Francie awoke before the dawn again, chilled as the lone occupant in the bed. She hadn't realized how dependent she'd become on the heat of another. She rubbed her gloved hands together and pulled the covers over her head. Blast, but what would she do in the depths of winter? She'd always known she was cold blooded compared to her mother and cousins. They were forever complaining about her cold fingers and toes under the bedcovers. She huddled in the middle of the bed, trying not to move as it would cause a puff of cool air to move under the sheets, or she might move a limb onto a cool spot. With her eyes tightly shut she tried to summon up an image of Bermuda. Hot, he'd said, with the sunshine burning into you like a weight. Just now that sounded lovely. She tried to imagine what sand felt like. What jewel clear waters looked like. It worked moderately well, thinking about the impossible scene, until she heard a thump downstairs. Then the chill that ran through her was less about the air and more about fear.

Creeping out from under the bedclothes she tucked her feet in her slippers and donned a flannel gown and wool pelisse for good measure. Taking her pistol quietly from its box, she tucked it in the large pocket of her coat. She was careful on the stairs, keeping to the edge where the steps were less likely to creak. One board groaned uncertainly under the weight and she stopped dead, her heart in her throat. Seconds ticked by and she heard nothing below. Had it just been Mr. Burnham earlier? Or was it someone more nefarious? She cautiously crept lower until she could peek into the room beside the stairs. Nothing. She could see the back door from here and it looked to still be closed and locked. She drew back against the wall to consider what to do next when someone walked across the hallway directly in front of her.

It was so unexpected that she screamed.

The figure jumped in surprise, yelled, and knocked over a small table and pot that her mother used to put flowers in.

When the sound of both of their voices faded, Francie realized that she was looking at a very startled Mr. Burnham. She still had her hand at her throat and her heart was racing like a galloping horse. He was braced at an awkward angle against the wall, trying not to stand on the upturned table.

"Good God, Miss Walters. What are you doing?" he demanded.

She bit her lip. "I heard a sound," she whispered.

He thumped his chest as though trying to knock everything back into place. "You will be the death of me," he said darkly.

"I'm sorry," she said. The cold had returned to every bit of her and she realized her teeth were chattering.

He still looked grumpy and irritated, picking up the table and shaking his head at the broken crockery. "I'm sorry, too, Miss Walters. But if we're to get on you will have to trust me at least a little. If anything happens down here at night then it is mine to deal with. If you hear a sound that frightens you then bar your door and ready your pistol."

"Wh-what if you need help?"

His dark gaze shot to her and he walked up the two steps to stand in front of her and take her hands. "You're freezing. Why are you so cold?"

"C-cold bl-blooded," she said.

The smile he gave her was part smirk. "Undoubtedly. It seems perhaps you should consider gloves with fingers for bed." He chaffed her hands as though she'd just come in from gathering greenery for Yule. The result didn't seem to satisfy him, however, and he held her hands to his chest before gathering her close. As he was standing on the step below her their heights were such that she could rest her head on his shoulder.

She should be quite put out by his forwardness. Yes, their housing was unorthodox and her reputation was already ruined, but that didn't mean she should let him have liberties with her person. But he was blessedly warm and it was difficult to convince herself to pull away.

 

***

 

Bloody hell, but the chit had given him a fright. And he would bet a month's wages that the bulge in her pocket was her pistol. Perhaps he should be glad she'd only screamed instead of putting another bullet through him. Eventually her aim would be too true and he wouldn't have to worry about all the friends he'd outlived. He would have joined them!

For all her bravery, however, it was clear she was also frightened. She shivered against him for long moments before finally sighing and snuggling closer. Then his act of charity in trying to calm and warm her became something of a problem. His body clearly recognized the shift from frightened miss to warm, willing woman. Well, perhaps willing was too much to hope for, but the way she draped herself on him it wasn't far from the mark. Should he say something that made her spit and swipe like an angry tiger? She was clearly armed so it might not be the wisest course. But much more of her embrace and he might do something they would both regret.

"Lud, you're better than a hot brick in the bed."

Her comment served to break his wayward thoughts. Here he was thinking of her soft and lovely attributes and she was comparing him to a hot brick!

"You would be surprised what I can do in bed," he said, holding her upright as he took a step back. She looked drowsy and mussed and slightly confused by his comment. In short, terribly beddable. He'd hoped that being bawdy would cause her to withdraw in missish outrage, but he'd missed the mark it seemed.

"Tea?" she asked.

Well, why not. Plenty of things could be solved with tea. He nodded, not trusting himself to keep a civil tongue when he wanted to either berate or bed her. She turned and walked back up the steps, her hips swaying under the clothes she was swaddled in. It spoke to his state of mind that he could make out any of her figure under the voluminous cloth. He was afraid if he could see more he would find her even more appealing. If there was one thing he adored about the present fashions it was how much of a woman's figure they exposed. Sheer silks that ran unfettered from bosom to ankle and outlined their figure when they turned or a breeze caught the fabric. She would be fetching, he thought, in one of the sarcenet ball gowns so popular in London. Perhaps a light blue that matched her eyes.

God's blood, he needed Harry to return at double time. If he was already not only undressing her, but dressing her with his eyes only the Lord knew what might happen within a fortnight. He would not, he pledged to himself, take advantage of an innocent miss. No matter how much of a temptation she was.

She stoked up the fireplace and set the kettle. The shop and tiny apartment didn't have a kitchen as such, just a small hearth that they used for both heating and cooking. Far from an ideal situation. His bedroom growing up had a fireplace at least twice the size, not to mention the enormous kitchens they'd had at both the country and town homes. During his years in the Navy he'd certainly learned to live with far greater privations than even these poor surroundings, but he did have sympathy that she'd apparently never known the comforts that he had. She seemed perfectly content with her lot, however, and it was possible he was judging her circumstances in ways that she wouldn't.

He sat in a chair in the corner with his legs stretched out. It was difficult in this blasted tiny home to feel like he was doing anything other than looming, so he often tucked himself in the corners as he was able. She set her bulky coat aside. Wrapped in far fewer layers, he was now able to clearly appraise her figure. Slender, but with womanly curves at hip and breast. Neither overly tall nor petite. She was, he thought, quite perfectly arranged. When she stretched up to retrieve a piece of crockery he was so mesmerized by her bosom outlined by the taut fabric that it took him a moment to realize he should help.

Jumping up he said, "Here, let me." But to prove how addled he was he raised both arms to assist her, causing himself to hiss in pain when his stitches pulled.

She turned to him, eyes wide with concern. "Are you all right?"

He retrieved the crockery with his right hand and smiled down at her. "I've been through worse. Just forgot about the stitches is all."

She set the pot aside. "I'd best look at them."

It occurred to him that he was standing entirely too close to her, crowding her against the hutch. It was the sort of pose that would raise eyebrows and cause tongues to wag if they were discovered just so at his father's country house. He would only need to bend ever so slightly to kiss her. Or perhaps she would rise up on her toes, as she'd done while stretching to fetch the pot.

Her worried gaze moved to his shoulder. "I'd best look," she repeated, taking a deep breath as though steeling herself for a challenge. "Take off your shirt."

If she knew the craven thoughts running through his head she wouldn't invite him to do any such thing. But rather than warn her, he took a step back and tugged at the loose, white garment. His stitches pulled again when he stripped the clothing off, but he found that his desire to see her reaction outweighed any temporary pain. Moving the chair away from the wall, he sat down again to give her access for her inspection.