of the bottom.
She needed to wake him, but he looked so peaceful and content.
The soft rhythmical sound of his breathing was like food for the soul and her thoughts moved away from the initial tug of desire. Instead, she imagined crawling up between those muscular arms and sleeping, too.
Perhaps somewhere in his subconscious, he became aware of her standing there staring at him because he stretched his arms above his head and gave a satisfied hum.
In a panic, she scurried over to the table and tried to stop her heart from thumping against her ribs. She busied about clearing last nights plates, putting the decanter back on its tray in the hope the tinkering would alert him to her presence.
“Forgive me,” he suddenly said, his voice drifting across the room, the husky tones of sleep massaging her senses. “I do not usually sleep so late.”
When Rebecca turned to face him, she swallowed.
He was sitting up, his elbows resting on his knees as he brushed his hands through his hair in a bid to tame the unruly black locks. She noticed his waistcoat and cravat draped over the chair, the whole scene being one of relaxed intimacy.
An intimacy shared by lovers.
“It is only s-seven,” she stuttered, failing in her attempt to look anywhere in the room except at him.
He groaned as he drew the palm of his hand down his face.
“I will leave you to dress,” she added, desperate to get all her words out before she choked on them. “You may use my room to wash. There’s fresh water in the pitcher. I shall go downstairs and prepare something to eat. Do you drink coffee, Mr. Stone?”
“Gabriel,” he said with a mischievous grin, “and yes, Miss Linwood, I drink coffee.”
“Excellent,” she beamed as she collected a handful of plates, the sound of clattering china alerting him to her trembling fingers.
“Would you like some help?”
She swung around and a knife went skittering across the floor. “No, I will be perfectly fine.” But he ignored her comment and walked over to pick it up.
As he placed it back on top of the plates, her gaze betrayed her inner thoughts, as it refused to move from the dusting of dark hair peeking out from beneath the open collar of his shirt.
His mouth curved up into the beginnings of a smile. “I should get dressed.”
Rebecca spent twenty minutes preparing ham, eggs and toast, her mind torn between giving Mr. Stone time to wash and dress and rushing to finish before Mrs. James came back at eight.
She walked back into the room to find him admiring the painting of her mother, his clothing as impeccable as when he first arrived. Upon hearing the rattling tray, he rushed over, took it from her and carried it over to the table, and they began their meal in comfortable silence.
“I was wondering why you didn’t seek the help of your brothers when you suspected you were cursed. Your father had three sons. Surely, one of them took some interest in his work.”
Taking a sip of his coffee, he watched her over the rim of his cup, his brow arched while waiting for her reply. What was she supposed to say, that they despised her, that they despised their father? She would make a pact with Satan before asking for their help.
“They are not my brothers, Mr. Stone,” she corrected stiffly. “They are my father’s sons.”
He stared at her with those hungry eyes of his, and she became conscious of the way she was eating, sitting and breathing — each one of the simple tasks feeling awkward and new.
“Is there a difference?” he asked.
She put down her cutlery and dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Do you honestly need me to answer that?” When he shrugged, she said, “They were not happy about their father’s relationship with my mother. They are not happy I have this house and are not happy I exist at all.”
The answer seemed to unsettle him, and he was lost in his own thoughts for a moment, his eyes glazed as though recalling a distant memory, one painful and
She needed to wake him, but he looked so peaceful and content.
The soft rhythmical sound of his breathing was like food for the soul and her thoughts moved away from the initial tug of desire. Instead, she imagined crawling up between those muscular arms and sleeping, too.
Perhaps somewhere in his subconscious, he became aware of her standing there staring at him because he stretched his arms above his head and gave a satisfied hum.
In a panic, she scurried over to the table and tried to stop her heart from thumping against her ribs. She busied about clearing last nights plates, putting the decanter back on its tray in the hope the tinkering would alert him to her presence.
“Forgive me,” he suddenly said, his voice drifting across the room, the husky tones of sleep massaging her senses. “I do not usually sleep so late.”
When Rebecca turned to face him, she swallowed.
He was sitting up, his elbows resting on his knees as he brushed his hands through his hair in a bid to tame the unruly black locks. She noticed his waistcoat and cravat draped over the chair, the whole scene being one of relaxed intimacy.
An intimacy shared by lovers.
“It is only s-seven,” she stuttered, failing in her attempt to look anywhere in the room except at him.
He groaned as he drew the palm of his hand down his face.
“I will leave you to dress,” she added, desperate to get all her words out before she choked on them. “You may use my room to wash. There’s fresh water in the pitcher. I shall go downstairs and prepare something to eat. Do you drink coffee, Mr. Stone?”
“Gabriel,” he said with a mischievous grin, “and yes, Miss Linwood, I drink coffee.”
“Excellent,” she beamed as she collected a handful of plates, the sound of clattering china alerting him to her trembling fingers.
“Would you like some help?”
She swung around and a knife went skittering across the floor. “No, I will be perfectly fine.” But he ignored her comment and walked over to pick it up.
As he placed it back on top of the plates, her gaze betrayed her inner thoughts, as it refused to move from the dusting of dark hair peeking out from beneath the open collar of his shirt.
His mouth curved up into the beginnings of a smile. “I should get dressed.”
Rebecca spent twenty minutes preparing ham, eggs and toast, her mind torn between giving Mr. Stone time to wash and dress and rushing to finish before Mrs. James came back at eight.
She walked back into the room to find him admiring the painting of her mother, his clothing as impeccable as when he first arrived. Upon hearing the rattling tray, he rushed over, took it from her and carried it over to the table, and they began their meal in comfortable silence.
“I was wondering why you didn’t seek the help of your brothers when you suspected you were cursed. Your father had three sons. Surely, one of them took some interest in his work.”
Taking a sip of his coffee, he watched her over the rim of his cup, his brow arched while waiting for her reply. What was she supposed to say, that they despised her, that they despised their father? She would make a pact with Satan before asking for their help.
“They are not my brothers, Mr. Stone,” she corrected stiffly. “They are my father’s sons.”
He stared at her with those hungry eyes of his, and she became conscious of the way she was eating, sitting and breathing — each one of the simple tasks feeling awkward and new.
“Is there a difference?” he asked.
She put down her cutlery and dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Do you honestly need me to answer that?” When he shrugged, she said, “They were not happy about their father’s relationship with my mother. They are not happy I have this house and are not happy I exist at all.”
The answer seemed to unsettle him, and he was lost in his own thoughts for a moment, his eyes glazed as though recalling a distant memory, one painful and
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