More Than a Lover by Ann Lethbridge

and a faint flush high on her cheekbones.
    A faint suspicion crossed his mind. Had she, too, had a vision of him naked? Was that why she had averted her gaze? His body hardened. Blast. He really was losing his mind. He strode into the pantry, forcing himself to think of anything but the woman beside the hearth. The stone room was blessedly chilly. He focused on that cold and thoughts of icy rain trickling down his neck during the long hours of guard duty. Finally he got himself under control, found the milk jug, took a deep breath and returned to the warmth of the kitchen. He filled a small pan from the jug and placed it on the hearth to heat. He added the brandy from her glass. ‘It won’t taste quite so bad this way.’
    â€˜I keep thinking of that poor man. Of facing his wife with the news.’
    He’d offer to tell the widow for her, but he already knew she would not accept someone else shouldering her burdens no matter how unpleasant the duty. He liked that about her. Her inner strength. Her quiet pride.
    And there was no comfort he could offer that would not sound false.
    He sat beside her on the settle and placed his hand over hers, lightly. Her hand was small beneath his and, despite the warmth in the kitchen, icy cold. ‘You can only do your best.’
    To his surprise and pleasure, she did not pull her hand free, though she could easily have done so.
    A small sigh escaped her lips. ‘It is all anyone can do, I suppose.’
    Not anyone. Those with good intentions. There were far too many of the other sort waiting to trap the unwary. He forced himself to rise, before he did something really stupid like putting his arm around her, pulling her close and kissing her soft, pretty lips. Crouching at the hearth, he pressed a palm to the side of the pan. It had warmed up nicely. He filled her glass and handed it to her. ‘Try it now.’
    She took a sip and made a face. ‘Not quite as bad.’
    â€˜Drink it quickly and—’
    â€˜Get it over with.’
    They both chuckled.
    â€˜Mrs Lane gave me the same advice, but having experienced it once it seems worse than ever.’
    â€˜Everything that does you good tastes bad,’ he said. For the first time in a long time he heard his mother’s voice in his head. Saying those very same words with a catch in her voice. He frowned at the memory. He could not place where it came from. The circumstances. Or even imagine why he would think of it now when he tried never to think of her at all. Shocked by the direction of his thoughts, he rose to his feet.
    Oblivious to his reaction, she lifted her glass in a pretend toast and drank it down quickly. She shuddered from head to toe. He poured the last of the milk into her glass, sans brandy. ‘Perhaps this will help take the taste away.’
    She drank it down quickly. A residue of the milk clung to her bottom lip. He wanted to lick it away. To taste her. She dabbed at it with the back of her hand, leaving him disappointed.
    Bah, he was a fool. He turned away. Went to the window to look out, to get his thoughts into some sort of logical order. ‘I informed Lane that we plan to leave for Skepton at first light, if that is all right with you. It will take us a couple of hours given the state of the roads after all this rain.’
    He heard the rustle of her clothes as she rose to her feet behind him. As he had intended, she had taken his words as a dismissal.
    To his shock, her hand landed on his arm. His left arm. He swung around to face her and found her looking up at him, a smile on her lips and warmth in her eyes that only a fool would pretend not to understand. Gratitude. Kindness.
    If she really knew him, she would not look on him so kindly.
    â€˜Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘I think I will be able to sleep now. I will be up and ready to leave first thing.’
    For a moment, he thought she might rise up on her toes and kiss his cheek, like a sister or a