their own accord around the fender. She felt both tired and strangely expectant.
Her companion emerged from the screen, still in his dressing gown. He moved around the room extinguishing the candles until only one remained by the bed; then he turned back the patchwork coverlet and glanced expectantly at her. “Miss Morgan?”
“I’d prefer to sleep in the chair,” she said, aware of her flaming cheeks.
“That’s your privilege, of course,” he said. “But you’ll be cold once the fire dies down. I don’t believe there are sufficient logs to keep it in all night.”
“I’ll be warm enough, thank you,” she replied stiffly. “If you don’t mind letting me have a pillow and the coverlet, I shall be perfectly comfortable.”
He shrugged, pulled off the coverlet, and tossed it over to her. A pillow followed. Then, without another word, he tossed off his dressing gown. He must have removed his drawers behind the screen. For a breathtaking second his body glimmered, naked and powerful in the dim light, and then he’d climbed into bed. He leaned over and blew out the bedside candle, and Octavia was left in the firelight.
She dragged the coverlet over her, thumped the pillow behind her head, and tried to settle to sleep. But it was impossible. That curious unfocused excitement grew, together with the tingling in her belly that soon spread to her fingers and toes. But perhaps it wasn’t unfocused. Perhaps it had everything to do with the last few minutes, with what she’d seen, with the knowledge of that naked male body afew feet from her. She gazed into the fire, trying to calm herself with the ruddy glow and the deep-blue undertones.
But as the fire died, the room grew colder and darker, and still she was wide awake. Wide awake and freezing. So cold that deep shudders racked her body and all she could hear was the wind whistling around the now silent inn, rattling the ill-fitting panes.
She looked toward the bed. The highwayman was a humped shape at one edge, sleeping tidily and deeply, judging by the steady, rhythmic breathing. If she put the pillow down the middle of the bed, separating them, surely she could creep in without disturbing him and sleep on the farthest edge. She had to get warm. Even if she didn’t sleep, she had to get warm if she wasn’t to be frozen solid by morning.
Softly, she got up, dragging the coverlet around her shoulders, her feet like blocks of ice on the hard wooden floor. She approached the bed. Barely breathing she lifted the feather quilt and pushed her pillow into the middle. The sleeper made no movement. Still holding her breath, she climbed up onto the high mattress and slid beneath the quilt, where she lay shivering, trying desperately to keep still but unable to control the violent tremors of her body, which seemed to rock the bed.
Gradually, however, she began to warm up. She was acutely conscious of the form in the bed beside her, weighing down the mattress so she had to concentrate on not rolling down into the valley that separated them. But now she was hot, the heavy velvet robe twisted around and beneath her in cumbersome folds that took on the consistency of hardwood pressing into her flesh. Perspiration gathered between her breasts, trickled down from her armpits. And now those strange currents of restless excitement swirled more vigorously in her veins, so that she could hardly keep her feet still, and strange half-formed thoughts kept drifting into her mind, then sliding out again before she could grasp them.
The robe had become an instrument of torture, enclosing her so she could barely breathe, setting her skin on fire.She wriggled out of it, forgetting in her desperate urgency to move only discreetly. The robe fell to the floor beside the bed, and she heaved a sigh of relief, conscious now of her body beneath the thin shift.
The strange drifting thoughts increased, twining like thick lazy serpents in her head, more sensations than thoughts, and her body
Her companion emerged from the screen, still in his dressing gown. He moved around the room extinguishing the candles until only one remained by the bed; then he turned back the patchwork coverlet and glanced expectantly at her. “Miss Morgan?”
“I’d prefer to sleep in the chair,” she said, aware of her flaming cheeks.
“That’s your privilege, of course,” he said. “But you’ll be cold once the fire dies down. I don’t believe there are sufficient logs to keep it in all night.”
“I’ll be warm enough, thank you,” she replied stiffly. “If you don’t mind letting me have a pillow and the coverlet, I shall be perfectly comfortable.”
He shrugged, pulled off the coverlet, and tossed it over to her. A pillow followed. Then, without another word, he tossed off his dressing gown. He must have removed his drawers behind the screen. For a breathtaking second his body glimmered, naked and powerful in the dim light, and then he’d climbed into bed. He leaned over and blew out the bedside candle, and Octavia was left in the firelight.
She dragged the coverlet over her, thumped the pillow behind her head, and tried to settle to sleep. But it was impossible. That curious unfocused excitement grew, together with the tingling in her belly that soon spread to her fingers and toes. But perhaps it wasn’t unfocused. Perhaps it had everything to do with the last few minutes, with what she’d seen, with the knowledge of that naked male body afew feet from her. She gazed into the fire, trying to calm herself with the ruddy glow and the deep-blue undertones.
But as the fire died, the room grew colder and darker, and still she was wide awake. Wide awake and freezing. So cold that deep shudders racked her body and all she could hear was the wind whistling around the now silent inn, rattling the ill-fitting panes.
She looked toward the bed. The highwayman was a humped shape at one edge, sleeping tidily and deeply, judging by the steady, rhythmic breathing. If she put the pillow down the middle of the bed, separating them, surely she could creep in without disturbing him and sleep on the farthest edge. She had to get warm. Even if she didn’t sleep, she had to get warm if she wasn’t to be frozen solid by morning.
Softly, she got up, dragging the coverlet around her shoulders, her feet like blocks of ice on the hard wooden floor. She approached the bed. Barely breathing she lifted the feather quilt and pushed her pillow into the middle. The sleeper made no movement. Still holding her breath, she climbed up onto the high mattress and slid beneath the quilt, where she lay shivering, trying desperately to keep still but unable to control the violent tremors of her body, which seemed to rock the bed.
Gradually, however, she began to warm up. She was acutely conscious of the form in the bed beside her, weighing down the mattress so she had to concentrate on not rolling down into the valley that separated them. But now she was hot, the heavy velvet robe twisted around and beneath her in cumbersome folds that took on the consistency of hardwood pressing into her flesh. Perspiration gathered between her breasts, trickled down from her armpits. And now those strange currents of restless excitement swirled more vigorously in her veins, so that she could hardly keep her feet still, and strange half-formed thoughts kept drifting into her mind, then sliding out again before she could grasp them.
The robe had become an instrument of torture, enclosing her so she could barely breathe, setting her skin on fire.She wriggled out of it, forgetting in her desperate urgency to move only discreetly. The robe fell to the floor beside the bed, and she heaved a sigh of relief, conscious now of her body beneath the thin shift.
The strange drifting thoughts increased, twining like thick lazy serpents in her head, more sensations than thoughts, and her body
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