“It’s easier to manage than, say, a fire in the grate. I only have to feed it once or twice a day.”
This seemed to please him. Grilling her about her daily minutiae likely kept his mind off his demons. He rummaged through the assorted utensils and cooking pots arranged just overhead. “I can’t imagine you cooking.”
“Admittedly, I don’t do much. I’m terrified to even boil water. But I get by.”
He ceased clattering. “Yes, I’m sure you do.”
Angelica felt the momentary silence like a lead weight on her chest. “Well, please make yourself comfortable. There isn’t much, but you’re welcome to whatever you like. There’s a stool by the stove, if you need to sit.”
“Thank you. Would you mind terribly if I washed up?”
She remembered he was covered in blood, dirt, sweat, and sick. “Oh, please do. I mean, not for my sake, of course. But…if you want to.” She laughed nervously. If it was awkward having a stranger in her drawing room, it felt doubly so entertaining him in what amounted to her bedchamber.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He couldn’t be truly possessed, could he? Brody heated the pot of water on the range, taking comfort in the distraction of such a mundane task. He dared not dwell too long on the fact that he’d brought the Devil into this innocent girl’s home.
Sweet Angelica Grey. She was too good to leave him to face his demons alone. She’d knowingly thrown her lot in with his, bringing him down into her private living space. He understood now why the rest of the house was in disrepair—she’d focused her energies on making this humble kitchen into a home.
It was clean, compared to the rest of the place. Pots, knives, and utensils sat in their proper places, with remarkably little clutter on the worktable. The items necessary to her daily life were laid out where she could easily find them. Miss Grey liked neatness and order. Brody imagined that, if he moved one fork an inch to the right, she’d know it. Perhaps that was the only way she could navigate her darkened world.
He could never live blindly. How she managed was a miracle to him. And to do it alone…
Taking the pot of heated water off the burner, Brody stole a glance at her across the worktable. She stood, her hands folded in front of her. Her lifeless eyes stared straight ahead. She looked almost like an automaton that someone forgot to wind. As if he could simply give the key at her back a twist, and she would burst into action.
“Miss Grey, could I borrow a flannel and some soap?” he asked.
She turned to fetch him the items, and then slid them across the worktop. Remarkable. She knew exactly where everything was. Even more interesting—she knew exactly where he was, too.
Brody heaved off his heavy coat. It was warm enough in the kitchen that he did not need the thing. He was glad, because it reeked. He doubted the expensive Burberry’s greatcoat would ever come clean.
He wondered if Miss Grey minded that he undressed in front of her. She listened, of course. He could tell by the almost imperceptible tilt of her head. She tracked each article of clothing as he pulled it from his ragged body. When he finally stood bare before her, Brody knew that the flush on her skin was not from the heat of the stove.
The realization thrilled him.
He hadn’t wanted a woman to want him in a long time. When he felt the need, there was always some girl prepared to slake his lust, but it had never mattered whether they’d found him attractive. No, what those girls were after had nothing to do with sex or love. Yet, he wished for nothing less from the beautiful Miss Grey.
Blood and caked mud ran down his body in filthy, slimy rivulets. His skin had already started to bruise, and even the simple act of washing himself was agony. He’d laughed earlier when she’d told him he needed a bath, but, truthfully, Brody felt self-conscious. The last thing he wanted was to offend her with his stench, especially now that he felt the urge to get close to her.
With the blood and stale sweat gone, he slipped his shirt over his head, and buttoned up his trousers. He poured the dirty wash-water out, and vainly tried to tidy up the mess he made. He did not want Miss Grey to slip and fall on the slick slate floor where he’d dripped.
“Leave it,” she said, suddenly. “It can wait until morning.”
Brody looked up. Even in the dim light of the kitchen, she was arrestingly beautiful. He wanted to go to her, to pull her down on her pathetic pallet on the floor, and make love to her. She wanted it, too. Brody felt certain that, even as a sweating wreck of a man, he could seduce her. He could have her in his arms, with her faded, moth-eaten skirts tossed over her shoulders, before she realized her mistake.
But he’d never do that. What Miss Grey had, untouched, between her thighs was sacred to him. He could no more defile her here—now—than he could reach up and touch the hand of God.
He was a gentleman, after all.
The realization came as a shock.