She shivered in her wet clothes. "I could use a cup of hot tea."
Without a word, Clate returned to her keeping-room kitchen. Piper followed, feeling a bit steadier. It was her favorite room. It had a warm, cheerful, homey feeling whether she was alone or had a crowd in. Clate was a crowd all by himself. He got the copper kettle off her stove while she stood by the huge fireplace. On chilly days, she kept a kettle of water simmering on the fire. She'd hung handmade pot holders on hooks, had set her favorite wingback chair close to the fire, and had a soft-cushioned loveseat for guests and times when she wanted to stretch out with a book, relishing her quiet life. She would imagine herself living out her days here, alone.
"Go on upstairs and change," Clate said in that quiet drawl. "I'll make tea."
"The tea bags are in that little brown crock, and a mug—"
"I'll manage, Piper." He walked over to her, grabbed her by the elbows, turned her back to him, and whispered in her ear from behind. "Go upstairs."
She left him to it and headed through her work-in-progress parlor and up the steep stairs in her front vestibule, straight into her bathroom. Every step was an effort. She enjoyed the pretty femininity of her little bathroom with its white fixtures, rose-flowered wallpaper, fluffy, rose-colored towels. She had arranged a small, antique chest with an array of scented candles she'd made herself, tubs of various creams and potions Hannah had pressed upon her, tiny vials of essential oils, a basket of pretty-smelling soaps.
First she peeled off her stockings and tossed them in the trash. Her skirt was next, flung into the wicker laundry basket. Her blue-striped cotton shirt hung to her hips. It was a lost cause, too. The sleeves were soaked, the rear hem damp. She remembered reaching into the water, frantically combing the bottom with both hands, as if one cell phone would turn Cape Cod Bay into a Superfund toxic waste site. If her brothers had ventured by at that particular moment, that would have been that. Off to the loony bin with her. Or under a hot light for further interrogation.
She discarded her shirt in the basket and washed up with rosewater-and-glycerine soap that had never felt and smelled so luxurious, so sweet and comforting. She took her time drying off with a fresh towel, splashed on rosewater toner, then rubbed in some of Hannah's special hand cream, made of an infusion of lady's-manfle and essential oil of geranium.
In her bedroom, she put on clean underwear and, given the fog, was debating between long pants and shorts when she heard footsteps on her stairs.
She went still. "Clate?"
"I've got your tea."
"Great, thanks." But her reaction just to his voice was dramatic, awareness sparking, flaring, before he'd even reached the top of the stairs.
She slipped on her terry bathrobe, just wrapping it tightly around her without tying it as she met him at the door.
Seeing him under the low, slanted ceiling of her upstairs shattered whatever equilibrium she'd succeeded in regaining. And he hadn't touched her. He hadn't even looked at her.
A muscle in his jaw worked as his gaze swept over her quickly and efficiently. He was trying not to capitalize on the situation, she realized. Emotionally, physically, she was exposed, unable to hide anything from herself much less him.
"Here." His voice was husky, the drawl barely detectable. He held out the steaming mug for her to take from him. "Drink up. Hope it helps."
"It won't as much as one of Hannah's teas. I wonder what she'd recommend for a situation such as this." But her attempt at humor faltered, and she cupped the mug in her palms, soaking in its warmth. "Thank you."
"No problem."
He turned to go.
Piper managed a sip of the tea. Ordinary, orange pekoe tea, with a touch of honey.
But it was no use. She couldn't concentrate on tea, on changing clothes, on anything except the man retreating from her bedroom. He was doing the honorable thing, of course. She'd just had a fright, she'd been fishing cell phones out of the bay. Yet she wanted him. She was hot and quivering just with the thought of him staying with her while she dressed.
"Clate, I—"
He glanced back at her, his eyes a smoky blue in the gray light.
She smiled. "Please stay."
He didn't move from the doorway. Although he wasn't over six feet, his head skimmed the frame, which she had carefully sanded and painted a rosy taupe. This was her space. She'd chosen it, worked on it, decorated it. It fit her dimensions, her tastes, her varying moods. Yet somehow—she couldn't describe how—his presence wasn't jarring.