element. Thankfully she had managed to push that part of her down so she could focus on her duties, even if her eyes and attention kept drifting back to the large man, graceful and captivating in his storytelling.
And tonight was her last night in the inn itself. Tomorrow she would begin making the cottage livable, starting with her bedchamber.
She drifted off to sleep, a smile on her face, and dreamed of a bald gentle giant telling a story just for her.
J ohn hammered in a shingle on the cottage roof and accepted another one from the carpenter, Robbie. Mrs. Brock had inspected the cottage for residency earlier in the week and the disappointment on her face ate at his gut. He directed the carpenters to halt whatever project she had them currently working on and to begin repairs to make the small residence habitable. He contributed when he could step away from the inn to help the project along. He decided the entire roof ought to be reframed and replaced, given the amount of leaks and rot they had found. They had already completed the reframing and were now laying the slate shingles.
It felt good to be doing physical work again. He enjoyed tending to his pub and inn, but after a decade of living by the strength of his body, the inaction of his new profession was difficult to accustom himself to. The ringing of hammers filled his ears, proclaiming to the world that men were at work. Robbie Brown and Joseph Smith were good at their jobs, working with conversation and laughter. Joe, the older one, was married with a third child on the way and Robbie was betrothed to a young lady in town.
Robbie handed John another shingle with a grin and a nod toward the inn. “We have a Peeping Tom over there.”
John glanced in the direction Robbie indicated and saw Mrs. Brock standing at the rear entrance, her arms crossed and her lips pressed into a line even visible from here. He paused in mid-swing and took in her green dress and hair pulled back into a simple knot. He enjoyed looking at her slender stature, his eyes drifting to her curves with mouthwatering enthusiasm. She was taller than the average woman, which would aid in their intimacy. He knew that if he were to pull her back against him, her head would be able to rest on his shoulder and her bottom would nestle into his groin. In such a position, he would have easy access to that spot just below her ear that he longed to kiss and make his way down her neck to her shoulder, pulling away the fabric shielding her skin from his attention. She would lean back into him, perhaps even wrap an arm back to hold his head to that place where her shoulder met her neck and allow him to pay homage to her beating pulse. He wondered if she would be the type to give breathless sighs or heartfelt moans or . . .
“She’s a piece of work, ain’t she?” Robbie said, breaking into his fantasy.
John tore his gaze away from the object of his lust and reined in his wayward thoughts. “Eh?” He finished nailing in the shingle and shifted over, accepting a new one.
“Mrs. Bristly, some are calling her.” Robbie grinned at him.
“Bristly?” More hammering helped him regain his focus. He stole a glance back to see that she had disappeared.
The younger man shrugged. “She’s just so prickly. Like a hedgehog, I figure. Can’t get close to her without risking your blood.” He held out another shingle. John took it, but did not resume work. Robbie kept speaking. “I mean, she looks good and all, but as soon as she starts talking to you, your little boys curl up and hide, know what I’m saying? What man wants that? You must have balls of steel to be working with her.”
Never mind that his initial impression of her had been similar. John took issue with the man’s comments. “Oi, that’s a bit much, don’t you think?”
“Come on, mate, you telling me she ain’t a fishwife to you?”
“Quit your jabbering, Robbie,” Joe called from down on the ground with a fresh load of
And tonight was her last night in the inn itself. Tomorrow she would begin making the cottage livable, starting with her bedchamber.
She drifted off to sleep, a smile on her face, and dreamed of a bald gentle giant telling a story just for her.
J ohn hammered in a shingle on the cottage roof and accepted another one from the carpenter, Robbie. Mrs. Brock had inspected the cottage for residency earlier in the week and the disappointment on her face ate at his gut. He directed the carpenters to halt whatever project she had them currently working on and to begin repairs to make the small residence habitable. He contributed when he could step away from the inn to help the project along. He decided the entire roof ought to be reframed and replaced, given the amount of leaks and rot they had found. They had already completed the reframing and were now laying the slate shingles.
It felt good to be doing physical work again. He enjoyed tending to his pub and inn, but after a decade of living by the strength of his body, the inaction of his new profession was difficult to accustom himself to. The ringing of hammers filled his ears, proclaiming to the world that men were at work. Robbie Brown and Joseph Smith were good at their jobs, working with conversation and laughter. Joe, the older one, was married with a third child on the way and Robbie was betrothed to a young lady in town.
Robbie handed John another shingle with a grin and a nod toward the inn. “We have a Peeping Tom over there.”
John glanced in the direction Robbie indicated and saw Mrs. Brock standing at the rear entrance, her arms crossed and her lips pressed into a line even visible from here. He paused in mid-swing and took in her green dress and hair pulled back into a simple knot. He enjoyed looking at her slender stature, his eyes drifting to her curves with mouthwatering enthusiasm. She was taller than the average woman, which would aid in their intimacy. He knew that if he were to pull her back against him, her head would be able to rest on his shoulder and her bottom would nestle into his groin. In such a position, he would have easy access to that spot just below her ear that he longed to kiss and make his way down her neck to her shoulder, pulling away the fabric shielding her skin from his attention. She would lean back into him, perhaps even wrap an arm back to hold his head to that place where her shoulder met her neck and allow him to pay homage to her beating pulse. He wondered if she would be the type to give breathless sighs or heartfelt moans or . . .
“She’s a piece of work, ain’t she?” Robbie said, breaking into his fantasy.
John tore his gaze away from the object of his lust and reined in his wayward thoughts. “Eh?” He finished nailing in the shingle and shifted over, accepting a new one.
“Mrs. Bristly, some are calling her.” Robbie grinned at him.
“Bristly?” More hammering helped him regain his focus. He stole a glance back to see that she had disappeared.
The younger man shrugged. “She’s just so prickly. Like a hedgehog, I figure. Can’t get close to her without risking your blood.” He held out another shingle. John took it, but did not resume work. Robbie kept speaking. “I mean, she looks good and all, but as soon as she starts talking to you, your little boys curl up and hide, know what I’m saying? What man wants that? You must have balls of steel to be working with her.”
Never mind that his initial impression of her had been similar. John took issue with the man’s comments. “Oi, that’s a bit much, don’t you think?”
“Come on, mate, you telling me she ain’t a fishwife to you?”
“Quit your jabbering, Robbie,” Joe called from down on the ground with a fresh load of
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