choosing to be a wastrel and a layabout was simply beyond his ken.
When the music died, the last note echoing softly in the room, Miss Winters closed the cover of the spinnet and rose. “I’ve bored you silly, no doubt. I enjoy playing but it always seems there is never enough time for such things.”
“You should have time for such things. You should not have to work so hard as you do,” he observed. “Not to be indelicate, Miss Winters, but can you afford no other servants?”
“Oh, I could easily afford the wage of another servant. Alas, we are so isolated that many people would not wish to live this far from the village, and those that would—well, they would not wish to live with me. It’s those oddities again, Mr. Hawthorne. Only Mavis and Hampton are brave enough that they are not scared of the ‘witch’,” she replied in a teasing tone. She stepped forward then, reaching for the teacup that he still held. “But then they’re a bit scandalous themselves, so they don’t much care what others think of them or me.’
Recalling the reaction when he’d asked for directions to Mansford Hall, Oliver frowned with concern for her. He relinquished the cup, but she did not refill it. Instead, she peered into the leaves gathered at the bottom of it. “That is no joking matter. This is a small village and quite frankly, based on the way the ostler at the coaching inn responded, quite backward in their thinking. We are not so far removed from the days of witch hunts, Miss Winters, that you could not face some sort of danger from such talk.”
She looked up at him, a smile curving her lips, but there was both sadness and wisdom in her gaze. “They’ll not burn me at the stake, Mr. Hawthorne. They fear me too much for that… and they need me. Who else will fix their love potions and tell their fortunes? No. I’m safe enough from them. I’ll just never be part of them.”
Oliver shook his head. “It isn’t fair.”
She cocked her head thoughtfully, looking at him in a way that indicated he was very naive. Given their situations—him a London solicitor with a penchant for illegal pugilism and her an innocent woman, alone and isolated in the countryside—the very opposite should have been true. Finally, she gave a soft sigh accompanied by a sweet smile, “Life rarely is fair, Mr. Hawthorne, especially not for women. If I expected otherwise, I would never be anything but disappointed. But, since I have your tea leaves in front of me, would you like a demonstration of what it is that I do?”
It would have been rude to refuse. And he would own to no small amount of curiosity—not about the art of reading tea leaves, but about the woman who read them. Perhaps in telling his fortune, she would reveal more of herself. He nodded.
