Page 31 of A Tempest of Desire
“Envelope?”
“Yes, that’s what this portion is called because it holds the air. Anyway, once it’s out of the water, we can haul it up to your residence. Spread it out over the floor in that front room so it can dry. I could even begin repairing it.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to simply purchase one anew?”
“Simpler isn’t always the best way.” She’d learned that through a series of trials and errors. “Besides, this one has memories associated with it.”
“Right.” He grabbed a handful of cloth andheaved a massive amount of the material from the water with a single action. Corded muscles were extremely handy. She imagined running her hands over them as he tugged and pulled. Why was it that she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about touching this man? Based on her reputation, he’d no doubt be surprised to learn that she didn’t normally think about touching men. Few really appealed to her. She had exacting tastes, Hollie had once explained, just as he did.
The things that man knew about sex, desire, want, and need. It had frightened her at first, until he’d made it all seem so natural. It was one of the reasons she loved him.
Chapter 13
Waiting for a contrary fish to finally take a snap at the bait, Langdon sat on a boulder, shoulders hunched, elbows resting on his thighs, and the pole clasped between his hands. His mind not on the task, he was barely aware of the occasional nibble.
It had taken the two of them, him and Marlowe, working as a team, working together, each carrying a bunched-up end of the humongous amount of cloth, to get her balloon to the main chamber of his sanctuary, where she’d spread it out over the floor to dry. His having so little furniture was to her advantage, although she did relocate his books, so they were along the wall and no longer in her way. He’d built up the fire for her so the heat would eclipse the cold to such a degree that the material would dry more quickly.
Her attachment to the boldly colored cloth had made it seem like a rescue, no matter that the balloon was now useless. She had been caring for it as if it was ailing, rearranging areas of it as thoughto make it more comfortable—even though it was obvious she was simply moving the wetter sections nearer to the fire.
With a sigh, he craned his neck, rubbed the back of it. Usually, he enjoyed sitting on a rock and waiting. He liked having the moments to think while the waves lapped at the shore, creating a gentle lullaby.
But since her arrival, nothing was as it had been. He was anxious for the fish to bite, so he could make his way back to her. He knew she was perfectly safe without him nearby, and yet he found himself longing for her tart tongue and ability to put him in his place. He was intrigued by her when he bloody well shouldn’t be.
Dusk was beginning to coat the land by the time he finally had enough fish in hand—enough for him alone, although he would share them with her. He didn’t particularly like the way his feet sped up, urging him to hurry, or the manner in which his heart pounded rapidly. Hewasn’teager to be with her again. It was late and he was chilled. More than ready to be surrounded by warmth and his books.
When he entered his residence, it felt different, not quite so... sparse or lonely. While he could hear no movements, he knew where he’d find her. He strode into the main chamber and came to an abrupt halt, holding his breath as she looked up.
Her smile was tentative, almost shy. He wanted to again see the joy that had quickly wreathed her face when she’d spotted the balloon. No, it was more than that. He wanted to be the reason for that joy.
Even as he acknowledged he’d given her no cause to experience a thrill at the sight of him.
“You’re back.” Sitting on the floor near the fire, some of the balloon gathered in her lap, the sewing basket beside her, it appeared she’d taken to mending up a tear. “I was beginning to worry. You were gone so long.”
“The storm seems to have made the fish shy.” He held up the basket in which he’d stored his catch. “Took longer than I’d expected.”
She was once again wearing only his shirt and nothing else. Her skirt had become soaked when she’d waded into the water to rescue her precious silk, and she must have changed clothes while he was away. He had given the buttons on his shirts their freedom too many times to count—not that he possessed the ability to count—and yet at that moment he desperately wanted to ease the buttons of the shirt she wore through their holes—slowly and provocatively. He wanted to watch the material parting, little by little, revealing an ever-widening expanse of her cleavage, the inside swells of her breasts, the flat of her stomach—
Dropping his gaze before his trousers tented, he cleared his throat. “I’ll prepare our dinner now.”
She pushed herself to her feet, her lower legs encased in his socks. She was certainly making herself at home, and he was glad of it, wanted her to be at ease.
“I’ll help,” she announced enthusiastically.
He jerked up his head. The last thing he needed was her swishing around in his kitchen. “Not necessary.”
Giving him a hard stare, she placed her hands on her hips. “Langdon, you don’t have to wait on me. You spent the majority of your afternoon fetching us something to eat. The least I can do is help you prepare it.”
“You always struck me as someone accustomed to being waited upon.”
“You struck me as someone accustomed to getting his way... but you won’t in this. I either help you or I cook the entire thing. Otherwise, I shan’t eat. I insist upon doing my share.”
Why couldn’t she be as he expected? She was becoming harder and harder to resist.
It was full-on dark by the time they finally sat down to devour the fish he’d caught. He had no actual dining room, no chairs in the kitchen that could be set against the large table where he prepared food. Therefore, they had taken their meal on the sofa in the main room. He thought he’d never be able to eat in there again without thinking of her.
When they were finished, she helped him clear up the mess. She washed the dishes and pans while he dried them and put them away. It seemed a domestic chore, one that people of his station certainly never experienced. Marlowe had probably expected to never experience it as a wife—tidying up with the noble husband her father had convinced her she would marry. While it seemed preposterous that the man could successfully live a lie for so long, Langdon knew it was possible. His friend, the Duke of Avendale, had married a woman who had spentyears convincing people she was a widow who would soon be receiving a huge inheritance. With the promise of a future payment, shopkeepers had given her anything she desired, and she had lived in luxury. Her swindling days had eventually come to an end. Perhaps Marlowe’s father’s had as well, and that was the reason he hadn’t returned. Langdon was tempted to go in search of the blighter.
When everything in the kitchen was as it should be, they returned to the main room, where she claimed her earlier spot on the floor and began working on repairing a tear.
