Page 11 of The Spinster's Secret Scoundrel
“Impertinent rascal,” she chided. The crate’s bottom scraped over the ground until she picked up her end of it. The bottles inside clinked with every step.
“You like it, Miss Naughty. Admit it.”
Ada was afraid he might be right.
* * *
An hour later,the cognac was safely stored in her shed, haphazardly disguised under sacks of grain.
And Ada had a very naked, very attractive man at her kitchen table.
There was no help for it. After their dip in the sea and the exertion of carrying his cargo, they were both covered with a film of gritty salt. Thierry had only the clothes on his back. She had none to offer him unless he deigned to wear a woman’s gown, many sizes too small, so their needs were twofold—a bath to remove the grime, and washing his clothes.
“Ihadother clothes,” he insisted. “But I left them on the ship.”
“Of course.” Ada rolled her eyes. “Perfectly reasonable.”
If anyone came upon her, an unmarried woman, alone with a nude man in her home, her reputation would be dragged through so much mud it would never wash clean again. Having had the displeasure of that experience once, she was in no rush to sully her fresh start in Cavalier Cove.
Which meant that as soon as his trousers were dry enough to wear, Thierry had to go. Fortunately, she rarely received guests, so discovery wasn’t likely. An occasional postal delivery, a visit from Betsey, or her Uncle Patrick and his Riders might stop by, unannounced, to stay the night.
The prospect of the latter had her nervous.
“Why must I depart so soon?” he asked innocently, as if he were ignorant of the potential ramifications for her reputation. Teasing, as was his habit.
“You know why.” She bit back a smile while hanging her clothes to dry beside the fire. Not long after they’d returned to the house, clouds rolled in off the ocean and sent down a steady drizzle. Even if she’d wanted to take the risk of pinning out a man’s clothing and hoping no one noticed, she couldn’t.
Fortunately, Thierry had done her the courtesy of washing his own garments while she bathed. There’d been an hour or so of sitting around in damp discomfort while she heated water over on the stove. He helped where he could, but Ada was accustomed to hauling wood and carrying water by herself and bade him to stay out of sight.
“It’s best we not be seen together,” she said briskly, avoiding his gaze. “As much as possible.”
“Are you a widow?” he asked lazily.
“No.”
“Yet a comely young lady—”
“I am no lady, nor am I as young as you seem to think.” Comely. What a joke. There were faint freckles on the bridge of her nose, and her dark hair wouldn’t lay flat no matter how much she brushed. She didn’t have much in the way of bosoms, either. At twenty-four, she was getting too old for marriage.
“A spinster?”
“I suppose so.” Her guest certainly asked a lot of intrusive questions. And yet, she couldn’t quite dislike him for it. Most days passed with little conversation beyond what she and Betsey traded over the fence, or when she went into town to shop—
Drat. The custard. She’d forgotten all about her promised offering.
“Why?” Thierry asked. Ada kept her back to him.
“What business is it of yours?”
A lazy splash from the hip bath behind her. “None, Miss Naughton. Absolutely none at all. You intrigue me. Am I being a pest?”
“Yes.”
He snorted a laugh. More splashing. Ada had to close her eyes. She already knew what he felt like beneath a singular layer of linen. Corded muscle stretched over a long frame of bone. He barely fit into her hip bath. He was too large for her house. Her life. Thierry didn’t belong here.
Ada put water on to boil for tea and whisked together an egg pie to bake in the oven. Thinking.
“You should go,” she told him as the sun faded, without force or feeling. For a few hours, she hadn’t felt quite so alone and isolated in her ramshackle cottage.
