Page 56 of Touched By a Traitor
As Andrew emergedin his laborer’s attire, Charlotte found herself captivated by the sight of him. The realization that he now belonged to her sent her pulse racing, a thrilling undercurrent of possession and desire coursing through her. The worn cotton shirt, likely a remnant from his youth, stretched taut over his bulging muscles, accentuating the slimness of his waist and hips. Charlotte felt a flush of heat rise to her cheeks as her gaze lingered on the firm contours of his behind.
Without a word, Andrew stepped out of the cabin, leaving Charlotte to watch him through the side window. Soon, the rhythmic thudding and cracking of wood being split filled the air, as if a machine were at work. The sound continued in a steady cadence as Charlotte busied herself with baking dessert biscuits, the occasional grunt from Andrew punctuating each strike. He showed no sign of relenting, only stopping once he filled the wooden rack. Charlotte watched from the window as he set down his axe and turned toward the cabin, but several minutes passed without his appearance at the door.
As Charlotte opened the door to investigate the delay between the side window and the front entrance, she was greeted by the sight of Andrew shaking off splinters from his body and hair, reminiscent of a large dog. Laughter bubbled up within her, and she found herself contributing to his efforts,tousling his hair and brushing the debris from his body with her hand. The heat emanating from his skin was startling despite the cold air, and she became acutely aware of the solid muscles lying just beneath the surface.
“Would you like some tea and biscuits before supper?” she asked, her voice soft and inviting.
Andrew paused at the doorway with his gaze intense as it fixed on her.
“Are you all right? Did I say something amiss?” There was a flicker of uncertainty in her tone.
“No, not at all… You baked?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t realize you knew how.”
“I learned to bake because my housemates enjoyed sweets when they could afford sugar. I hope you don’t mind that I used your sugar. I—”
Before she could finish her sentence, Charlotte found herself enveloped in Andrew’s arms, his mouth descending upon hers in a passionate kiss. All she could feel was warmth, security, and the stirring of dormant memories as her body recognized his touch.
His lips moved over hers, brushing and nipping, his tongue lightly tapping against her lips in a tantalizing dance of taste and sensation. He was careful not to overwhelm her, tempering his ardor with a gentleness that spoke of his desire to cherish and protect her. In that moment, Charlotte saw him not as the man who had once humiliated and ruined her, but as the man who had saved her, and a husband offering her a haven.
Charlotte stood motionless in his arms, however, as conflicting emotions swirled around her head. Andrew abruptly released her and, without a word, disappeared into the bedchamber, leaving her alone with the bittersweet ache of his touch she’d longed for.
She sought solace in the familiar task of preparing tea while fighting to ignore the conflicting signals of her heart. Meanwhile, Andrew emerged from the bedchamber and set about starting a fire in the parlor. Although the temperature had not yet dipped low enough to necessitate a fire, Charlotte quickly realized that his intentions were to boil water for a bath. Her heart began to race at the thought of their impending wedding night.
Did he mean to consummate their marriage this evening? Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? It was common knowledge that men lived for this moment.
“Make up your mind, you imbecile,” she muttered under her breath, frustrated by her desire and fear of physical intimacy.
Just as Charlotte was about to lift the tea tray, Andrew’s large hands intervened, gripping the tray and carrying it to the small table. He pulled out a chair and waited for her expectantly, prompting her to sit down and murmur her gratitude awkwardly. When Charlotte moved to pour the tea, Andrew gently stayed her hands.
“Please allow me,” he said, his voice warm.
She could do nothing but stare at him in astonishment, her eyes wide.
“You’ve never seen a man pour tea before?” he asked, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he served her before helping himself.
“Never the master of the house,” she said.
“With my sister being only two years old when our parents died, I simply did what was necessary. I also poured for Madam and the ladies at the brothel, as they enjoyed ordering me about and laughing at my expense. I performed many other chores, too, for the few years Daisy and I lived there.”
“Madam was the only mother figure Daisy knew, then?”
“Aye,” he said, his gaze distant as he delved into his past. “She cared for Daisy during my territorial conflicts with otherboys. After three years, I saved enough to move us to a room with a woman who educated Daisy.”
Contentment and peace spread over Andrew’s visage like nothing she had seen before. He continued, “We left five years later when I could afford to buy us a house and hire tutors for her.”
Charlotte swallowed hard before asking, “You were able to purchase a house in just five years?”
“I was. Fortunately, I was taller than most men at only fifteen, which allowed me to secure work at the dock I now own. They were long hours, twenty hours a day, seven days a week, but I didn’t mind hard work. I gained the owner’s trust and was promoted quickly.”
As she sipped on the hot brew, Charlotte found herself lost in thought, imagining the hardships the twelve-year-old Andrew must have endured. In that moment, a newfound understanding and respect blossomed within her, a shared connection born of adversity and resilience.
“Do you miss your family?” he asked, his voice gentle.
Charlotte found herself surprised by the need to ponder before answering his question, her emotions a tangled web of conflicting sentiments.
