Page 34 of The Lord Meets His Lady
Idling with the door wide open, time could’ve slipped past. His shoulders bunched, and his breath caught in his chest. He could be a boy coming for a visit. Any minute, his grandfather would lumber down the stairs, arms spread ready to give a bear hug. How he missed those hugs and the tales his grandfather would spin.
But he wasn’t a boy. He was a man full grown, facing the life he’d plotted for himself and finding his story lacking. Slowly, he shut the door and removed his hat and gloves, shaking off the peculiar sensation. Near his feet, the old iron boot wipe sat ready. Where had his officious housekeeper unearthed the relic? He crouched low and traced its decorative swirls, a fine coat of rust dusting his finger. Grandfather would never have let Pallinsburn decay.
Dishes clinked. Hiding the pamphlet in the broadsheets, he cocked his ear. Miss Turner hummed in his kitchen, each lilting note a bread crumb trail to follow. Putting one foot in front of the other, he went through the empty dining room. He could be a boy again on the hunt for honeyed biscuits. The kitchen was almost the same. Herbs hung from rafters in the places his grandmother had dried them. A rasher of bacon peeked from a cloth-covered bowl. Copper pans shined on the wall.
“Milord, you can eat now.” Miss Turner stirred a pot at the hearth. “Or you can have your bath.”
He turned to the scullery and nearly groaned.
Steam curled from Pallinsburn’s lone tub. A small blaze burned in the corner fireplace, casting orange light in the scullery. The modest washroom, with its sloping floor and chipped whitewashed stone walls, could have been a pleasure palace.
Marcus twisted around, massaging the small of his back. “I should wait. Dinner is ready.”
“You have the look of a man who’d rather have his bath first.”
“If that won’t upset you too much?”
“I’m atyourservice, milord.” Miss Turner picked up a platter off the table. “I’ll set the victuals to warm by the hearth.” Balancing the dish on her hip, she nodded at the scullery. “Go on. I can see the bath entices you more than my cooking.” And she winked at him.
The large coopered tub had been wedged into a corner. He set his papers on a three-legged stool where a soap cake sat on linen. Fighting his boots, he nudged one loose and then the other, pain shooting everywhere. There was no door on the scullery. Too tired to care, he stretched out of his homespun coat, quickly peeling away each layer of clothes. Standing naked, he untied his queue and added the ribbon to the scatter of boots and garments.
One foot stepped in the scalding bath and then the other.
“Uhh.” He grunted at heat prickling up his calves.
Gripping the tub’s rim, he dunked himself. Shooting up, he gasped, sweltering water sluicing over his skin. Eyes shut, he sank into the bath, his head lolling against the wall.
“Miss Turner, you’ve delivered a slice of heaven.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” she called from the kitchen. “I can’t have you falling asleep on me.”
Time passed. How much, he didn’t know and didn’t care. Hot water absorbed his aches and pains from the day’s labor. For the first time since returning to Pallinsburn, ease seeped into his bones…a peacefulness. Not once today had the craving come. His grandfather believed hard work was good for the soul, and the old man never drank a drop of spirits. What would Grandfather think of the man Marcus had become? He groaned and sank deeper in the tub.
Footsteps pattered on flagstone. “Milord?”
“Did you fear I drowned?” His voice was languid, and looseness filled his limbs from today’s victories.
There was satisfaction in seeing a fence fixed and an eyesore of a tree cleared away. So was there a deep sensation in his loins at having the sultry-voiced housekeeper looking after his needs.
“I thought I heard a groan.”
One lazy eye opened. “That’d be my muscles singing odes of joy. You’re a miracle worker.”
Her quiet titter filled the scullery. Miss Turner toed his boot, her stare homing in on wet hair falling around his face. His housekeeper’s cheeks flushed nicely as she took her time collecting his clothes into a pile. Proper housekeepers wouldn’t attend the master at his bath, but Miss Turner wasn’t a proper housekeeper…a nice advantage to this arrangement.
“The missing door… Is that why you insisted all bathing be done here?” Eyes closed, he splashed water across his chest. “So you could watch?”
“Hardly.”
By her curt tone, his teasing must’ve missed the mark. Hewaslosing his edge. Yet, she hesitated. He could feel her in the scullery, her presence as good as a touch on his skin.
“Are you peeking inside the tub, Miss Turner?”
Footsteps brushed the floor. Metal scraped.
“I wouldn’t be so bold, milord. I’m merely stoking the scullery fire.”
He grinned. Sharp humor limned her voice, but when his eyes opened, Miss Turner gave him her back, jabbing the poker at a log. Orange light flared over trim ankles dressed in black stockings. Her hem was as high as her bodice was low, both eyebrow-raising inches outside of decent.
