Page 22 of A Gentleman Never Surrenders
“Thank you,” she replied.
He walked away but returned a moment later with a cart and a tarnished silver tray with food. The aroma of the spiced beef made her stomach grumble. She could already taste the juniper and peppercorn spices that must have been soaked in the beef for a week. It was a simple meal, but a satisfying one. She selected a plate and cut a piece of brown soda bread and selected several slices of beef. Owen did the same and reached for a tall clear bottle filled with a pale cherry-red liquid.
“Care for some sloe gin?” He waved the bottle in invitation.
“Sloe gin?” She’d never heard of such a drink.
“Yes.” His lips twitched. “It’s made from the fruit of black thorn trees. It’s a little sour but you harvest the fruit in early autumn.” He poured her a small glass and she took it, studying it curiously.
“I’ve never had gin before.” She grinned despite herself and took a sip. She gasped as the taste hit her hard.
Owen lunged for her, smacking a palm on her back as she coughed.
“Take it easy,” he chuckled. “The next sip will go down easier, I promise.” He nudged the glass in her hand with his fingertip.
She hesitated, eyeing the red liquid with more respect than curiosity as she took a sip again. It burned, but in a pleasant way now as it coated her tongue and throat. This time she tasted the tart fruit and a hint of sugar.
Owen leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he watched her. The amused expression on his face softened his handsome features, and that little traitorous part of her that desired him beyond good sense and reason flared to life. The light-headedness from the gin didn’t help either.
“This is very strong.” She noted, then giggled.
Owen poured himself a glass and consumed it in one long gulp. “My family has been making sloe gin for generations. It’s a tradition here, and helps keep us warm in the winter.”
“Hmm.” She took another sip and giggled again as the room spun slightly.
“Oh dear, you don’t last long in your cups, do you? Better eat something.” He tilted his head at her plate and she ate heartily. The ache in her belly from hunger abated with each bite and she even did the most unladylike thing, licking the crumbs of soda bread from her fingers.
They dined in silence, with the crackle of the fire lulling Milly into a bit of warmth and comfort. She still felt off balance in her new surroundings, and she hated that. Control was paramount; control was safe. But she could control so little of what was happening now. She felt like the kitten she and her mother had once found caught outside in the gardens during a thunderstorm. They’d rescued it and brought it inside. Its tiny little body, shaking and wet, had clung to her skirts with its last bit of strength. She was clinging to Owen like that little cat, exhausted, terrified, and afraid to let go. It was a sad bit of irony that the very man who’d caused her to be in this situation was now the only person, aside from Constance, she felt safe with and on steady ground.
“Milly.” Owen set his plate down and crossed his arms over his chest, his expression serious.
“Yes?” She curled her legs up under her on the chair but winced at the stab of pain from rubbing against her blisters.
“You’re hurt?” He moved too fast, standing and towering over her in an instant as he bent to reach for her legs.
“I’m fine,” she protested, trying to avoid his touch, but he trapped her in the chair and she couldn’t escape. He knelt in front of her, lifted her skirts, and examined her feet. When he removed one of the slippers, he tensed and raised his head to look up at her. His eyes were dark and warm, tinged with anger, too.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
She shrugged. “And have you carry me for seven miles? Don’t be ridiculous.”
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw and frowned, his lips parted as though he planned to speak but he clamped them shut, still scowling.
“What were you going to say?” she prodded.
He still held her one bare foot in his hand and he rubbed soothing small circles on the arch. She wiggled her toes when he still refused to answer.
“When I made plans for you to live here, I selected your chambers down the hall. I assumed that you would wish to have separate rooms away from mine. But I don’t want that, not anymore.” He resumed his caressing of her foot, then slid his hand to her ankle, shaping her bare calf.
“I don’t understand.” It was hard to formulate thoughts, let alone words when he was rubbing her very exposed skin.
“I would like for you to consider sharing my bed tonight. The room you’re in now is in the cold part of the house, and until we’ve fixed up Wesden a bit, I’d much rather know you were warm and comfortable. Here. With me. If you decide you still don’t like me after your rooms have been more fortified, you may move permanently into them. But for now, I’d like you to be with me.”
Her breath caught in her throat and the gin made her feel…happy. She shouldn’t want to sleep in his bed with him, not when she had vowed to keep herself distant.
“You won’t argue with me, will you?” He shifted closer on his knees, raising her skirts to her lower thighs before he removed her second slipper and worked his magical fingertips along her other foot, massaging away the aches and pains. A fuzzy, warm feeling cloaked her and it wasn’t just from the gin any longer.
“Not tonight.” She leaned back in her chair and let him continue to rub her feet.
