Page 59 of Touched By a Traitor
“Oh, Andrew,” she breathed, her hands clasping together in a gesture of joy and relief. “Thank you!”
Andrew smiled awkwardly before he turned and left her to enjoy a hot, soul-melting bath, the promise of a new beginning lingering in the air.
Sweet Surrender
As Charlotte emergedfrom the bath, her skin as pink as a ripe peach in August, her mind finally quieted and arrived at the possibility she could be happy with Andrew Creswell, the man who had captured her heart all those years ago. If he were willing to support her career, she could ask for nothing more. She would allow herself to fully love him. It was truly a dream come true.
Clad in a soft pink muslin dress, Charlotte pinned her damp hair up in a loose chignon, the tendrils framing her face in a delicate and feminine manner. Following the sounds emanating from the kitchen, she discovered Andrew slicing vegetables, his own hair damp and his appearance fresh, like a man who had indulged in a hot bath.
“Are there two water closets?” she asked.
“There are.” His eyes resolutely never left his task.
“Were you lying when you said there was only one bedchamber?” Charlotte hoped he had.
“I wasn’t lying.” A sly smile tugged at his mouth. “One bedchamber. One bed. That was my grand plan for bedding my wife.”
A wave of heat swept over Charlotte’s face, tinting her cheeks a delightful shade of pink. “Are you determined to turn me into a strawberry?” she asked, feeling annoyed about her incessant blushing.
“Is it working?” He smirked, his hands expertly slicing through the cured ham with practiced precision.
She went closer and leaned against the worktable. “You are very skilled with that knife.”
“I am, and yes, strawberry is my goal.” Andrew’s eyes twinkled with mischief.
In a moment of uncharacteristic boldness, Charlotte playfully touched his arm, only to wonder at the woman she had become, one who flirtatiously touched a man and smiled with the exuberance of a Haymarket ware.
In a matter of minutes, Andrew had produced plates of sliced ham and a vibrant bowl of salad, brimming with spring greens, carrots, and artichokes tossed with vinegar, olive oil, and what she assumed to be salt. He placed the dishes on the table, which was dimly lit by a single candle, casting a romantic glow over the setting. With a gallant flourish, he pulled out a wooden chair, waiting for his bride to be seated first.
Charlotte stared at the food, overwhelmed by the dishes her husband had prepared. They were a visual feast, bursting with vibrance and freshness.
“I’ve never had fresh greens before,” she said.
“Working at the dock, I met numerous foreigners and foreign chefs. For a time, I sailed and worked every job there was to work, including the galley. The French chef there taught me the importance of eating fresh vegetables whenever possible. He believed they prevented all sorts of ailments on the ship.”
“That is a very unusual perspective, although not entirely surprising. If citrus fruits can cure scurvy, it stands to reason that other vegetables and fruits must have benefits for various ailments.”
Chewing lazily, his jaw muscles bunching and relaxing with each bite, Andrew leaned back in his chair, a contemplative expression on his face. “While that would be the logical way of thinking, the scientific community often rejects such ideas,” he said.
“And you don’t abide by expert opinions?”
“No, I don’t. Most of the time, they’re too invested in what they’ve known, what they’ve convinced themselves to be the results of empirical research. I’m less biased than they are and capable of drawing my own conclusions.”
“I suppose that is consistent with your choice of a wife,” Charlotte said, a hint of amusement in her tone. “You don’t listen to society and will dictate your own terms.”
Her heart melted as his face broke into a wide grin; his handsome features were illuminated by genuine joy. Confound it, he was devastatingly attractive, and his voice flowed like rich, smooth syrup, enveloping her in its warmth.
“Except I try to mold my wife into my life, Mrs. Creswell,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes.
Charlotte found herself nearly ignoring the underlying bite in his words, tempted to simply melt under the spell of his baritone timbre.
“And how would you mold me?” To her chagrin, her voice came out soft and coaxing rather than strong and challenging.
“I would seduce you and make you want to surrender to me willingly. Desire so strong you’d obey me despite every rational thought telling you otherwise.”
Charlotte felt a surge of disappointment. “Ah, I see. You mistake subjugation for seduction. How wonderfully medieval of you.”
“I’m sorry, Charlotte. I want you, but you want a life that I cannot give. And I’m too selfish to let you go. I need you.”
