Page 21 of The Stranger I Love
I mentally shook myself. Even after six months of relative silence and guards hired to watch the perimeter of the grounds at night, my irrational fear that I would be attacked again had almost caused a death tonight.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, reaching up to wipe a sheen of sweat from the back of my neck.
She lifted her hand to her mouth and removed the bread. “Eating?”
Her movement revealed a shadow on her neck.Blast!Casting the knife onto the counter, my hands flew to the sides of her ivory collarbone to assess the damage I had done. My thumbs gently stroked the soft flesh of her neck where the blade had touched. In the dim lighting, it was hard to be certain, but I did not feel any marks or scratches. Warmth skittered across my skin as I grazed her throat one last time.
Her breath shuddered, and I raised my eyes to meet her surprised gaze. In my desperate concern for her, I had acted hastily yet again. This time with a much too familiar touch. I cleared my throat. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” she swallowed.
My hands fell awkwardly to my side. Angry with myself, I took a step back. Folding my arms, I leaned back against the counter, forcing a calm tone. “So, you were eating in the cupboard?”
She reached for her neck—the same soft part I had just run my finger over, clearly flustered. “Well, I was certainly not playing hide-and-seek.”
I did not blame the bite in her voice. I had been rash and foolish. “Forgive me. I thought you were an intruder.”
“That much is obvious.” She stepped out of the cupboard, and the mop bucket came out with her—stuck to her foot. Eyes wide, she tried to shake it free, but it stayed put.
“Here. Let me help you,” I offered.
Her hand flew up to stop me. “I don’t need help from someone who tried to kill me.” She speared me with a piercing glare and jerked out of my reach. She bumped into the cupboard behind her, and her foot with the bucket on it slid out from under her. I threw both my hands on either side of her arms, steadying her.
I stared down at her, both of us breathing fast. Much too close—again. “I’m sorry I scared you.” When she said nothing, I had to ask again. “Are you certain I did not hurt you?”
She shook her head.
Her defenseless brown eyes blinked rapidly, but there were no tears. When I was sure she was telling the truth, I slowly released her and hunched down on my knees. I set one hand on the bucket. “May I?”
After a quick nod, I reached in and placed my hand on her small ankle. With the slightest lift of her heel, the bucket loosened, and I slipped it off.
“What a relief,” she stammered.
I picked up what was left of her piece of bread. She must have dropped it when she stumbled. “It seems we both favor bread at night. Let me cut you a fresh slice.”
I thought she would argue again, but she remained silent while I dug out the loaf from the box and cut her another portion.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the bread. “I was hungry.”
“It’s the munching hour,” I offered. “That’s what my father used to call it, anyway.”
She tore off a little piece and put it into her mouth. After she swallowed, she said, “For the record, I don’t normally hide in cupboards.” Those velvet brown eyes, rimmed with sincerity, met mine once more. “I was scared when I heard someone coming and clearly did not act rationally. I do not blame you for thinking I was an intruder.”
Her apology surprised me. It was rare to find someone who admitted to their mistakes. I was still learning to do so myself. “I don’t blame you for hiding. I am sorry for frightening you. You should feel safe to come to the kitchen at any time. This home is yours for the time being.”
“I appreciate your generosity.” She lifted her bread. “I will eat this in my room. Goodnight, Lord Camden.”
“Here.” I grabbed my candle and lit hers with it. Then I stepped out of her way so she could pass. “Goodnight, Miss Lewis.”
She hesitated. “The next time the munching hour comes, you really ought to try jam. It is far better than cheese.”
A smile pulled at the side of my mouth. “You are wrong. Cheese is far more filling.”
Her smile came easier. “We will have to agree to disagree.”
A waft of lilac followed her from the larder. I frowned, staring after her. We did not have lilacs in our garden, and yet, there was something familiar about that scent. I shook my head. First I attacked her, then I touched her throat, and now I was curious how Augusta’s new companion smelled. My priority was protecting my family and making the most of my second chance—not concerning myself with the hired help. Without cards, which I vehemently refused to play, and a decent night’s sleep, it often felt like there was no escaping myself.
Chapter 11
