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6
Snow Snuggles
Wakefulness tiptoed in, slowly bringing Anne alert. Darkness still surrounded her. But this time, no gentle flicker and pop, the comforting sounds of a roaring fire gone silent.
Which told her as much as the chill nipping her cheeks and nose that Mr. Edwards had finally allowed the blaze to die down—after stoking it since their arrival.
Each time she’d watched with eyes squinted nearly shut, fascinated by the play of light and shadow over his strong back, the straining muscles in his forearm, visible where he’d pulled up his shirtsleeve. Fascinated just as much by the light grunts he made, shifting the heavy logs into place, how he’d whisper blame it or damn, followed immediately by a hushed pardon, as though even in her sleep (feigned though it was) she might take offense.
How she wanted to stroke that broad back. Run her curious fingers over those wide shoulders. She wanted to explore his chest, the muscles of his upper arms… Even the truncated arm. How bad was the scarring? Had he healed properly? Did it pain him still?
And the circumstances surrounding the injury. War, of course… But which battle? Had she heard of it? How much had he suffered?
What of the others he fought with? Had he lost friends in the same confrontation?
Her curiosity about him seemed endless…
What did he look like without his week or more of bristles stubbling his lower face?
How long would he remain as Lord Warrick’s gamekeeper before moving on?
Where was he from? This shire, perhaps? Or another, nearby one?
Would she ever see him again?
And what of it, if you do? You are to be married, lest you forget.
Nay, indeed not.
For she’d come to the realization during the interminable day that she would not tie herself to a man who couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge her.
The winter ball her mother and Lady Redford insisted upon could very well be held in his honor, returning lord that he was, but it certainly would not be celebrating their engagement.
As thoughts of her absent not-quite intended froze her down to her soul—perhaps aided by the blustering wind that rattled the glass panes behind the chaise—Anne realized she was trembling. Shivering from the cold. Her heated fascination with Mr. Edwards no longer sufficient to warm her.
Odd, as she recalled his deep murmurs when he’d blanketed her with bedding he’d brought in earlier. Now, huddled beneath the covers, benumbing air met her face.
Orange embers lodged beneath a heavy log were all that remained, a waft of smoke drifting from its charred edges…outlining his form, she saw when she rolled toward the quiet fireplace to find him kneeling before the spent fire, his knees bent as he sat back upon his heels. “You’re awake. Damn. Pardon.”
“You did not wake me. If anything, the silence did.” A shudder bolted through her.
“Apologies. Still not certain how I managed to mangle it—” He swore again and she pushed the pile of sheets and blankets toward her lap, ignored the frigid air that brought another shiver and propped herself up on one elbow.
In the scant light, she saw that unlike the other times he’d tended the fire in his shirtsleeves, now his shirt was gone—leaving his back and chest bare—.
Look away!
Not on my life.
His dark hair was decidedly mussed, his brow creased and face scowling.
“Tell me what happened?” she invited.
“Damn arm… Hand…” He gestured with the stump, ran his fingers through his hair and grimaced anew. “Damn me. I somehow upset the stacked, dry logs outside. Had no idea.” Bewilderment may have coated his tone, but a barrage of self-loathing radiated from every word. “Amazed that bungle didn’t wake either of us.”
The fading embers struggling beneath the charred log lit one side of his face, granting a glowing edge upon his profile. He shifted on his knees and turned shadowed, haunted eyes toward her. “Cannot even keep you warm through the night as I promised. All the cut wood is wet. Soaked through. Somehow, it spilt from beneath the lean-to and now is drenched, soaked through with snow and ice and, blast it to hell and back, no matter how I try, I cannot get it to light. God damn it!” With his fist, he thumped his bare chest, smacked the biceps above the severed arm. “Useless.”
His head drooped forward and he stared at the pile of ash and smoldering wood. “Already have we burned through the kindling. Tried using the hot coals, but the new logs refuse to take—blast me. A thousand pardons. I failed you.”
