Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) by Stephanie Laurens

for the coffeepot. “Would you like coffee to start with?”
    He nodded and she poured him a cup, then carried it to him.
    He reached out and, with both hands, took it from her. His fingers brushed over hers and, once again, she felt a sensual shiver.
    Which she ruthlessly quashed; developing any degree of susceptibility to her employer was very definitely not part of her plans.
    Without any sign of awareness of his impact, he buried his nose in the cup, and, relieved, she retreated to the stove. “Bacon and eggs in just a few minutes.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Are scrambled eggs all right, or would you rather fried?”
    “Scrambled will suit me very well.” He looked at Homer and Pippin. “So what are you two doing today?”
    They told him, filling his ears with all the little details of their days while she laid the bacon to drain, then tipped her prepared eggs into the skillet.
    Three minutes later, she set a plate piled with a mound of fluffy golden eggs and trimmed with three slices of the local bacon before him.
    “Oh, that does look good.” Picking up his knife and fork, he addressed himself to the food.
    Rose set Homer’s and Pippin’s smaller serves before them and they, too, fell silent.
    Satisfied, she slipped into her chair and joined the gustatory indulgence. But she remained alert, feeling that this was all going too easily and expecting some catch, some less-than-helpful aspect to make itself known at any minute, yet none did.
    And, she had to admit, having him take his meals with them would make catering for his presence significantly easier.
    As if to demonstrate yet another advantage, on finishing his meal he pushed away his plate, reached for the coffeepot she’d set on the table, and poured himself a second cup, sipped, then his hazel gaze focused on her. “I have to ride into Breage, and then on to Helston this morning. Is there anything you’d like me to fetch—more eggs, butter, ham?”
    She blinked. “I get groceries, eggs, and meat delivered every week—the last delivery was earlier this week—but . . .” She hadn’t allowed for his arrival, and she’d just used up a good half of the eggs. “In the circumstances, perhaps I could give you a list, just to get us through until the next delivery comes. I can increase my orders then.”
    He held her gaze for a moment, long enough to have her thinking over her words and wondering what she’d said. But then he nodded and pushed away from the table. “By all means give me your list of immediate extras, but you can also give me a list of those merchants with whom you have standing orders. I’ll call on them, look over the orders, and increase accordingly, then the deliveries from next week will be sufficient.” He paused, his gaze growing momentarily distant, then he refocused on her face. “I believe my original arrangement was that all the merchants send their bills to Drayton. Is that system still in place?”
    She nodded, casting about for some way of asking the question the discussion had raised.
    As before, his lips quirked—and this time she knew it was in understanding; he had read her mind—and he said, “I don’t know how long I’ll be remaining here. It could be for weeks, or even months.”
    She blinked. “You have no definite plans?”
    Still holding her gaze, he shook his head. “No.” After a moment, he added, “You might say I’m awaiting a summons of sorts, but I can’t say when it will arrive.”
    So he was there potentially indefinitely. She inclined her head, accepting, for what else could she do?
    He got to his feet, smiled as he nodded to the children, then he glanced at her. “I’ll be in the library for a few hours. I’ll come and find you before I leave.”
    She nodded again and watched him pass under the archway into the corridor to the front of the house. He still limped, still used his cane, but, she noticed, he wasn’t leaning as heavily on it as he had been the previous