Page 58 of The Defiant One
"I suppose I'll go back to my room, then," said Andrew, with a faint smile. "Unless you decide you want me to be Freckles for the rest of the night, in which case I'll gladly crawl under the covers with you."
"Why should I let you do that?"
"Well, first there is the fact that I'm having trouble sleeping, knowing that you're — well, here. Secondly, there is the fact that if we're going to end up being married, it doesn't really make much difference what our current sleeping arrangements are. And thirdly . . ."
"Thirdly?"
He grinned a little sheepishly. "I'm cold."
She sighed and levelled a flat look at him that belied the way her heart was suddenly beginning to pound. "Do you have to be so damned charming?"
"Sorry. I am not trying to be charming."
"That's precisely why you are so charming." She flipped back the coverlet. "Very well, then. Join me if you like. But . . . no touching. Just sleeping."
"You cannot mean that."
"I do mean it."
"Do you honestly think that I can come over there, join you in that bed, and not touch you?"
"I think you can try."
"This might be beyond my capabilities."
"Then maybe you ought to go back to your own bed," she said, wondering why she suddenly hoped with all her heart that he would not. "Really, I can't understand why it should be so very difficult. If you can design flying machines and incredible inventions, surely you can lie in this bed without touching me."
He padded across the floor toward the bed, smiling faintly. "Why is it that I'm perceiving this as some sort of a challenge?"
"Is that how you perceive it?" she asked, sliding over to make room for him.
"Well, how else would I perceive it? You invite me into your bed but won't let me touch you — and this after we've already made love not once, but twice. Why deny our desires now?"
"Because it's not even light out and I would like to go back to sleep. You can either stand there and sulk, or get into bed. Now I'm getting cold."
He joined her, of course. She never had any reason to think that he wouldn't. Oh, if he could be like this all the time — charming, witty, at ease with himself and with her — instead of turning into a bad-tempered dragon whenever the fancy struck him!
The mattress sagged a little as he climbed up. Celsie, moving as far to the edge of the bed as she could without falling off, tensed, her skin from ear to toe prickling in anticipation of an accidental touch. He pulled the coverlet up and scooted down beneath the weight of it and the blankets. The pillow sighed as it took the weight of his head, and the blankets gapped around her knees and shoulders, letting in a faint draft where his body lifted the covers from her own.
They lay there for a few moments, each stiff and expectant and feeling slightly awkward. Celsie was keenly aware of his size, his virility, his very maleness in this rose-scented, femininely appointed room. Now she was really wishing that Freckles were there. Having the big dog's body between herself and Andrew would go far toward ensuring there were no . . . accidental touches.
Maybe a pillow would work —
"So tell me about these turnspits," he said, his deep voice only a foot from her ear.
She lay as stiff as a dog's hackles, arms down at her sides, barely daring to breathe. "What's there to tell?"
"I want to know why their plight is so important to you. What you intend to do to help them."
Now, this was a safe topic, and one that she could thoroughly exhaust — probably enough to send him off to sleep, if she was lucky. After all, it seemed to bore most people; why not Lord Andrew, whose interests seemed to revolve around science and extraordinary inventions and being in a bad mood?
Somewhat despairingly, knowing she'd soon lose her audience, she said, "Have you ever been in the kitchens of Blackheath, Andrew? Or any kitchen, for that matter?"
"Hmm, no." He crossed his arms beneath his head, one elbow accidentally touching Celsie's ear. "I can't say I have."
Celsie determined not to move, though she was keenly aware of that elbow. "Well, if you would bother to go down into the kitchens of most great houses, you'll see an iron wheel, somewhere near the hearth where your meats are roasted. The wheel is called a turnspit, and the little dogs that are enslaved to turn these wheels, and thus your meat so that it roasts evenly, are called the same."
"Dogs are used to turn the wheels?" he asked, the pillow shifting a little as he turned his head to look at her.
