Page 17 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

“But—”

“Truly.” Clara moved around the table, and set her hand on Olive’s work-strong wrist. “Didn’t your brother and his wife just welcome another babe?”

A smile filled Olive’s weathered face. “Oh, aye. A little girl. They named her Olive.”

“Then, it’s settled. You must go see your namesake. Take as much time as you need to see the child. I sincerely can look after myself.”

The housekeeper looked her up and down, her eyes bright and shrewd in the light sifting in from the kitchen’s high, narrow windows. Clara struggled not to shift beneath Olive’s insightful gaze, or smooth out the wrinkles in her hopelessly rumpled nightclothes.

“Perhaps,” the housekeeper said slowly, “while I’m gone, you could hire a girl from the village to come and help you pack your trunks. You ought to go to London, madam. I’ve said so before. Or if not London, then Cheltenham. Attend a supper party or go to the theater. A little company could do wonders for you. It’s not right, you know, being so young and full of spirit, all on your own.”

“Oh, I⁠—”

“We talked about it before, you and I. If you go on holiday, you might find someone to warm your bed, too. A dashing rake who whispers wicked words and does even more wicked things. I know you’d like that, madam. Haven’t you said as much to me?”

“Olive!” The fire wasn’t yet lit in the hearth, but for all that, Clara was certain she’d immolate herself on the spot. Curse her for being so open with her housekeeper. This was not the time to revisit that conversation. “I’m not…I’ve said I don’t need another husband.”

“I said nothing of husbands, madam.” Olive’s smile was sly. “I’ve been widowed these twelve years, but that doesn’t mean my bread’s stopped rising, and Mr. Dover, the baker, doesn’t give it a nice knead every now and again. You could use a good kneading yourself.”

“Please, Olive, I beg you, no more of this.” Clara pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks. “Go to Shrewsbury. Today.”

“As you please, madam.” Olive untied her apron and hung it on the peg near the larder. “Only consider what I said. Take your own holiday. Find yourself someone to pound your dough. It’ll work wonders for your humors.”

The housekeeper picked up the basket she’d set by the servants’ door. After giving Clara a curtsy, she slipped outside.

Clara folded her arms on the kitchen table and sagged down. How often did catastrophic geological events occur in Gloucestershire? Hopefully, one would happen this morning, the ground would split open, and she’d fall into a bottomless crevasse, never to be seen again.

That hope became a full-blown demand when the door to the kitchen opened and closed, and Desmond stepped inside.

“Dough,” he said, laughter plain in his voice.

“Don’t.” Clara buried her head in her arms. Mortification swamped her.

She’d gone six years without feeling much of anything, carefully and deliberately sheltering herself from emotion. Within the span of less than twelve hours, she’d ricocheted between fearing for her very life, to caring for an injured man, to flirting with not one but three attractive men, and then having one of those men take up space in her most private room. And now he’d learned just how truly starved she was for a man’s attention.

No one could possibly weather such upheaval.

She didn’t pick up her head, but she heard movement in the kitchen, ordinary, domestic sounds of metal objects being moved and cupboards being opened. Something fragrant sizzled in a pan.

Finally, she looked up. Desmond moved around the kitchen, his motions efficient, certainly not the kind of blundering one might expect from a virile man in a space where women were often relegated. He had the kettle going, and a loaf of brown bread was partially sliced, and he tended a pan on the hob, holding the handle as he swirled butter around. With one hand, he cracked an egg onto the hot surface.

Perhaps she was unused to seeing a man in such a domestic sphere. Her father, born into privilege, could toast bread and brew tea, but he often burnt the bread and his tea alternated between depressingly weak or aggressively tannic. Arthur, positively, knew nothing of kitchens and less about cooking. But then, Arthur had been a man of means, and his family had taken great pride in letting all and sundry know that they had an abundance of servants to attend them, including a cook from France.

Yet, in short order, Desmond had poured a mug of tea and arranged a fried egg on a plate, complete with two slices of toasted bread. He’d also found the jar of marmalade in the larder, brought it out, opened the container, and stuck a spoon into it.

So, he made himself breakfast. That was hardly anything that merited swooning.

But then he slid everything towards her.

Bracing his hands on the table between them, he said, “Go on.”

“This is for me?” She looked back and forth between the food and his face.

“Who else would it be for?” He tilted his head slightly, clearly confused.

“You. Or Cyrus. Or Hugh. Gideon, or…what was the other one’s name? Liam?”

Desmond shook his head. “I’ll see to Hugh later. As for the others, if they want to break their fast, that’s their own concern.”