He eyed the enticing bed, craving the sensation of clean sheets on his skin.
The girl was asleep with her back to him, facing the window, hugging the far side of the bed. He wasn’t a wild sleeper. He didn’t thrash about. At least he had never been accused of that. They need never come into contact.
Bloody hell. He shook his head. He never slept in his trousers. He wasn’t going to start now. He yanked his trousers down.
She was safe from him. He would not touch her. He didn’t want this woman for a wife. Hell, he didn’t want a wife at all. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. He wouldn’t dare consummate their union and he refused to take advantage of her. Alyse Bell was safe from him.
He slid beneath the cool sheets and groaned as the bed sank beneath his weight. His tired muscles cheered at the comfort cocooning him.
He studied the back of her beneath heavy lids. She hadn’t even stirred. He doubted she would. The day had been long and exhausting for both of them. She could be naked, too, and launch herself at him and he doubted he would even react. He just wanted sleep.
Alyse’s eyes fluttered open to sunlight streaming on the air, tiny motes of dust and particles suspended in its beams.
It was an alien sensation. Waking to sunlight. She was always awake before the sun came up. Before anyone else in the house had roused, she was up, starting the fire and fetching the milk and getting breakfast underway.
She’d never slept so late before. The realization froze her to the bed. She clutched the pillow against her head, her senses on high alert, prodding the air around her.
A sigh stirred somewhere behind her, confirming that she wasn’t alone. He’d come to bed. While she slumbered this man, this stranger, had slipped into bed beside her and she had slept on, blissfully, totally unaware, totally vulnerable. She shuddered at this horrible realization. It shouldn’t come as such a surprise, but it was no less shocking.
She held herself motionless, waiting to see if that sigh meant he was awake. Her hand brushed something beneath the pillow and she was reminded of the butter spreader she had tucked away the night before. It was still there. She gripped it tightly, at once feeling somewhat more secure. It might not be the most ideal weapon but it was better than nothing.
After a moment of continued quiet, she pushed back the covers and eased away from the body at her back that was radiating heat in a strangely welcoming manner. Welcoming, she would guess, because it was so cold outside of the bed and for no other reason. The fire had burned itself out sometime during the night and when she expelled a great breath she could see it like fog on the air.
“Awake, are you?”
Her feet hit the floor and she whirled around at the deep voice, her long plait of hair flying like a rope and landing with a soft thud over her shoulder.
He was all casualness, lying flat on his back with one hand tucked behind his head. Her gaze crawled over him. All over his naked chest. He was unclothed. Her breath caught. At least what she could see of him was unclothed. The bedding was bunched and gathered around his narrow waist.
She gawked again at that chest. She couldn’t help herself. It was nicely formed with ridges of muscle along his stomach. Not an ounce of fat detectable. Unusual for a privileged gentleman. He had the means for indulgence. Food. Wine. Ale. She’d seen enough of the gentry in her life to know that a good many of them were on the portly side. Not him, though. Her gaze skittered along the shape of him hidden beneath the counterpane. Surely he was wearing something beneath.
“What have you there?” he asked.
She followed his eyes to the butter spreader clenched in her hand. In her scrutiny of him she had forgotten she had it.
It was rather ridiculous. Warmth flushed her face and yet she did not lower her arm. It felt the thing to do—brandish a weapon with this man so near and in such an obvious state of undress. She wasn’t exactly attired modestly either. The entire scenario felt . . . precarious and ripe for tragedy. Her tragedy, if she were not careful.
A corner of his mouth curled and he added, “Is that for protection?”
She gave a stiff nod.
“From me?”
She nodded again. “It seems . . . advisable. One can never be too safe.”
His smile faded and for a moment she thought she had offended him. Until he replied, “Indeed not.”
Of course, he would agree. Trust no one. Was that not his sound advice?
Abruptly, he moved, launching himself from the bed, flinging back the counterpane and revealing that he was, indeed, naked.
He marched across the chamber. Her mouth dropped open with a croak as she gazed at his bare buttocks.
“You slept beside me without a stitch on!”
He stopped beside the chair where he had draped his clothing. Turning, he sent her a quick glance, arching a dark eyebrow as he reached for a garment. “I always sleep naked.”
She jabbed her butter spreader in the air toward him, careful to keep her gaze trained above his waist. A tricky task. “Not with me you don’t!”
“As this was the first time we slept together, I did not realize we had established protocol.”
He was maddening! “It is common sense . . . common decency! I may have agreed to be your employee but I did not agree to such—” She waved her butter spreader madly, sputtering, “To such intimacy!”
“You agreed to share a bed with me,” he replied with utter equanimity. “That amounts to intimacy.”
“I might have agreed to that on this one occasion, but I did not expect you to disrobe. This is wholly unacceptable!” Even as the words spit from her lips like arrows, her gaze swept over him. Over all of him. Including south of his waist.
Good heavens. Her face erupted in fire.
He wasn’t the first nude male she had ever seen. Stepping in to play mother to young boys, she had, of course, observed the male body. And yet none had looked as he did. So large and very virile. Her gaze locked on his manhood. So very . . . very.
He shrugged as he riffled through his garments, searching for something. “Sorry,” he announced without the slightest apology to his voice. “It’s my custom. Should the occasion ever occur again you shall just have to close your eyes.”
He moved toward her then, his strides easy, but all of him was still very much naked and very much distracting.
“Would you please dress yourself?” she snapped with a small stomp of her foot.
His arm stretched out to her, offering something for her to take. She frowned, flashing a quick glance down, too wary to take her gaze off his face for long—as though his expression determined everything, specifically whether or not his intent toward her was ill-disposed or not.
“Here. Take this. As long as you are going to arm yourself you might as well do so with something that could actually draw blood.”
She inched closer to peer at what he was holding in his hand. It was a sheathed dagger. The hilt looked interesting. Gem-studded? No. Leather with colorful threading.
“You’re giving me a . . . weapon?”
“Yes, I am. An effective one.”
A long beat of silence passed between them before she reached out to accept the dagger.
He released it to her and then turned away. “Now if the occasion should arise again where we share a bed, you will be properly armed. Just be certain not to stab me in your sleep.”
She watched mutely as he dressed himself, trying not to appreciate the way his muscles and sinew flexed with his movements. It was rather hypnotic. She told herself she could admire him rather clinically. It didn’t mean anything.
Dressed, he faced her fully again. “I’ll go downstairs and see about getting us some food for the journey. We’re getting a later start than I intended. Ready yourself while I’m gone.”
She nodded wordlessly.