“Cold! C... c-cold,” rang a shrill squeak of a voice through the cabin as the door swung open, gushing and rolling rain pattering hard across its rooftop. The shuddering, shivering woman, clad in a cool and breezy autumn dress of white and blue, struggled to take stilted strides across the wooden footboards, which creaked with age beneath each gentle and measured step she took. Her teeth chattering, she tried to put together another few words to explain just how much like hell she felt in that particular moment, but instead all that came out was a series of half-formed vowels and lip-shaking sibilants.

“Of course you’re cold, that shower was not particularly warm, m’lady,” the duke announced with a confident smile as he placed his hands strong upon her shoulders, leading her gently across the quaint cottage. Spartan in its accoutrements, it certainly didn’t seem particularly fitting for a hovel placed upon the wealth Roxborough estate - a dust-covered, single-colored rug ran along the floor, leading to a sitting area sparsely populated with crudely-carved wooden furniture and one single sofa, set before the fireplace. Anne recalled the nights she had spent set fireside in the waning moments of each day - she spent much of her youth secreting away here, to read the books left by the cabin’s previous owners, a pair of hunters who had worked for her father, in the days before she’d been born. A dozen or so such cottages dotted the estate, but none housed the library that this did. Two beds set in each corner, flanking the fireplace, the far wall of the small hovel housed books - books, books and only books, vast shelves full of them, shelves set upon more shelves to house more volumes. She had read grand adventures and tales of excitement; histories of war and tales of the purest love.

And it was those she always secretly treasured. For even with her slighting statements and sense of disdain for the manner in which society functioned, even she longed for a true love - a pure love, a heart to come and rescue her and to understand her and to appreciate her for precisely who she was. Not a man who wanted to transform her into desirability - but a man who saw her desirability. Alas, she had begun to fear those sorts of loves existed only in storybooks and not upon the cold hills and scattered, opulent estates of England.

The duke led Anne to the couch near the fire; her shoulders shook as she felt the chill run down her spine and grip her intensely. She tried to still the jitter of her teeth but she could not; her reflexes worked against her, trying to generate some sense of energy and warmth to keep her cooled heart beating.

“I’m c... cold, Lawrence,” she managed to put a sentence together, as her companion moved with a sense of urgency and duty; he moved quickly, to the fireplace, opening the flue with a tug on a metal bar. He looked back at her, and she could see caring determination in his eyes, and in the rugged smile smoldering beneath his deep gray eyes.

“I’ll have that fixed quite quickly, m’lady,” he insisted, searching along the front wall for the tools needed to light the fireplace. She watched him through her cold-glazed eyes, her breathing heavier as she felt the rain-drenched dress stick tightly to her skin. 

“You’re... q-q-quite ha... handy,” she commented, watching him as he grasped at the pile of wood near the fireplace. Having found no usable flint and tinder he began to press the wood together, carving away an exposed area from the bark to try to pull a spark from the logs.

“I had a talented teacher in the means of survival, m’lady,” he replied.

“Y-you mean your sister?” Anne warbled.

“She taught me quite a lot,” he confirmed with a nod. “We’d start campfires, scrounge together whatever we could, build a shelter of out sticks and live like savages upon the estate land when we were children,” he mused. “I’ve not a taste for riding horses because sister and I spent most of our time ranging like steeds, ourselves,” he chuckled as he tried with muffled condemnations to light a spark on the lumber.

“I wish I h... h-had had a chance to meet her,” Anne chattered out, the rain running in rivulets down her back, dripping from her soaked strands of hair. “Sh-she se-seems like...”

“Blast it!” the duke exclaimed. “The wood, it’s soaked through, waterlogged,” he declared, his expression wincing in the sting of failure. “I’m... damn it all,” he growled, before he began to scan the cabin for another solution. Anne watched him closely, or at least as closely as her shaking body could.

“I-I’m sure I’ll be f-fine,” she quaked. “I’m—”

“M’lady, you’re soaked through and freezing,” he insisted. “You need some manner of warmth. Here,” he looked along the walls to the books. “Paper, bindings - another potent source of fuel for the fire. I can just—”

“What? No!” Anne exclaimed as he moved to the shelves and grasped the first tome that he could - a thick volume bound in red leather, flowery figures of gold filigreed onto its spine. “You can’t commit such base vandalism,” she exclaimed.

“M’lady, I’ve no interest in seeing you shake and chatter yourself to the grave, and I doubt your father would be all too pleased with me should I let that happen,” Lawrence laughed. “These books have been here for how long? Have you not already read each of them thoroughly?” he asked with a churlish smile.

“It’s not... y-yes, I’ve read a great many of them,” she said sheepishly. “That’s... that’s scarcely the point, though, Lawrence. These books, they represent knowledge, they represent... art, beauty, there’s poetry, and even some of Shakespeare’s works here, and—”

“Then we’ll simply choose a poor book to fuel the fire, hmm?” he said with a chuckle, pulling the red tome from the shelf. Anne, recognizing the volume, blushed profusely, her cheeks burning. Quite ironically the embarrassment had warmed her prickling skin against the chill, though she did not know whether freezing or her precarious emotional position was worse. “This one... I’ve not heard of this author, but the title is quite... curious,” Lawrence observed. “Torn Across the Stars... have you read this one, m’lady?”

“I’ve... I, I’ve read— I’ve read a part of it, yes if I do recall correctly,” she said. “I don’t rem... member,” she chattered out tensely.

“Perhaps a few sentences will refresh your memory then,” Lawrence said nonchalantly, flipping the tome’s red-bound face open to its first page.

“N-no! I-I mean, no, that’s— that’s wholly unnecessary, m’lord, I think you... y-yes, that book, dreadful, perhaps you c-could use it for the fire,” she stammered. Nerves and chill combined were quite terrible for one’s speech. Anne could tell that, having been at the rough end of the woman’s teasing on his equestrian skills all afternoon, that now Lawrence smirked at an opportunity to find something quite as equivalently embarrassing for her to deal with, and her stomach knotted with dread.

“And I thought you averse to the very idea of burning any of these books, m’lady?” he joked. She gulped hard.

“N-not that one, it’s dreadful!” she exclaimed nervously.

“I thought you didn’t quite remember this one?” he chided her. “Let’s read an excerpt, just to make sure,” he smiled, flipping about halfway through the book. “Ah, here, this seems as good a passage as any.”

“You needn’t go to such trouble, m’lord,” she insisted, her voice quivering more in anxiety now than from the freeze setting into her blood.

“I insist!” he exclaimed broadly, running his eyes along the page. “Let us see, here. ‘He laid upon her lips a cottony caress, with his...’” Lawrence began to read the excerpt, before stopping cold and clearing his throat loudly. His eyes widened and Anne’s blush burned harder; she looked away, biting her bottom lip as tremoring embarrassment blossomed in every corner of her body. He looked over to her with a brow lofted. “This book was quite dreadful, you say?” he asked. “You read it?”

“I’m... I d... I didn’t read the... the whole th... thing,” she murmured, shuddering. “I’m... th-that is to say, y...”

“You read this, m’lady?” he asked again plainly. Anne gulped, squirming on the couch.

“I thi... think, I may have.”

“Here’s a few more sentences, to refresh your memory,” he added.

“N-no!”

“It says here, ‘he ran his fingers along her skin, and like the blast of lightning in a churning thunderstorm, she felt life burn vibrant into her every vein’,” he announces, clearing his throat and continuing, much to the lady’s embarrassment. “’There’s no need for worry, said the stalwart gentleman, his eyes piercing and his touch vibrant, as his fingers slipped against her thi—’”

“Pl-please,” she shuddered, swallowing hard.

“Is this the sort of reading you quite enjoy, m’lady?” he asked.

“I’m... I read a wide variety of books... histories, novels,” she chattered. “I thought you had wanted to start a fire? I’m still quite cold.”

“’He announced to her his undying need, with fevered and molten whispers upon her ear,’ the duke continued. His voice slowed as he came upon something quite improperly steamy. ‘Skilled fingers worked at her skin and at the warmth between her, making her feel alive...’”

“M’lord! Such things a-are quite... inappropriate, to speak aloud, in the company of a woman of my station, don’t you think?” Anne resorted to the last thing she felt she could appeal to, that conventional sense of social expectation that she would otherwise so despise. She hoped it would work in her favor this time.

“M’lady, it’s just the words printed in the book,” he added coyly. She blushed. “You said you didn’t enjoy this book?” he drew closer to her. “You didn’t want it to be burned?”

“I... I just... I value all books, is all,” she said, looking away.

“But this book...” his voice grew deeper, that baritone rumbling in his throat.

“Fairy tales written by bored women with wild imaginations,” Anne spat dismissively. “I’ve no use... for...”

“’And he embraced her, but not only in body, but in soul,’” the lord continued reading from the passage as he stepped closer to her. “’He knew her, and she knew him, and they knew one another like none had ever known anyone in the whole existence of the world. For when they embraced, the sun grew jealous, for it knew it would never once in all its endless years of burning know the heat with which their passions for one another burned.’”

“Em... embarrassing,” Anne said, though she felt herself surrendering to the sweet words murmured from the lord’s lips. “Ab... absurd. Such things don’t... exist, such feelings don’t...”

“Art is reflectively of the people who create it, don’t you think, m’lady?” the husky baritone imparted. “That passion... that sense of love, of true devotion to one another...”

“Just silly dr... dreams,” she resisted weakly. “Silly... girl’s dreams...” He came closer, until their lips had nearly met; he sat beside her, the book in his hand, open to that passionate passage. Though her cheeks burned in anxiety and in want, and he drew so close, she couldn’t find anything to say.

“I’m... c-cold,” she blurted weakly. He rose to his feet without another word, and next she knew his heavy coat had fallen from his shoulders; he placed it on the couch next to her, and Anne’s eyes grew wide. She had known the duke to be quite handsome; she had appreciated his piercing gaze, the masculine cut of his jaw, the dark and handsome mystery that whirled around his enticing visage. But she had not seen this part of him; his shirt, soaked by rain, clung tight to his flesh; beneath the damp cloth she could see a body crisscrossed with the chisel of finely-knotted muscle, born no doubt from youthful years of climbing and exploring in happy mirth with his sister. So taken was she by the unexpected sight that her breath nearly got away from her; she gasped softly, her eyes wide and attentive even as the chill numbed her sense of touch.

“M’... m’lord, a... aren’t you... cold as well...?” she asked, seeing the wet clothes pressed against his muscles. He hurried to her side, taking his coat and throwing it across her shoulders. She felt his warmth pass over her, and he loomed close after offering her the gesture. Suddenly, she paid no mind to the rain creeping along her skin, her jaw quivering not from the cold, but from a secreted desire she felt twanging through her very being.

“The rain... my coat should still keep you warm, though riding atop that damned, bouncing beast, it did little to keep my own shirt dry,” he admitted quietly.

“Pl... please, I don’t want you to... to get sick, from the cold,” Anne pleaded, swallowing hard. “You... you should...” He stood without another word. He looked down upon the beautiful woman shivering beneath him, and Anne held her breath as his fingers moved to the buttons along his shirt. He unfastened one, and then another, and with each new button loosed, Anne’s fingers trembled harder; her knees jittered with nervous energy. She had never before felt the touch, either romantic or erotic, of a man; she had dreamed and read of this moment, in so many of the novels arrayed across the cabin, but she had never before imagined herself there, in the middle of that exactly, tense, emotional, body-shaking moment. Lawrence untucked his shirt from his breeches and unfastened the last button; he pulled the garment away to expose his finely-carved frame, like some manner of marbled statue from one of the history books she remembered reading. She had never seen a man so stunning; most nobles carried extra weight, lazed about in their manors and gorged themselves on rancid wine and excessive feast. She admired him, eyes glistening in the glow of raindrops falling across the windowpanes, the sun creeping through the darkness just long enough for its stale light to illuminate the dusty windows and crest across the lord’s strong, broad back. He turned to her, breathing heavily, his eyes so taken with her.

“Lawrence, I...” she stammered. “I... I know it’s silly, to read those books, to think...”

“Nothing you truly desire can be silly,” he hushed her with his simmering baritone, sitting next to her once more, whispering into her ear. “Those stories made you free... they helped make your mind as beautiful as I know it is.”

“My mind... beautiful,” she stammered, having never heard words so bold before from any man, even her father. He wrapped an arm about her shoulder to hold his warm coat tight to her skin; she squirmed in the heat not just of the coat, but of passion burning through her stomach and nethers. Shaking, her fingers found his, intertwining as they shared this delicate moment, the sound of their breaths ringing louder in her ears than the sharp, constant drop of rain overhead.

“I never had any doubt,” Lawrence murmured to her. “No man wants to marry you... because no man deserves to cage a spirit as vibrant as yours. None are worthy of extinguishing that flame in your heart, Anne Hatley,” he reassured her.

“This... this dress, it’s... cold, stifling,” she whispered, her heart throbbing beneath her damp breasts. “I... I want to... t-to take it off,” she whimpered, and all at once that coy and confident woman, bristling with vim and anger at the world, at Lawrence and at her father, fell away; instead she found herself wanting him, wanting him now; not just physically, but his soul; just like that damnable red-bound book she felt so embarrassed by, she truly did want to embrace him - body, and soul.

“Do you want me to help you?” came the lord’s whisper into her ear; she felt his hands massage her shoulders; she dipped her arms, letting the coat fall away, but no more did she fear the cold. His fingers slipped into the sleeves of her dress, and she shuddered, moving sympathetic to his every move. Her shoulders exposed, she cooed; and no longer able to stop herself, she lunged to him, pressing her lips against his, and never had she dreamed that his would be so wanting; so inviting of intrusion. He kissed her back with indulgent fervor, cradling her head, fingers twisting through her wet and matted hair. They kissed, and they kissed, and she did not want to ever dream of letting go. When the kiss passed, their eyes met, and her lips parted.

“Pl... please. Please help me,” she whimpered. She wanted him to save her... in more ways than she could count.