Page 19 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

“For that year,” she went on, “I kept a full staff. Cook, housekeeper, footmen, maids. A gardener and groundskeeper. It seemed unnecessary, even then, to have so many people attending only me. But I never knew when Arthur would come to visit, and I wanted to make certain that he’d have everything a man needed at his country estate. He felt very strongly about that, about ensuring that everyone knew he was a gentleman if not by birth then behavior. Thus, he maintained many servants.”

“What I know of the well-heeled happens at the end of my barking iron,” Desmond said, crossing his arms over his chest. “But someone who aims to be a gentleman ought to act better than ousting his wife. A gentleman like that isn’t worth having anyone wait on him.”

She gave a slight nod. “It all changed, though, when he died. Without his visits, there seemed little point in maintaining a staff. I let the footmen go, then the gardener and groundskeeper. Eventually, the maids went. I made certain I found other positions for them, of course, but gradually it became just Olive and me, and even then, I had her come just twice weekly. I told myself that it didn’t make sense to keep so many servants, but the truth was…”

Unable to bear Desmond’s gaze on her, unable to say the words aloud to someone staring right at her, she looked away.

“The truth was…?” he prompted, when she didn’t speak again.

“I was…ashamed.”

“You’d no reason to be,” Desmond insisted.

She faced him, then. “The circumstances of Arthur’s death were humiliating. I understood how talk spread, and how everyone in my household knew exactly what had transpired in London. It was degrading to have anyone around me know I wanted to…to…hide. From everybody, even my servants.”

“So,” Desmond said, “you buried yourself alive.”

“I suppose I did.” She went to pour herself another mug of tea before deciding she didn’t want it. There was no comfort to be found in familiar things. She took up her place again beside the table, uncertain what, exactly, she wanted or how to get it.

Desmond nudged the marmalade toward her.

Despite herself, a smile curved her lips as she reached for the jar. It mightn’t solve much, but as she dipped the spoon into the marmalade and then stuck it in her mouth, she gave a satisfied hum. The flavor of sweet and bitter coated her tongue. She closed her eyes in gratification, allowing herself to revel in the sensory pleasure.

A sound made her open her eyes.

Desmond stared at her. His gaze was…ravenous. Beneath the dark bristle of his developing beard, a flush stained his fair cheeks. His chest rose and fell.

Impossible. No man ever looked at her like that. As though she was someone to be wanted.

She had to be mistaken. Except, no, he licked his lips, precisely the way a wolf might when catching sight of something delicious.

A ribbon of heat unfurled low in her belly. Against all caution and reason, despite—or because—of the circumstances, she wanted him. This highwayman. A stranger who had captured her home, and taken her captive in the process. It wasn’t right and it made no sense, but…she desired him.

The spoon dropped from her hand.

It clattered on the tabletop, and the ringing sound broke the spell that had fallen over her. She stepped away from the table, backing toward the door.

“My patient needs attending.” Her voice sounded tremulous to her own ears. “I need to change my clothes, and then check on him.”

He gave a strained nod. “I’ll take you back to your bedchamber.”

“It’s not⁠—”

“It is necessary, for your protection.” He strode around the table, and she hurried through the kitchen door with him close behind her.

From almost complete solitude, to having a large, handsome man shadow her every move.

Only in fairy stories did lives change so dramatically within the span of a few hours. Yet she’d read enough of those fairy tales to know that the handsome man was never quite what he seemed.

6

Desmond escorted her to her bedchamber, then waited outside as she dressed in a plain gown of drab green twill with a fichu tucked into the bodice. She looked down at herself in disgust—none of her dresses were at all appealing, and she’d given everything that had been pretty to the housemaids when she’d given them their letters of character.

But naturally it made sense that she would dress serviceably when doctoring. Though she’d done a respectable job in sewing up Hugh’s injury so that it stopped bleeding, there was always the risk that the stitches would open, or that the wound might suppurate, which could cause something of a mess.

Besides, she didn’t need to look attractive to Desmond, or to any of the thieves forcibly occupying her house.

Stepping outside her bedchamber, she found Desmond waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He glanced at her as she emerged from her room and smiled as he pushed away from the wall.