Ash disappeared into the kitchen. She heard Anne murmuring to him. The sound of water pouring.
She closed her eyes and bit down on her fist. Good God, she could still see it. The ribs protruding against his skin. He was a small boy, half-starved. Beaten.
Viciously, repeatedly beaten.
A sob built in her chest. She swallowed it down. Breathed until it squeezed back into place.
The last thing he needed was her pity.
Or the blast of molten fury gathering in her belly, scalding until all she felt was fire.
No, a boy who had suffered such treatment needed to feel safe. He needed her to be the Augusta he’d come to rely upon. Fortunately, she’d had a great deal of practice holding steady for Phoebe.
She opened her eyes and dropped her hand. Pictured wearing a shirt of chainmail and a suit of armor. Imagined a sword at her hip and an impenetrable helm upon her head.
There, now. Better.
In the distance, she heard Ash’s complaints about the soap followed by Anne’s reply that if he’d bother to wash more than once a year, the scrubbing would not be such a chore.
He would need a shirt, Augusta thought. Breeches, too. But for now, she would fetch him a shirt to wear once he was clean.
There were no other boys in the house, of course, and neither she nor Anne possessed anything suitable for him to wear. Only one other male lived here. Mr. Reaver might be a giant, but one of his shirts should suffice while she sent Anne to find new garments closer to Ash’s size.
Decision made, she strode through the kitchen, pausing briefly to don her gloves. In her mind, they were gauntlets.
She was glad to hear Anne’s pleasant humming and Ash’s silence. Glad she did not have to look upon his back again so soon.
Minutes later, she searched a neat stack of linen shirts in Mr. Reaver’s dressing room. They were all the same—finely stitched and voluminous. She shook one out and held it up to her own body before turning to the looking glass.
“Oh, my,” she breathed. On her, the hem would reach well past her knees. The neck would gape and expose her breasts.
An image of her wearing his shirt and nothing else flashed through her mind. For the briefest moment, she imagined how he might regard her in such a state, how those onyx eyes might singe and smolder before he …
“No need to pilfer my shirts, Miss Widmore.” The wry, rumbling comment came from her left. “I intend to take you for a dress fitting soon enough.”
He stood in the doorway to his bedchamber, one substantial shoulder braced against the frame, arms crossed, the toe of one boot propped casually beside the other. He looked as though he’d been there for hours. Watching her.
She swallowed and concentrated on folding his shirt. The glow in her belly and the sensations along her spine were simply surprise. That was all.
“I was not stealing from you, Mr. Reaver. I was borrowing. There is a vast difference.”
“Vast. Like Glassington’s markers, eh?”
Braving his hard, black gaze, she raised her chin. “Indeed.”
“What do you want it for?”
She cleared her throat. “Something to wear after bathing.” It was not a lie … precisely.
For a long while, Mr. Reaver fell silent. His eyes burned and dropped to her bosom just the way she’d imagined. And she wasn’t even wearing the thing. No, she was clutching it to her chest like a shield.
“Forever wearin’ gloves, Miss Widmore.” His voice had gone smoky. “Never seen you without them. Makes a man wonder why.”
Her chin rose. “I prefer it.”
A cynical smile curved his mouth as his eyes returned to hers. “A lady has soft hands, eh? No labor to mar her noble skin.”
He’d deliberately thickened his accent, dropping the H’s and flattening certain vowels until his speech resembled Ash’s.
She might have explained how erroneous his conclusions were, but what would be the point? His disdain for all things—and people—aristocratic was obvious. Besides, at the moment, she had more important matters to attend—namely, delivering his shirt to Ash while avoiding discovery by its owner. Then, she would begin interviewing servants. Ash could not hide in a household staff of two. The boy must remain well clear of Mr. Reaver’s notice, at least for now.
“Think whatever you prefer, Mr. Reaver.”
“I shall,” he grumbled.
“I am certain of it.”
“You’re a right nuisance.”
“Well, if my presence disturbs you, perhaps you should leave.”
“This is my dressing room.” He shoved away from the doorframe and came toward her, a great, black-eyed giant wearing a blue coat and no cravat. “And that is my shirt.”
Increasingly breathless, she tucked the folded linen behind her back and retreated a step. “I shall return it undamaged, I assure you.”
“It’s not the damage that disturbs me.”
He came around the washstand, dark and towering and scented by rain.
The door to her own dressing room touched her back. She felt for the knob. “What does, then? Perhaps I can set you at ease.”
He closed the space between them, leaving a mere breath. Now, she felt him like an electric storm, this massive man exuding power and heat.
His hand propped above her head. His breath brushed her cheek. “When it comes to you, Miss Augusta Widmore, nothing eases me.”
This close, the rumble of his voice shimmered against her skin. She met his eyes and sank deep, hooked and tethered inside. Darkness should be cold, she thought. But his wasn’t. It was meltingly hot, like caverns filled with the earth’s steam.
“I should like to see you wear my shirt.”
She was glad of the door, for she wasn’t certain she could stand without its support. “It would gape open,” she whispered. “It would be … indecent.”
“Aye. Indecent.”
Her head spun with the strangest sensation. It felt like falling. “M-Mr. Reaver.”
A blunt finger came up to stroke her cheek. “I like this.”
“What?”
“Your color. Like a rose bloomin’.”
“It is only because of your … provocations.”
Was his mouth closer? She thought it was.
“I think you like my provocations, Miss Widmore.”
He wasn’t wrong. Everything inside her hummed like a plucked string.
“Perhaps I do,” she confessed.
His jaw flexed into stone. Nose flaring, he crowded against her. Dropped his head beside hers. Breathed into the flesh of her neck.
She closed her eyes and felt his heat. The hardness of his chest easing into her. Flattening her and thrilling her, tight and sweet.
Wool and rain and man. Heat and muscle and weight. It was overwhelming. And not enough.
Warm lips slid against her skin. A raspy jaw caressed her. The contrast made her crave more. More soft. More rough. More him.
The gentle rap on the door brought them both to stillness. She did not wish to open her eyes. She wished to know what came next. Would he kiss her lips? Would he grip her waist? Would he lift her skirts?